“Don’t push me, Connor,” Augustine ground out. “You’ll fucking regret it.”
A violent, deranged light flared in Mad Rogan’s eyes. “Let’s test your theory about killing and jokes. I’ve got a good one just for this occasion.”
The bulges split. Ropy black tentacles shot out of the wall, flailing. If it was illusion, it was the best I had ever seen. Panic crushed me, chaining my feet in place. I shuddered in its grip. What the hell kind of magic was this?
Things rose into the air as Rogan sorted through my possessions, looking for a weapon.
No. This is my house. You will not wreck my house and put my family at risk.
The icy vise of panic broke. “That’s enough,” I barked.
The two men startled. Augustine frowned. “How . . .”
“What the hell is wrong with both of you? This isn’t some bar you can wreck. This is my place of business. This is my home! There are children sleeping less than a hundred feet from this room.”
The darkness vanished like a candle flame snuffed out by a draft. Rogan let go of Augustine.
“I don’t know which one of you is worse. Are you out of your minds? You’re both selfish, spoiled pricks.”
“Nevada?” my mother said behind me.
I glanced over my shoulder. My mother stood in the hallway with Grandma Frida next to her. My mother carried a shotgun. Grandma Frida carried her phone.
“Why are you screaming at an empty room?” my mother asked.
It had to be Augustine’s illusion. I glared at Augustine. “Drop it.”
He grimaced. Grandma Frida gasped. I had a feeling she and my mother just saw Mad Rogan and Augustine Montgomery suddenly pop into existence in my office.
“Get out of my house,” I said.
My mother chambered a round with an unmistakable metallic click.
The two men marched out of the office. Grandma Frida raised her phone and snapped a picture. The door closed. I landed into my chair.
My mother looked at the carnations. “Is there something going on that I should know about?”
I shook my head and picked up the phone. “Bern? Tell me you recorded all of this.”
“I’ve got it,” he said. “I saved a hard copy and offloaded it onto two remote servers.”
“Good,” I said. If there was ever a question as to why I needed to slap both of them with a restraining order, at least I would have plenty of evidence. Primes or not Primes, no judge would deny me a restraining order after viewing that.
Someone knocked on my bedroom door. I opened my eyes. I was sitting in bed, slumped against the pillow, my computer on my lap. I glanced at the electronic clock. Wow. 5:30 a.m. I’d moved to my bedroom after midnight, when my eyes had started glazing over. I must’ve fallen asleep. It had been a long day.
“Come in,” I called.
The door swung open and Bern entered, carrying a stack of papers. “Hey.”
“Hey.”
“The kids printed out some stuff.” He put it on the bed. His eyes were bloodshot, his face haggard.
“Were you awake all this time?”
He nodded. “I’d gone over some things. It’s not Egypt, Japan, or China, I can tell you that. Leon did some research on India, but he conked out, so . . .” He yawned. “You . . .” He yawned again.
“Get some sleep. I’ve got India.”
He sat down on the trundle bed. It used to be mine when I was much younger. Sometimes, when my sisters and I would watch a movie in my room, they would pass out on it.
“I’ll just sit here a minute,” he said.
“Sure.”
I leafed through the papers. Printouts of articles about various artifacts. Some weird doodle. A picture of a knight holding a shield against a gout of flame. “Not bad.” I turned to show it to Bern. He lay asleep on the trundle.
Poor guy.
I tapped my keyboard to wake the laptop up. Right. India.
Leon’s notes listed the search strings. India, artifact, Emmens . . . over thirty-five searches. I blew out some air. He was very thorough.
Let’s see, what did the guy say before the explosion? Something about gateway to enlightenment, or door to enlightenment . . . I typed in Indian artifact enlightenment. The search engine spat out image results. Lots of things about Native Americans and United Native Tribes. Let’s see, what about Hindu artifact enlightenment? Hmm, pictures of flowers, ancient palaces, mosaic, an illustration of some deity with four arms sitting on a pink flower, a metal statue of a deity with an elephant’s face, a photograph of some beer cans and empty soda bottles . . . how did that get in there? This was a wild-goose chase. I kept scrolling. City with a river lapping at its walls, a piece of quartz, another deity, blue this time, with white stripes across his forehead . . .
Wait. Wait, wait, wait.
I clicked the picture. An illustration of a beautiful man with blue skin and one hand raised looked back at me. Two white stripes marked his forehead, forming oblong outlines. I grabbed my phone and pulled up the picture. The exact same shape. My heart sped up. There was something else sitting on top of the outline, but the image was too small to figure out what it was. I clicked the link for the image’s page. A site selling antique beads.
I typed so fast that my fingers flew over the keyboard. Hindu god blue skin. The search engines spat out the images. No, no, no, yes! Exact same picture. I clicked it. Dead website. Damn it.
I kept scrolling. Another one, something about a video game. I clicked the image. Shiva. I had a name. Dozens of articles popped up. Shiva, supreme god of Hindu mythology. Chief attributes include a snake around his neck, a third eye . . . A third eye!
I clicked the images search and forgot to breathe. Here it was, a statue of Shiva with a jeweled ornament on his forehead: two oblong stripes of pale jewels forming a base for a crimson outline of an eye positioned vertically, with a radiant jewel in its center, where the iris would be. There were dozens of different photographs.
I kept following the trail of bread crumbs. Lord Shiva, he of three eyes, his right eye is Sun, his left eye is Moon, his third eye is Fire. Fire? Once when a god of love Kamadeva distracted Shiva during meditation and Shiva opened his third eye. Fire poured forth and consumed Kamadeva . . . Oh, this wasn’t good. More sites. When Shiva opened his third eye in anger, most things turned to ashes. Shiva the Destroyer. Shiva the Universal Teacher, whose third eye destroys ignorance. Shiva, who once revealed his infinity to other gods in a form of a pillar of fire.
It all fit. Emmens must’ve found this artifact on one of the statues of Shiva, and it turned out to be the real thing. If Adam Pierce got hold of it, he too would become a pillar of fire, and all of us would burn with him.
“Nevada?” My mother stood in the doorway.
“Shh.” I pointed at Bern.
She came in and sat next to me on the bed.
“How’s it going?” she murmured.
“We found it.”
I let her read the article. Her face grew darker and darker.
“Is that what Pierce wants? To burn everything?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I think you should take the kids and Grandma and leave the city for a few days.”
Mom looked at me. “Would that make it easier on you?”
“Yes.” I braced myself for an argument. I just wanted to make sure they wouldn’t burn to death.
“Okay,” she said. “I’ll pack up, and we’ll take a trip.”
“Thank you.”
“Whatever will take a load off your shoulders.” My mom paused. “Are you planning on working with Mad Rogan?”
“Yes. He’s still the only hope I have of bringing Adam in.”
“Nevada, how rich is Mad Rogan exactly?”
I frowned. “I don’t know. Bern looked into him. His words were ‘scary rich.’ Probably a few million, I’d imagine. Or maybe a few hundred million.”