Page 47 of Light

I flick a puzzled glance between him and Davidson. “You do?” Only to feel myself stepping back as well, since I’m now the subject of the fire chief’s urgent perusal.

“We’ll need you too, Mrs. Richards.”

“Huh?” Only then does my own comprehension kick in—which doesn’t do a thing for easing my intuition about all of this tying back to Faline somehow. I hate that my mind automatically reverts to her in times like this—though with my eighteen-month-old son standing five feet away, I’ve never been more grateful for my mama-lion instincts. None of this is about simply saving Reece or myself anymore. It’s all about the little boy with the skies in his eyes and the universe in his smile. “Let me clarify,” I direct toward Davidson. “You mean that you’re in need of Bolt and Flare, yes?”

Davidson actually exposes a full grin beneath his Tom Selleck-sized mustache. “Flare?” he barks. “That’s the alter-ego moniker, eh?” And then jogs his chin at both of us. “Yeah. Flare. That’s a good one. It fits.”

While I’m elated about the fire chief’s seal of approval—and even make a mental note to have him up to the penthouse to weigh in on logo designs—I assert past a tight smile, “This matter you need our help with… What is it? What’s going on?”

Blurting out the words feels like asking a nurse to go ahead and draw blood. This could be either a tiny prick or the gouge of a rolling vein. A run-of-the-mill city emergency—if there are such things—or the grand resurgence of Faline freaking Garand.

“The quake—or whatever it was—occurred because of a fault directly under downtown,” Davidson explains. “As you can probably tell.”

Reece folds his arms. Motions me over so our conversation with the chief isn’t so available to prying ears. “What the hell do you mean, ‘whatever it was’?”

Another grunt from Davidson, more pronounced than before. “Exactly what I mean—at this point,” he supplies. “Because until I know exactly what’s happening down there, I’m not about to go out to the press and tell them all that the US Geological Service has only reported one minor quake in the last twelve hours across the Elysian Park grid.”

The icicles in my veins just grew into a Superman-sized ice castle.

I’m stunned to watch Reece’s face remain damn near neutral. “And that’s why you’ve come looking for Emma and me.”

Davidson’s mustache slopes downward along with his scowling lips. “I’d sing you a fun version of ‘Bingo,’ but there’s no time.”

“Crap,” I mutter.

“Damn,” Reece spits at the same time.

“Can you tell us anything about what you have learned so far?” I go on. “Did something collapse or explode—or implode? Do they know how many victims and where?”

Davidson’s mustache droops farther as he steps back, called by the squawk of his radio. He still has time to let us know one thing, though. “We’ve got a pretty crazy situation with the Biltmore.”

“Oh, shit.”

I whirl to see that the soft exclamation has come from my sister. I had no idea ’Dia was still standing there, but I’m glad she is. As this situation gets more twisted, I’m feeling further and further out of my element. Her face is my needed boost of strength at the most perfect moment, though I feel crappy that she overheard this news. Few others are as enraptured with the hotel, located two blocks away, than my sister—though there are few in the world who won’t recognize it. The place, built in 1923, has been featured in nearly two hundred movies and television shows—though the ornate interiors for which it was widely popular took a ton of direct damage during Kane’s famous rampage two years ago. The owners have committed to restoring the property’s grandeur, but the age of the building has made the process a slow one.

Now, it sounds like they’ve hit another snag—for which I should have more concerned emotions, damn it—but they’ll have to wait until after I bathe in my flood of sheer relief. Judging by the continuation of Davidson’s no-bullshit demeanor, what we’re dealing with is normal helping-the-human-race stuff, not anything in the holy-crap-Faline’s-back department.

I actually feel invigorated about it now—for which I am surely going to hell—but I can’t help myself. For the first time, people are in honest-to-crap trouble, and I can honest-to-crap help them. And I’m not going to lie about how good that recognition feels. Really, really good.

“Fill us in,” Reece demands when the chief returns from his radio exchange. Since Davidson stepped away, my husband has donned his battle leathers demeanor, despite still standing here in his crisp ’20s-style pinstripes. The all-business tone plus his classy, romantic threads incites we-want-to-lick-him stares from the two policewomen stationed across the lobby—but I have no time to toss around my possessive wifey weight, especially when Davidson’s ready to refocus at once.

“They’ve finally cleared enough debris to start working on the lower-level meeting spaces,” the captain supplies, dropping his bushy brows. “When your friend did his fun little ‘walkabout’ two years ago, the hotel sustained most of its damage on those levels.”

“The lower level,” I echo. “That’s where the bigger room is, right? The Biltmore Bowl, where a bunch of the Academy Awards were held?” In response to the man’s scrutiny, I supply, “Had to learn the trivia when I started working here. Was there a lot of damage to it? And what about any personnel?”

“Holy shit,” Lydia utters. The good and bad news here is that the quake hit on a Saturday night. Since the hotel’s lower level is still under reconstruction, there shouldn’t have been any guests in the affected area—and, hopefully, no members of the restoration teams either.

Before the chief can answer, my son launches into a bunch of boingy happy jumps. “Holy shit! Holy shit!” If the situation wasn’t so dire, I’d likely be snort-laughing at my little dude. Yeah, the little genius already comprehends that grown-ups don’t always communicate happy news with balloons, goodie bags, streamers, and cake—and now actually thinks Lydia’s calling for a party. “Holy shit! Holy shit!”

“Lux Mitchell Tycin.” Reece reprimands him with a gentle but firm look. “Hey, it’s time to take a chill pill, buddy.”

“Chill pill.” Lux echoes the words, which are new to him, and obviously decides he likes them. A lot. “Chill pill,” he giggles out. “Chillll Pilllll.”

After indulging one more smile his son’s way, Reece returns his focus to Davidson. “Lay it on us,” he charges, his stance fully alert. His shoulders are thrown back, his hands coiled but not clenched at his sides. His jaw is strong and set—and, I have to admit even at a time like this, breathtaking. “What are we looking at, and how can we help?”

Davidson, like the man’s man he is, re-braces his stance and meets Reece’s gaze. Only at this second, when his mien switches up, do I realize the guy probably didn’t come here seeking Reece by choice. Reece has told me before that police and fire personnel tend to think he’s still the spoiled brat billionaire playing games with the superhero persona. In short, maybe one step up from a Hollywood star ride-along. “No offense, man, but if I knew what we were ‘looking at,’ I’d likely not be here asking for your enlightenment on the situation.”

I hold back from smacking the man only because of Reece. Though he tells me all the time that I’m his spiritual better, times like this he teaches me how to be the better person. “Are you able to share a fly-over of the deets, then?” Reece asks while punching in the code to Sawyer’s number on his phone. As if the code is a summoning spell, Sawyer bursts out of the executive office double glass doors, hands full with what looks like our battle leathers and already dressed in similar attire.