Wildfire

by Ilona Andrews

  “It is. Eighteenth-century Dutch binding. The Houses of Texas have been recorded in this book since before statehood.” He opened it gently and showed me an empty page. “If you pass the trials, your House will be written here.”

  He turned the heavy pages to the red bookmark. Four columns of names written in beautiful calligraphy covered the page. Some were crossed out.

  “Are those the people who failed the trials?”

  He nodded. “Indeed. Now then, do you have the necessary paperwork?”

  I passed him the folder. He opened it, scanning the pages.

  “Where is the second witness?” Rogan asked.

  “Running late. Given the circumstances, I wanted to make sure to select someone whose reputation is beyond contestation. Someone whose name commands respect. I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised.”

  “A witness to the emergence of a House has certain obligations,” Rogan told me quietly.

  “Like what?”

  “We’re expected to offer advice and guidance.”

  The Keeper checked the signatures and raised his head.

  “You’ve presented us with a conundrum, Mr. Rogan. Finding a suitable test for a truthseeker was challenging, but identifying the younger Ms. Baylor’s magic was even more so. I must say, your sister’s power is something truly remarkable. It is, of course, a mental branch, but what subset? One would naturally lean toward a psionic, but a psionic who evokes a genuine love has never manifested. Michael and I had to dig very far through our archives and other archives. Favors were called in, access to databases had to be requested, and foreign Keepers of Records were consulted. But we persevered, didn’t we, Michael?”

  Michael nodded again.

  “We had to reach very far, and we finally found what we were looking for in Greece. There is a single House—just one, mind you—whose record showed the emergence of a similar talent. Only in female offspring. The last verified manifestation was in the 1940s. Apparently, there was some unpleasantness.”

  “What kind of unpleasantness?” I asked.

  “The lady in question fought against the Russian Imperial invasion of their small city. The legend states that she placed herself onto a rocky island a short distance from the cliffs and then called an entire battalion of the invading Russian troops to her. She drowned three motorized rifle companies before the few survivors finally managed to reach the rock. She was torn apart. Quite literally, I’m afraid.”

  Oh, Catalina . . . I could picture my sister on that rock. That’s exactly what she would do.

  “Dreadful business.” The Records Keeper sighed. “The House hasn’t had any female heirs since then. A very knowledgeable source has speculated that it was a matter of choice rather than chance.”

  “They abort female children?” Rogan asked, his voice cold.

  “Such is the rumor. The House refused our attempts to reach them for a consult. They’re a very reclusive family. Thus, we are left on our own, so after much deliberation, we are creating a new category for Ms. Catalina Baylor.” The Keeper paused. “We shall refer to her as siren.”

  She would hate that.

  “It is so very exciting. If this magic endures within your family, this may be the beginning of a whole new subset. The rankings of the rare magic talents may shift. We’re bringing in a powerful antistasi Prime for her trials.”

  Like aegis mages who blocked bullets and physical attacks, antistasi mages specialized in defense, but against mental attacks. Well, at least that should put Catalina’s mind to rest.

  “Which House?” Rogan asked. “Smith?”

  “Alessandro Sagredo,” the Keeper said.

  Rogan raised his eyebrows.

  I glanced at him.

  “The best antistasi Prime on record,” Rogan explained.

  “We’re taking no chances,” the Keeper said. “Unfortunately, he is otherwise engaged at the moment, so we will have to wait a couple of days. Therefore, your trials will be set exactly one week from now, next Sunday.”

  A man marched into the room. In his sixties, but still athletic, he wore black pants, a black T-shirt, and a black garment that could be called a sweatshirt in the same way a Porsche could be called a car. It had notched lapels like a suit, the stylish drape of a luxury trench coat, and likely cost more than our mortgage payment.

  His skin was a light bronze, his hair wavy and black with a lot of white. He had bold, strong features: a broad forehead, black eyebrows, a prominent nose, and a square jaw mostly hidden by a short beard that was more grey than black. His hazel eyes, alight with intelligence, looked at the world with a touch of humor. When I saw him for the first time, I thought he looked like someone’s favorite uncle, who owned a vineyard somewhere in Greece or Spain, spent a lot of time outdoors, and laughed often. That was before I knew who he was.

