Wildfire

  Rogan’s face promised a storm. “Very well. In that case, I’ll put a team on your house.”

  Rynda looked up at him, and there was steel in her eyes behind all the brittleness. “No, you won’t. We have our own security. I appreciate the offer, but no. I’m going to take care of my kids. If you want to help me, please find my husband.”

  There wasn’t anything I could say after that.

  Outside I took a deep breath. “Do you want to explain to me why we can’t call the FBI?”

  “Neumann kidnapping,” Cornelius said.

  “A rival House kidnapped George Neumann in the 1980s,” Rogan clarified. “The FBI went in and lost over forty agents. Nobody was convicted.”

  “How is that possible?”

  Rogan shrugged. “Connections and enough money for excellent attorneys. The FBI no longer gets involved in our kidnappings. This is House business. We handle it ourselves.”

  Nice. Another perk of being a House I hadn’t counted on: when you’re in trouble, law enforcement won’t help you.

  Rogan typed something on his phone. “You should’ve helped me convince her to leave the house.”

  “She’s a mother and an empath. She knows exactly how scared her kids are. She feels they need stability and a familiar environment. Wild horses couldn’t drag her out of that house right now.” I rubbed my face. “Can you send a hostage negotiator to help her?”

  “He’s on his way,” Rogan said. “He’s also an empath. But we won’t need him. Rynda is one of the best negotiators on the planet. She just never had to use it. She’ll step up.”

  “Could you help me understand?” Cornelius asked. “Rynda’s mother never hesitated to use her power. Rynda seems almost reluctant.”

  “Rynda is kind,” Rogan said. “She realized from an early age that her magic made others feel uncomfortable. She never wanted to make anyone uncomfortable. We’ll know if anyone calls her again.”

  “Did you clone her phone?”

  Rogan winked at me.

  “We found the recording of Brian’s kidnapping,” I said. “I emailed it to Bern. He probably shared it with Bug already.”

  He stopped typing. “And you didn’t show it to me?”

  “If I showed it to you, Rynda would’ve seen it. It would accomplish nothing except wind her up even tighter.” I headed to my car.

  Rogan caught up with me. “Where are you going?”

  “Back to BioCore. I have to convince Edward Sherwood to call House Rio and get an audience so I can eliminate them as suspects.”

  “It’s not House Rio,” Rogan said. “I ran a financial analysis of BioCore. House Sherwood isn’t a threat to anyone in its current state.”

  “I know, but I have to cross my t’s and dot my i’s.”

  “I’ll come with you.”

  If Sherwood decided to stonewall me and Cornelius, Rogan would come in handy. It was one thing to shut out Baylor Investigative Agency and a Significant of a minor House. It was another thing to say no to Mad Rogan.

  I pretended to mull it over. “Promise not to break any buildings.”

  He gave me his most polite dragon smile. “I promise.”

  Cornelius and I used the driving time to brief Rogan on our morning visit there. I parked in the same spot, got out, and the three of us marched to its doors. The two security guards were still at their posts. The shorter one rose. “You’re not allowed to be here.”

  “Please let Edward know that I have information about his brother,” I said. “Also, this is Mad Rogan.”

  Rogan glowered.

  The shorter guard paled. His friend picked up the phone and spoke into it in a quick, urgent whisper.

  Rogan was examining the door.

  “Please don’t break it,” I murmured.

  “I want to see the apple tree with mushrooms.”

  “If you stand right here, I’m sure you’ll see it when Edward comes out.”

  A couple of minutes passed, then the white doors slid open, and Edward emerged, looking pissed off.

  “So you’re behind this,” he said to Rogan. “And you brought your pet truthseeker with you.”

  Apparently, Edward had found the Assembly newsletter that told him who I was and who my witnesses were. I wondered how many people knew I was a truthseeker by now. A familiar anxiety pinched me. I’d spent my life guarding my secret, because I didn’t want to end up as an interrogator. It didn’t matter anymore. Once we were a House, I could fend off any three letter agencies pressuring me to do their dirty work.

