Grrrrr. This wouldn’t go well.
I sat down.
He did also.
We glared at each other across the table.
The waiter hovered next to us, a nervous look on his face. “Welcome to Takara. What can I get you to drink?”
“Unsweetened tea with lemon,” I said. “And could you please bring me some fake sugar with it?”
“Same,” Mad Rogan said. “No lemon.”
“Appetizer?” the waiter asked.
Mad Rogan glanced at me. “Your pick.”
“Carpaccio.”
“Great, I’ll get that right out.” The waiter took off, visibly relieved.
The Scourge of Mexico and I resumed our glaring. His eyes seemed to change color depending on the light. Yesterday, when he was in the circle, they were dark, almost indigo. Today they were a light, clear sky blue. My mind flashed right back to the cliff in my dreams. I stomped on that thought. I had no idea what sort of telepath he was. The last thing I needed was to have him pluck an image of his half-naked glory out of my head.
“Do you have any ID?” I asked.
“ID?”
“You told me you were Mad Rogan, but how do I know you are who you say you are.”
He broke apart his pair of chopsticks, rubbed them against each other, and held one at eye level, thicker end toward the ceiling. He opened his fingers. The chopstick remained suspended above the table. Impressive. I knew this game. We all played it in elementary school to identify our magic. If you could move the chopstick off the table, you were telekinetic. If you could lift the chopstick and hold it steady, you were a high-precision telekinetic and people would come to talk to your parents and offer scholarships for the commitment to future employment. They would pay for your education, and you would work for them for a decade or two in return.
Mad Rogan casually unrolled his napkin. A paper-thin slice of wood, so thin it was translucent, shaved itself off the top of the chopstick and floated down. Holy crap.
Another slice peeled off. The middle-aged couple stopped eating. The man’s mouth hung slack. The woman visibly strained to swallow. Shivers ran down my spine. This couldn’t be happening. Moving a table was one thing. It was bulky and heavy and required a lot of power to move, but this was on a different level. No telekinetic had that much control.
Mad Rogan placed the napkin across his lap. The chopstick spun in place. The wooden slivers rained down, landing in a perfect circle around it, like a ring of tiny petals.
The waiter came out of the back, carrying our drinks, and froze in the middle of the floor.
The first circle filled up with wooden shavings, and a second ring, wider, formed around it. The remaining half of the chopstick landed in the center of the two rings and split into four slivers with a loud crack.
I remembered to breathe.
The man from the middle-aged couple pulled out three twenties, tossed them on the table, and grabbed the woman’s hand. They hurried out at a near run.
That was the scariest thing I had seen in a long time. How was it even possible that he could do this? If he did that to a human being, it would be horrifying.
Mad Rogan looked at me.
I had to say something, do something. Anything.
I pulled out my phone and took a picture of the table.
His eyebrows crept up a tiny bit.
“For my grandmother.” I put the phone on the table and smiled at the waiter. “He broke his chopstick. Could you get us another set?”
The waiter nodded, hurried over to the table, set our drinks and carpaccio down, and escaped without saying a word. Mad Rogan picked up a tiny white dish usually used for soy sauce and casually swept the wooden slivers off the table with his hand.
“I would’ve settled for a driver’s license.” This was so not a good idea. He was freakishly powerful.
“A driver’s license can be counterfeited. Nobody in the continental United States can duplicate this.”
And so modest too.
The shorter of the women with auburn hair rose, walked over to our table, and placed a card on it. Her fingers shook a little. “My name is Amanda. Call me.”
She walked back to her table, aggressively swaying on her heels.
I snagged a pink slice of rare New York strip drizzled with tangy sauce. Mmm, delicious. “That was ballsy. You’ve chased off two diners, caused the other two to lose their minds, and scared our waiter. Would you like to go in the back and terrorize the kitchen staff as well?”
“You started it with the table.”
“Was I supposed to sit down in your trap?”
His face was completely serious. “Yes. It would’ve made you more agreeable and let us both get out of here faster.”
“Well, I didn’t.” I almost slapped myself. How was that for a clever comeback? Not.
The waiter reappeared with chopsticks. “May I take your order?”
“Bulgogi,” Mad Rogan said.
I ordered a simple salmon roll, and we both tore identical pink packets of fake sugar and dumped them into our drinks.
“Here is what I know,” Mad Rogan said. “Your name is Nevada Baylor. You’re the only licensed investigator in a small firm, which is currently a subsidiary of MII. MII runs security for several venues owned by House Pierce. House Pierce hired MII to bring their prodigal son home, and you drew the short straw.”
I stole another piece of meat and chewed. It was delicious, and it kept me from talking and saying anything I might regret later.
“I’m not interested in Adam Pierce,” he declared.
True. “Could’ve fooled me. Now I’m insulted. You kidnapped and tortured me for someone you’re not even interested in.”
The dragon refused to be amused. “I’m interested in finding Gavin Waller. Preferably alive.”
True, but I had figured it out already. “Gavin has vanished off the face of the planet. His Twitter is inactive, his Instagram hasn’t been updated, and there have been no sightings of him since that night. He’s either hiding or dead.”
Mad Rogan nodded. “Agreed.”
“But Adam is loud and flashy, so you decided it would be easier to find Adam and make him tell you where Gavin is. I understand all that. Explain the kidnapping part.”
“It’s not relevant.”
I paused with the slice of carpaccio halfway to my mouth. “You do understand that you grabbed me off the street like some serial killer? I thought you might seriously hurt me. It made me scared and upset. I was in fear for my life. This is extremely relevant to me.”
Mad Rogan sighed. “Fine. I looked into Gustave’s shop and found a series of large deposits from House Pierce.”
I nodded. “I did as well.”
“I came to discuss the deposits when I saw you inside. You’re young, attractive, and blond. Adam’s type.”
“You thought I was Adam’s groupie?” I’d be offended, but it was a waste of time.
“Yes. I thought you were delivering the cash to him. I tailed you to MII. Given their business ties, if the Pierces wanted to funnel money to Adam, using MII would’ve been a logical step. I saw you come out of the building and talk on the phone, then I followed you to Mercer.”
My magic came on high alert. It wasn’t a lie exactly, but it felt off to me.
“How?”
“How what?”
“How did you follow me to Mercer?”
“I tailed you.”
Lie. My magic bounced up and down like a giddy toddler. Lie, lie, lie. Even if it didn’t, I’d still know he was lying. I always checked to see if I was being followed. It was a habit. The traffic had been too heavy for him to tail me effectively anyway. He’d watched me enter MII and leave my car in the parking lot. He’d done something to my vehicle. Aren’t you a sly devil? That’s okay. Two could play that game.