Burn for Me (Hidden Legacy #1)(69)
Author: Ilona Andrews

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.”

My mom had a very neutral expression on her face. “And he’s unattached?”

“I don’t know, actually. He strikes me as the kind of person who has a very liberal interpretation of that word. Why do you ask?”

“Look outside your window.”

I got up and snuck to the window, trying not to wake Bern. Brilliant red carnations filled the parking lot. Some bright red, some dark, almost purple, they rose from planters—hundreds, no, probably thousands, illuminated by small red lights thrust between the planters, blending together into one giant beautiful carnation flower.

I closed my mouth with a click.

“They arrived around two,” Mom said. “Two trucks with flowers and eight people. Took them almost three hours—they just left a few minutes ago.”

“That’s crazy.” What was he thinking?

“It’s none of my business, but are the two of you involved?”

I spun to her. “No. No, we are not.”

“Does he know that?”

“He knows. I told him specifically not to bring me flowers. That’s why he did it. He probably thought it was funny.”

My mother sighed. “Nevada, even if he got these carnations for a dollar apiece, there are about five thousand of them down there, not including the labor and the time of the night. He must’ve given them enough money to drop everything and do this. That’s not a joke. That’s probably the price of a decent used car.”

“He probably dug it out of his couch.” I pictured Mad Rogan fishing for change in an ultramodern furniture. “I should’ve told him not to give me car parts. He would’ve brought a whole tank just to be contrary. Grandma would’ve loved it.”

“It’s your life,” Mom said. “I just never pictured you with someone like Mad Rogan.”

Oh no, not the unsuitable boyfriend lecture. I winked at her. “Who did you picture me with?”

She frowned, stumped. “I don’t know. Someone tall. Athletic.”

I giggled. “That’s it? That’s all you want from your son-in-law? Because Mad Rogan is tall and athletic.”

My mom waved her hands, flustered. “Someone like us. Normal. Money and magical pedigree, it’s a curse. Trust me on this.”

“Mom, I have no plans on doing anything with Mad Rogan.” I leaned against the window. “He kidnapped me and chained me in his basement. He doesn’t even understand no. The last thing I want to do is get emotionally or sexually involved with him. The man has no brakes, and that kind of power . . . it’s like . . . like . . .”

“A hurricane,” Mother said.