Arow of townhouses sat nestled between the hill in the back and the parking lot, shaded by live oaks. Behind the first hill, other slopes rose, their spines sheathed in more oaks, mountain cedar with hairy bark, pecan, and mesquite. Big, pitted chunks of limestone littered the dry, rugged terrain like natural landmines.
Diana inhaled the evening air. It smelled of cedar, strong and itchy. Ugh. At least it wasn’t the cedar pollen season.
True to form, the MII helicopter was everything Augustine implied it would be. It was fast, safe, and too loud for a conversation. They didn’t speak, so she concentrated on keeping Akela and Whiskey calm and read the files he’d forwarded to her tablet.
Juliana Glass’ real name was Kensley Hicks. She was thirty years old, born in Vernal, Utah, and registered as a lower range Significant illusion mage. Her professional record was a series of positions with various illusion Houses, all of which had eventually cut her loose. For the past six years, she had been self-employed. According to Augustine’s sources, she was a person of interest in two murder investigations and would’vebeen arrested in a third one, had the investigation not collapsed due to police misconduct.
Kensley Hicks was a hired killer. Her wet work provided her with a comfortable lifestyle. She owned a mansion in Utah. Six million, paid outright, in a cash deal. Augustine’s team had found pictures online. Diana scrolled through them, looking at an enormous white house with a backdrop of snow-capped mountains. The gallery of images rolled under her fingertips, their captions announcing the blood-soaked luxury. Twelve thousand square feet, a private gym, an indoor pool, spa, movie theater, white picket fences with horses grazing in the pasture… Diana kept thinking of Aleah in the hospital bed, wrapped in a tangle of wires and tubes, and Kayson’s wife, her dark eyes red with tears, hugging Kayson’s body to herself and rocking gently back and forth…
They had landed just before seven behind a warehouse building. A car was already there, waiting for them, a GMC Yukon in a boring anonymous grey. A woman waited by it. She was young, fit, and had a no-nonsense air about her. Augustine approached, she passed the key to him, turned, and walked away.
Augustine held the door open for Akela and Whiskey. She settled the wolves in, noting that the third row of seats had been removed. Instead, a large crate of black plastic occupied all available cargo space, rising just high enough to keep from obstructing the view through the rear window.
Augustine got behind the wheel. The four of them traveled past the massive studio lots and took a side road that carried them behind the sound stages, deeper into the Texas hills, where several enclaves of temporary housing sprouted among the slopes like mushrooms from a mossy forest floor.
They spoke little on the way. She’d sunk into herself, too obsessed with the prospect of the hunt, and he must’ve sensedit because he stayed silent. Now they had parked before the row of townhouses, small two-story units, each with a balcony and identical door, with the siding painted in shades of beige and olive green.
It would be twilight soon.
“Which unit?” she murmured.
“12B.” He nodded at the last townhome on the right.
“Shall we knock?”
“I think that would be best.”
They got out of the Yukon. She had no idea what she looked like, but her legs were clad in jeans, so an illusion was in place. She’d changed before getting into the MII helicopter. She wore her hunting clothes now, a pixelated camo tracksuit and running shoes. The fresh pouch of Celeste’s milk was resting in the oversized pocket of her jacket, being kept warm by her body heat.
Next to her Augustine was the picture of a young Austin professional: a blue polo shirt, khaki cargo pants. He’d lost ten years and four inches of height and gained fifteen pounds. His face turned round, with brown stubble and wavy dark hair brushed back, a broad nose, and a wide smile.
She glanced down where two French bulldogs trotted by her, one tan and the other black. He’d changed their appearances, but he could do nothing about their gait. They stalked forward, paw over paw. The black Frenchie raised his muzzle to the sky and inhaled, sampling the scents. His lips trembled.
She would’ve laughed if she wasn’t so focused on their target.
They approached the unit. Augustine raised his hand to the door.
Feedback flooded her, flowing through the bond from Akela: the sound of the wind through the window in the back, the scent growing fainter, the lack of sound.
“She’s gone.” Her voice was a low growl, and she didn’t care.
“What?”
“She fled.”
The illusion dropped without warning, and the two bulldogs vanished, revealing two grey wolves, one white and the other a dark grey.
Their bonds strummed with magic. The wolves had caught the scent trail. She dove into the bond. It was like jumping head-first into a swift river. The magic current pulled her until the line between her and the wolves blurred and they became a group, a whole. A pack.
The trail ignited before her mental vision—a glowing, ragged thread leading up, into the overgrown hills.
Akela raised his head. His eyes burned into her. Whiskey shivered with anticipation.
Go!
She sprinted across the parking lot, running at full speed.
“Diana!” Augustine screamed.
