“She Skyped with him and he told her that all she had to do was let him know that she needed him. And she said, ‘Benjiro, I need you,’ and then he got terribly excited that she knew his first name.”

“He has a first name?”

“Don’t say anything,” I warned.

“I won’t.”

“I mean it. He’s coming here tomorrow night.”

“What, like a date?”

“No.” I waved my hand. “He and his team are coming to replace Abarca.”

Arabella sagged against the door frame. “Don’t scare me like that.”

I made a face at her and she left.

I stared at the pile of doggie goods on the floor. I loved my sister so much. I loved my whole family more than anything. I had to make sure they kept breathing.

I looked back to the screen, switched to the browser, and clicked to go to the next page of headshots.

Chapter 9

I woke up because the little black dog licked my nose. I hugged her to me, turned on my side, and tried to steal more sleep, but my alarm went off and dragged me out of bed.

The little dog spun in circles at my feet, ridiculously excited that I was conscious. I took a step toward the bathroom and my foot landed in a puddle of cold pee. Awesome.

I hopped to the bathroom on one foot.

Looking at all the male Primes yesterday had gotten me nothing except a pounding headache. I would’ve accomplished more cold-calling random Houses and demanding to know if their Primes had sired any bastards with freaky powers.

After I finished my fruitless search, I spent an hour researching Alessandro. I learned the same things I already knew. Italian count, Antistasi Prime, old family, wealthy, handsome, three broken engagements, no long-term relationships. The shield he presented to the public was bulletproof.

I would’ve searched more, but the documents from Sabrian landed in my inbox. The good news was that Sabrian was confident that Celia’s attack would be classified by the authorities as House warfare or a metamorphosis mage going berserk. The bad news was that the House unit of Houston PD wasn’t staffed with idiots. The moment our packet of documents hit, the cops would realize that Celia attacked me while I was in a car with a man matching the description of the guy who had knifed Conway.

I spent the next few hours carefully reading the documents and then writing two versions of a detailed statement, one with Alessandro in it and the other without. In version number two, I was driving “a vehicle” all by my lonesome. I emailed everything back to Sabrian and instructed her to use her discretion. She told me she would sit on it until she had no choice.

All of that had taken me the entire afternoon and most of the evening. By the time I finished, the sun had set and the little dog had declared victory over the rubber hamburger. Just before dinner I went up to my room “for a minute” because I needed to clear my head, collapsed on my bed, and passed out. And my family apparently let me sleep the whole time because I was still wearing my T-shirt and sweatpants from yesterday. My career as a respected and admired, all-important Head of the House was clearly on the upswing. Not.

I looked like death. My hip hurt. And the worst part of all of this, I had slept for thirteen hours and I was still tired.

I washed my foot in the sink and lifted my shirt and pulled down my sweatpants to look at my hip.

Oh God.

My whole side from the waist down all the way to mid-thigh was black and blue. I poked my thigh and jerked my finger away. Ouch. The bruising was real, and not just a funny prank perpetrated while I was asleep.

The great detective Catalina Baylor. When confronted with undeniable empirical evidence, perform a field test anyway.

I took the little dog outside, where she sat on her butt and stared at me adoringly for ten minutes. Clearly, she had no pee left because she’d emptied her bladder on my floor. I let her back inside, zombie-staggered into the kitchen, mumbled good morning at Mom, made myself a cup of tea, and escaped into my office.

My inbox presented me with an email from Sabrian acknowledging the receipt of the documents I had couriered over yesterday. The rest was bills. I drank my tea and stared at them in the hopes they would disappear.

Day three of the investigation, and still no Halle.

I dialed Bug’s number.

Bug answered on the first ring. “I lost him yesterday and I don’t have him yet.”

“Never mind Alessandro. I need another favor, but it’s complicated, so it might be better if I explain in person. Can I visit you?”

