Yes. “Thanks.”

“Always.” Bern grinned. “We are family.”

Chapter 3

Cornelius Maddox Harrison lived in Royal Oaks, which was slightly strange. I would’ve expected an address inside the Loop.

Houston was defined by three roads, which circled it in rings. The first road, closest to the city center, was known as the Loop. Inside the Loop lay the central business districts—the downtown—and the pricey “it” neighborhoods like River Oaks, University Towne, and a chunk of Bellaire. If you moved out about five miles or so from the Loop, you’d cross the Beltway, the second ring. Ten miles more and you would hit a stretch of Grand Parkway, the third ring, which was still in the process of being constructed. Royal Oaks lay just outside the Beltway, in the Westside.

Houston was an odd city, which was in the habit of devouring smaller towns and turning them into neighborhoods. We had no zoning laws, so business centers sprung up organically where they were needed, with residential areas clustering around them. Most of the city was sectioned off into territory of this or that House. It didn’t affect normal people much. House members took interest in other House members. We were the small fries.

House Harrison wasn’t large or powerful enough to claim its own territory, but they were comfortably wealthy. Cornelius Harrison was the second son of Rupert and Martha Harrison. His older sister and brother likely would inherit the reins of the family. His sister lived in University Towne, his brother lived close to his parents in River Oaks, but Cornelius had moved all the way outside the Beltway. Not that he was slumming it, I reflected, driving down the long street. Giant houses sat here and there on generous, artfully landscaped lots next to an immaculate golf course. The noise of the city had receded. We could’ve been in the middle of some resort miles from any metropolis. Each small mansion probably cost about two million and up. It’s good to be rich.

My GPS chimed at me. I pulled up to a sprawling mansion. Two stories high under a roof of clay shingles, the house looked like it was a movie prop: the walls perfectly clean, the yellow stone steps devoid of any debris, and the plants flanking the walkway trimmed with precision usually reserved for bonsai. I parked the car in the driveway, walked up to the door, pulled out my ID, and rang the bell.

A few seconds later the door swung open and a short trim man in his late twenties regarded me with solemn blue eyes. His dark blond hair was cut short, his jaw was clean shaven, and his face had a slightly absentminded expression, as if he was thinking about something completely abstract when you interrupted and now struggled to remember what it was.

I smiled, trying to project trustworthy and nonthreatening. “Mr. Harrison?”

“Yes?”

I handed him the ID. My name alone would get me nowhere, so I decided to shoot with the biggest gun I had. “My name is Nevada Baylor. I work for Montgomery International Investigations. I was hired by House Pierce to find Adam Pierce.”

Cornelius Harrison grimaced and passed the ID back to me.

“May I ask you a few questions?”

He shrugged. “Sure. Come in.”

I followed him into a large foyer. The marble floor with inlaid mosaic gleamed with polish. A curving staircase led to the top floor on the left, guarded by an ornate wrought-iron rail. Cornelius turned to me. “Foyer, library, or kitchen?”

“Kitchen, please.” People felt comfortable and relaxed in the kitchen, and the more relaxed Cornelius was, the more information I’d be able to pull out of him.

We crossed the formal dining room into a large kitchen lined with cherry cabinets and equipped with granite countertops. The kitchen opened into a sunny family room. By the window, crayons and pages from a coloring book depicting roosters with big tails lay scattered on the breakfast table. The roosters were decorated in a rainbow of colors.

Cornelius picked up the pages, arranged them into a neat stack, and set them aside. “Something to drink?”

“No, thank you.” One learned very quickly to never eat or drink in the house of a magic user you didn’t know. I didn’t relish sprouting feathers or being turned into a goat.

We sat at the breakfast table. I set my digital recorder on the table, pushed the record button, and said, “Thursday, October twenty-fourth, interview with Cornelius Harrison.”

Cornelius regarded me. He had smart eyes, calm and sardonic. I focused.

“For the record,” he said, “I don’t really want to answer your questions, but I fought with Christina Pierce before, and I have no desire to repeat the experience.”

I waited for my magic to click. It didn’t come. Cornelius was telling the truth. No love lost between him and Adam Pierce’s mother. I made a mental note in case I’d need it later.

“How long have you known Adam?”

“Since we were very young children,” Cornelius said. “Four or five.”

True. “Are you his friend?”

Cornelius laughed quietly, a humorless, dry sound. “Are you a member of House Pierce?”

“No,” I said.

“So you’re hired help?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Are you doing this job under duress?”

“Yes. How did you know?”

Cornelius smiled. “Because nobody in their right mind would go after Adam unless they had no choice. Also because that’s the way House Pierce operates. They use both carrot and stick at the same time. You’re hired help, and I assume at some point you will be paid. I was hired help, but I received no compensation. Quite the opposite. My mother and Christina Pierce went to college together. At some point it was decided that Adam needed a boyhood companion.” He sank an ocean of sarcasm into those two words. “I was volunteered for the job. Nobody asked me or Adam if we were happy with the arrangement.”

“Were you happy with it?”

Cornelius leaned forward a little and said, pronouncing the word with crisp exactness, “No.”

True. “Why not?”

“Because I had the designated role of Adam’s keeper, even though we were roughly the same age. I was the ugly friend who makes a woman look better at a party: less powerful, less wealthy, less significant. When Adam got in trouble, I was supposed to step forward and take the responsibility for the act. Except Adam reveled in rubbing people’s noses in things he did. If he broke something, he would step forward and claim it like it was some worthy deed. Then I received the lion’s share of the punishment because I ‘failed to help him make good choices.’ This arrangement continued until college, where he and I finally went our separate ways. I do not count Adam among my friends. He is somebody I used to know.”