  “She’s nobody’s pet,” Rogan said. “Least of all mine.”

  And then he smiled. I knew exactly what happened when he smiled like that. If I didn’t spring into action, the building would collapse on Edward’s head.

  “Don’t get upset,” I said. “He’s jealous of you because he’s in love with Rynda and you’re her ex-fiancé.”

  Edward Sherwood turned a lovely purple color. His mouth opened but nothing came out. Cornelius smiled.

  Rogan watched Edward with casual interest. “Like I said, nobody’s pet. Your brother has been kidnapped. Would you like to see the footage?”

  Edward regained his ability to speak and decided that he would, indeed, like to see the footage. We moved to his office, where he viewed the recording. Then he swore and ranted for about five minutes. Words like “idiot” and “moron” and “told him a hundred times to take a bodyguard” were said. He balked at going to see House Rio, because he didn’t want BioCore and House Sherwood to appear weak. Then Rogan opened his mouth and all sorts of financial information fell out, and Edward decided that Rogan was right and they couldn’t look any weaker than they did already.

  The visit to House Rio took four hours, primarily because their headquarters was across town and traffic was murder. We met with the Head of the House, her three sons, two daughters, and everyone’s spouses. Nobody knew anything about Brian’s kidnapping, nobody orchestrated it, nobody perpetrated it, and everyone told the truth.

  On the way back to our base, Bug provided Rogan with an update. He and Bern had done wonders with the security recording, and tracked Brian’s car and the kidnappers’ vehicle all the way to I-10 West, at which point they left Houston proper and entered the stretch of small towns and a whole lot of nothing that lay between Houston and San Antonio. The proverbial trail went cold. I asked Rogan to drive so Cornelius and I could review Bern’s report. My cousin had combed Brian’s social networks and broken into his personal email account. The results were depressing.

  “It has to be connected to Olivia,” I said. “Brian lived his life without making any waves: he went to work, he came home, he had no affairs, he expressed no strong political or religious views, he made no friends and no enemies.”

  “So the man is a mushroom.” Rogan raised his eyebrows at me.

  “Don’t be mean. He had one social network account.”

  “Oh?”

  “Pinterest.”

  “Tell me it’s porn. Please.”

  “He saved pictures of mushrooms to it,” Cornelius said helpfully from the backseat.

  Rogan sighed. “I don’t understand why she married him.”

  “You told me before that she married him because she needed stability.” Something Rogan couldn’t give Rynda even if he tried.

  “Let me rephrase. I don’t understand why she stayed married to him. This isn’t stability, this is a slow suffocation.” Rogan turned onto our street, guiding the car past the security booth. “Rynda wanted to be loved. She needed to be loved. She needed someone who would take that extra step to support and shield her. Most of all, she needed someone to step up and be there. Instead she got this prick who torments his brother and runs away at the first sign of trouble, leaving her to pick up the pieces.”

  “It’s not too late. You could be that strong supportive man for her.” And it just fell out.

  Rogan parked the car in front of the warehouse, turned, and looked at me, his blue eyes incredulous. ?
??Are you jealous?”

  “Nope,” I lied.

  He glanced back at Cornelius. The animal mage raised his hands, palms up.

  Rogan pondered me for a long second and laughed. I managed to get out of the car without slamming the door. There was an unfamiliar Volvo parked in our lot. We had a visitor.

  The Volvo rose in the air and gently landed in front of the warehouse door.

  I turned. Rogan leaned against the Honda, his arms crossed on his chest.

  “I like that you’re jealous.”

  “Rogan, put the car back.”

  “Come to dinner with me tonight and I’ll consider it.”

  Yes! “No. I don’t negotiate with terrorists.”

  “If you don’t go to dinner with me, I’ll have to do something drastic like stand by your window with a boom box blasting some idiotically sappy song.”