There was a slight pause. I had planned to call him about this yesterday, but too many things had happened. Face-planting on my bed was so not the plan. I hadn’t even taken any of the doggie things to my room.

I should feed the dog. She was probably starving. I got up and filled a dish with dog food. How much food would a dog of this size need . . .

“Bug?”

“Yeah.”

Yeah what? Yeah, you can visit, or yeah, I’m still here and thinking about it?

I set the dish down and the dog dove into it. Apparently, she needed all the food.

Bug still hadn’t said anything. “When would be a good time?”

“Now would be okay.”

“Are you at Rogan’s?”

“Kind of.”

“What do you mean ‘kind of’?”

There was another pause.

Bug sighed. “I’m at the old HQ across the street.”

Wait, what? “Across the street from me?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll be right there.”

I grabbed my phone and went to the door. The black dog licked her empty bowl, picked up her rubber hamburger, and followed me.

“I’m going to call you Shadow.”

Shadow wagged her tail.

I walked into bright sunshine, and Shadow and I crossed the street to the old industrial building. Three years ago, when Nevada and Rogan were in the middle of trying to save Houston, my paranoid brother-in-law bought all the buildings around the warehouse in an effort to make us safe. We had since bought some of them back from him, but this one was still his. It housed a secondary HQ, and when Nevada and Rogan came to visit us, they stayed in the apartment on the top floor.

The metal door was unlocked. I crossed the empty bottom floor, which once served as the motor pool for Rogan’s private army, climbed the metal staircase, heroically trying not to wince and failing, and emerged on the second floor. A massive computer station dominated the space, a gathering of servers and workstations, connected to nine large monitors arranged in a three-by-three grid on a wire cage. Behind the screens lay a small living space, with two couches on the right and a kitchen on the left. A tower of pizza boxes flanked by a brigade of empty Mello Yello bottles filled the kitchen island.

In front of the screens, perched in a rolling chair, sat Bug. Thin and wiry, Bug was never still, so much so that he seemed to almost vibrate, as if his body was struggling to contain the nervous energy within. Bug had enlisted in the Air Force as soon as he turned eighteen, and while he was in, the military offered him a deal: they would pay him an outrageous bonus and in return he would allow them to augment him. A specialist mage had reached into the arcane realm, pulled out a swarm of magical insects, and implanted them into Bug.

Nobody understood how swarms worked or the exact nature of their implantation. Most people didn’t survive the procedure. Those who did gained an ability to process visual information and sometimes computer code at superhuman speeds. They burned bright and died fast. The normal life expectancy for a swarmer was about two years. That’s why the military offered them a truckload of money. It was essentially a delayed suicide.

Somehow Bug survived. When Nevada first met him, he was an obsessed, manic wreck. Rogan was able to steady him through a cocktail of carefully curated medication and a stable environment, and usually he could almost pass for a normal person.

Right now, there was nothing normal about him. His brown hair stuck out at odd angles. His rumpled T-shirt, decorated with pizza stains of various shapes and ages, hung on his slight frame. His movements were quick and jittery, the agitation rolling off him in spasmodic waves.

“How long have you been here?”

Bug glanced at the kitchen island. “Four days.”

“Did you have to count the pizza boxes?”

“Yes.”

He had been here since Rogan and Nevada left for New York before traveling on to Spain for the funeral.

“Why didn’t you stay on base?”

Rogan’s estate contained a fully functional compound, complete with a barracks, commissary, gym, and everything else a small army would need to stay sharp. He used to just run everything from his enormous house, but after getting married, he and Nevada wanted privacy.

“There’s nobody on base,” Bug said. “It’s the holidays. With the Major gone, there’s only a skeleton crew protecting the house. I got lonely. And your security sucks. I’ve been here for half a week and they didn’t notice. People deliver pizza to the door downstairs and nobody asked why.”

For a second, I didn’t know what I wanted more, to hug Bug or to scream in Abarca’s face.

“No more pizza,” I told him.

“What are you, the pizza police?”