“You’re going to put the ants back into the drums,” I said. “If I see a single fire ant on this street after we’re done with De Trevino, I’ll ask him to find you.” I pointed at Rogan. “You do know who he is, right?”

The mage nodded quickly.

“Gather your ants and go. The next time I see you, I’ll put a bullet in your head.” There. That sounded dramatic enough.

Rogan ignored the mage and marched on to De Trevino’s house. I followed.

He hit the door with the palm of his hand. His magic smashed into the wood. Every window in the house exploded outward. He strode into the house, his face dark.

Antonio stood in the living room, his face white as a sheet.

“I’m a little irritated.” The furniture slid out of Rogan’s way. “So I’ll ask only once: why did you call Forsberg?”

“I was worried you might impede their investigation . . .” Antonio squeezed out.

“Lie,” I said.

“I just wanted to get information . . .”

“Another lie.”

The house shook.

This was taking too long and if I didn’t do something, Rogan would bring the entire building down. “Look at me,” I said, gathering my magic. “Look into my eyes.”

Antonio glanced at me. My magic shot out and clamped him. He shook, straining under the pressure. My powers were will-based, and with everything that had happened today, my will had a lot of fuel behind it.

My voice dropped into a low, inhuman register. “Why did you call Forsberg?”

The look on Rogan’s face was priceless. That’s right. No circle to help me this time. Somebody leveled up while you were away.

“Money!” Antonio cried out. “If Forsberg confirms Elena’s death happened on the job, her life insurance pays double. House Forsberg promised to not impede my insurance claim if I came forward with any information related to anyone looking into her death.”

I released him. “That’s true,” I told Rogan.

Antonio drew a long, shuddering breath.

Rogan kicked the glass table. It shattered. The shards rose into the air.

Antonio froze, petrified.

A boy burst into the room from the right doorway. He ran across and thrust himself in front of Antonio.

“Don’t kill my dad!’

He couldn’t be older than ten.

“John,” Antonio said, his voice breaking. “Go see to your sister.”

“Don’t kill my dad!” The boy stared at Rogan, his face defiant.

Rogan stared back.

The shards flew through the air and shattered harmlessly against a wall.

“We all choose a side,” Rogan told Antonio. “You chose badly.”

He turned and walked out.

The street outside of Antonio’s house was empty, the river of ants speeding around the corner, probably back into the insect mage’s drums. Sirens howled in the distance. Someone had called the cops.

Rogan’s magic roiled around him, an enraged tornado.

“Thank you for not killing him in front of his son,” I said.

“Adults can make a choice to become my enemy or my ally, or to remain as noncombatants. Children are just children, Nevada. That child lost his mother. I wouldn’t take his father from him.” He checked his phone. “This way.”

We began walking to the right, away from the retreating ant army.

“Enemies, allies, or civilians, huh?” I asked.

“That’s right.”

“And if someone helps the enemy, like Antonio?”

“Then he becomes an enemy himself.”

“And enemies have to be eliminated?” I asked.

“If they present a danger, yes.” Rogan’s face was merciless.

The light dawned in my head. I knew what this was. I had gone through it before. “That’s true in a war. We’re not in a war, Rogan.”

“Of course we’re at war.”

“No. We’re in a civilian world. Things are not black and white. They have shades of grey. There are degrees of punishment, depending on the severity of the crime.”

He faced me, his blue eyes hard and clear, without a shadow of doubt. “This isn’t about punishment. This is survival.”

What the hell happened to you in the war, Rogan? What did they do to you to cause this much damage?

“So if someone, let’s say a young woman, is helping one of your enemies, she’s also an enemy. It’s okay to kidnap her off the street, chain her in your basement, and interrogate her by any means necessary.”

His face told me he really didn’t like where I was going.

“Tell me, how close did I come to being murdered?”

“You were never close to being murdered. At the time, I didn’t feel you presented a threat. I just wanted information and if I had obtained it, I would’ve let you go just as I did. I probably wouldn’t have driven you home myself, but asked one of my people to do it.”

I tried again. “You can’t live like this, Rogan. The war is over.”

He stopped and pivoted back, where two bodies lay prone on the ground. “What does that look like to you? Because it looks like combat to me.”

We resumed walking.

And he liked combat. Combat was simple. It was familiar. He knew who his enemies were because they were trying to kill him, and he knew what his mission was: to survive by eliminating every threat he saw. You didn’t fire warning shots in war. You aimed to kill.

But the civilian life was frustrating and complicated. If Rogan went into a bar and a drunk tried to pick a fight with him, they would expect completely different outcomes. The drunk would expect some insults, then some pushing, then possibly a punch or two, followed by grabbing each other’s clothes and tussling on a street until the alcoholic temper tantrum wore off. The drunk would expect to go home afterward. Because that was his normal, the civilian world’s normal. He had no idea that the moment he designated himself as a threat, a mental switch flipped in Rogan’s brain. If the drunk were lucky, Rogan would incapacitate him by choking him out. If he were unlucky or he tried to pull a knife, Rogan would cripple him or even kill him.

He’d been out of the military for years. He’d probably never sought treatment. He probably didn’t know anything was wrong with him.

“How are you sleeping?” I asked him.

“Like a baby,” he said.

“Nightmares?”

“I came to your house to ask you to be with me. You turned me down . . .”

Way to change the subject. “Right now isn’t the best time for this conversation.”

“It’s the perfect time. I asked you on a date. You said no. I waited. There was no counterproposal.”

“A date?” That wasn’t how I remembered it. I waited for the buzz telling me he’d lied, but none came. “Oh please. That’s not what you were offering and you know it!”

“That’s exactly what I was offering.”

True. How was he dodging me on this . . . “Are you telling me that you weren’t offering a sexual relationship?”

He took a second. “No.”

Ha! Got him. To him a date—whatever he meant by it—was a prelude to sex. In his head he did offer me “a date,” so technically he wasn’t lying. I’d have to be cleverer with my questions.