  “Where would you even find a boom box?”

  “I’m sure I can scrounge one up.”

  I pretended to think it over. “Pick me up at six o’clock.”

  “Seven,” he said. “It’s five now and you’ll be busy for the next hour at least. Have fun giving your samples.”

  What samples?

  The Volvo rose and slid back into its place. It had a custom plate ATCG105, which told me nothing.

  Rogan walked away, heading toward his HQ.

  Cornelius opened the car door and cautiously peered out.

  “Yes?” I asked.

  “Checking to see if it’s safe to come out.”

  Everyone was a comedian. I sighed and went into my office.

  A man waited for me in our conference room. Bernard sat with him. He looked up from his laptop and gave me a little wave when I came in.

  The man was about forty, with the build of a marathon runner—lean, tall, long-legged. He wore a conservative black suit over a black shirt with a sleek black tie. His hair was dark and combed back from his face, the frame of his glasses was black too, and against all that darkness, his light blue eyes stood out.

  “Nevada, this is Mr. Fullerton of Scroll, Inc.,” Bern said. “He says he’s here to get our DNA on behalf of the Office of Records.”

  Anxiety shot through me. Sooner or later, Arabella would have to submit to DNA testing, and I had no idea what would happen next. Monsters hid in our bloodline, and once they were found, it would be too late to do anything about it.

  Mr. Fullerton rose and offered me his hand. I shook it. He had a firm, dry handshake.

  Behind me, Cornelius walked into the hallway and paused before the doorway to the conference room.

  “Good evening, Mr. Harrison,” Fullerton said. “How is your daughter?”

  “Good evening,” Cornelius told him. “Matilda’s well.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.”

  Cornelius glanced at me. “I had to go through genetic testing twice, first as a child, and the second time as a father. Would you like me to sit in on this with you?”

  “Yes. Please.”

  Cornelius nodded and took a seat at the table.

  Fullerton and I sat as well.

  “Catalina should be here as well.” I picked up my phone and texted my sister.

  We waited. A couple of minutes later, Catalina walked through the door and took a spot next to Bern without saying a word.

  “As you are aware, Ms. Baylor, you must submit a genetic sample for everyone who is qualifying with you,” Fullerton said. “The genetic sampling done by the Office of House Records is very basic. They ascertain only that you and everyone who is testing with you under prospective House Baylor are related and their familial status matches the one you indicate. In other words, they will test to determine that you and Catalina are sisters and that Bernard is your cousin.”

  “Do they ever make mistakes?” Catalina asked.

  “The OHR is extremely thorough,” Fullerton said. “But human error is always possible. That’s why all OHR results are also independently verified by a third party, usually one of the genetic archives, which is where I enter the picture. I represent Scroll, Inc., the largest genetic archive in North America. Today I’m here to obtain the genetic samples for the Office of Records; however, I also would like to take this opportunity to present our services to you. The testing we provide is considerably more extensive. We create a comprehensive genetic profile, a snapshot of your family. We test for all known predispositions to genetic diseases. At your request, we can trace the roots of your bloodline. We can also suggest potential partners who would be most likely to produce offspring with the magic talents you specify.”

  Rogan’s specter rose in my mind. We’re not compatible, Nevada . . . I wondered how much he really cared about it. Maybe more than he admitted. Brian Sherwood could barely handle that his son wasn’t a Prime.

  “But it’s not a guarantee,” I said. “This genetic matching doesn’t always produce the . . . the child one wants?”

  “Magic is a poorly-understood phenomenon,” Fullerton said. “Through our projections, we can greatly increase the likelihood of a child within a particular branch. Mathematically speaking, we have an eighty-seven percent success rate when it comes to predicting what branch of magic the child would fall into—elemental, mental, or arcane. This is a broad statistic. The actual chances depend on the specific match.”

  “How does this work?” Catalina asked.

  “If you choose to employ us, I will collect blood samples. I will transport them to our lab, where your DNA will be analyzed. The results of that analysis are sealed. We cannot be compelled to disclose them even by a court order. You have complete control over the information we will provide. If another House wants to consider you as a prospective match, they may request your profile, which contains basic information. You will be notified, at which point you may accept or reject the request. We won’t release anything without your approval. If consent is granted and the other House finds the results intriguing, they may request an in-depth profile. Again, it’s up to you to allow it or reject it.”

  Fullerton paused and leaned forward, his blue eyes focused and clear. “We safeguard your genetic information. If we become aware of any attempt by an unscrupulous agency to collect, analyze, or sell your genetic samples or results of their analysis, we will pursue them with extreme prejudice.”

  “You will sue them?” Catalina asked.

  “We will kill them,” Fullerton said.

  My sister glanced at me.

  “It’s standard practice,” Cornelius said quietly. “Any of the larger registered agencies will do the same.”

  “Your privacy is of paramount importance to us,” Fullerton said. “We take any attempt at DNA theft very seriously. By law, I’m obligated to provide you with the list of our rivals.”

  He opened a file in front of him and passed me a piece of paper with a list of companies on it.

  “I do hope that you will consider us. As I mentioned, we are the largest archive in North America. We’ve sequenced over sixty percent of all US Houses, including House Rogan.”

  Funny how he mentioned that.

  “If you are interested in a particular bloodline, we can process your request with greater expediency. If we don’t have a profile for a House, we will work with whatever agency has sequenced it, which may add a few days to the processing of the request. We will take care of your House, Ms. Baylor. We pride ourselves on our discretion.”

  “What if another House wants access to records for reasons other than making a match?” I asked.

  “We will forward you their request for approval.”

  “What if it’s a very powerful House?” I asked.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Fullerton said. “All Houses have the same rights, all of them have the same contracts, and all of them pay the same fees. If you are a wounded House with only one Prime or a flourishing House with ten Primes, in our eyes you’re equal.”

  “How much is the fee?” I asked.

  “A fifty-thousand-dollar establishing fee f
or the first year and then twenty thousand annually. After the first year, each additional DNA profile carries a twenty-thousand-dollar fee as well.”

  “Fifty thousand dollars?” Catalina made a choking sound.

  Fullerton didn’t say anything.

  Fifty thousand dollars. I couldn’t remember if I had ever written a check that big. It was one-sixth of our annual operation budget and our rainy day reserve combined. I glanced at Cornelius.

  “You’re paying a little extra for the security and the convenience of the largest archive,” Cornelius said. “But fees from other archives are comparable.”

  “Bern?”

  “I vote we get it over with,” he said.

  “Catalina?”

  “If we have to do it, this is fine.”

  I rose, went into my office, and got out the firm’s checkbook.

  Chapter 5

  I stood in front of my bathroom mirror and inspected myself. I wore a pale green dress that clung to me and a pair of light black sandals with tiny sparkles. The sandals gave me about three extra inches of height. Rogan would still tower over me, but now I would be three inches closer.

  My hair and Houston’s humidity never got along too well, so I straightened it, and it fell in a smooth, shiny curtain, framing my face. My makeup was perfect: mascara, blush, powder, lipstick; everything was just the way I wanted it. I always hated wearing foundation, and even my face cooperated today. No breakouts.

  The dress was a little plain. I needed something sparkly to offset the low neckline. I didn’t have anything on hand, so it would have to do as is.

  I checked my phone. Almost seven.

  Last touch-up on the hair. A tiny squeeze of the perfume bottle and . . . done.

  I grabbed my purse and clicked my way down the stairs from my loft apartment to the media room. Leon and Arabella were playing WWF on TV.

  “Yeah!” my sister roared. “Take it, take it, take it.”

  On the screen, her female fighter was smashing the chair over Leon’s beefy fighter’s head. Grandma Frida sat in the corner of the love seat, sipping tea.