  “Good evening, Mr. Duncan.” The Keeper smiled.

  My House formation would be witnessed by Mad Rogan, the Scourge of Mexico, and Linus Duncan, the former Speaker of the Assembly that ruled the magical families of Texas. Dear God.

  “I’m late, I know, I’m sorry.” The former most powerful man in Texas hurried across the room. “Some people insist on being annoyingly difficult. What did I miss?”

  “Nothing of importance,” the Keeper assured him.

  Duncan nodded at Rogan. “Major.”

  “Colonel,” Rogan replied.

  The Keeper took out a fountain pen, cleared his throat, and glanced at me, his black eyes sparkling behind his glasses. “Michael, if you please.”

  Michael stepped forward and produced a high-end camera.

  “A verbal acknowledgment is required,” the Keeper told me, his tone confidential. “You must say these words to me: I, Nevada Baylor, petition the State of Texas for assessment and recognition of my family’s powers. Are you ready?”

  “Yes.”

  My heart was beating too fast.

  The Keeper nodded at Michael. Michael tapped the camera’s digital screen.

  The Keeper raised his pen and looked at me. My mouth had gone completely dry. Somehow I made my lips move.

  “I, Nevada Baylor, petition the State of Texas for assessment and recognition of my family’s powers.”

  “I, Linus Duncan, Head of House Duncan, so witness,” Duncan stated.

  “I, Connor Rogan, Head of House Rogan, so witness,” Rogan echoed.

  “So noted.” The Keeper wrote today’s date on the page and added, Nevada Baylor on behalf of herself, Catalina and Bernard Baylor. Witnessed by Linus Duncan of House Duncan and Connor Rogan of House Rogan.

  “Your petition is granted,” the Keeper said.

  Michael lowered the camera and set it aside.

  “It is done,” the Keeper said.

  “Congratulations, Ms. Baylor,” Linus Duncan told me.

  “Thank you for coming to be my witness.”

  “Well, if you’re going to jump into the wolf’s den, it helps to have an ally. Even if that ally is old with blunted teeth.”

  A muscle in Rogan’s cheek jerked. He hadn’t said anything, but both he and Michael watched Linus Duncan like he would sprout fangs and claws any second.

  “I hope you succeed,” Duncan said.

  “Thank you.”

  The sound of a woman coming down the hallway in high heels echoed through the room.

  “Are you expecting someone?” Rogan asked.

  “No,” the Keeper said.

  Victoria Tremaine walked into the room, two men in suits behind her. She saw me, stopped, and stared. I stared back. I’d seen a recording of her, but we’d never met in person.

  She was thin, impeccably dressed, with the kind of face that made people say, “good bones” despite wrinkled skin. High cheekbones, strong yet feminine jawline, narrow nose, large eyes. Given that set of features, most women would look beautiful. My grandmother didn’t. She looked hard and vicious, like a velociraptor in human skin. Even her platinum hair, cut in a pixie style, did nothing to soften
the impact. Vulnerable or unsure weren’t even in her vocabulary. And when she turned to glower at Rogan, I saw my father in her profile. They had the same aquiline nose.

  Rogan stepped forward on my left. Linus Duncan stepped forward on my right.

  “This farce has gone on long enough,” Victoria announced. “That child is mine. She belongs to my House.”

  “No,” I told her. “I don’t belong to you or anyone else.”

  “She petitioned the State of Texas for recognition of her powers,” the Keeper said. “She’s in the book. It is done.”

  “Linus?” she ground out.

  “I’m a witness,” Duncan said. “I’m honor bound to protect her, Victoria. You know how this works.”

  Victoria Tremaine’s eyes narrowed. “I’m taking her out of here.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t allow that.” The Keeper’s eyes turned completely black. No white remained.

  Darkness shivered in the alcoves between the books and grew, slithering across the walls, swallowing the light, a living terrible darkness. An ancient primal thing. Every hair on the back of my neck rose.

  Blue fire sheathed Michael’s hands, burning bright against the rising black tide that smothered the ceiling.

  “You know the rules, Victoria,” the Keeper said, his voice pure magic. “You will have no contact with any member of the Baylor family. You’ll make no effort to disrupt these trials. We wouldn’t want any unpleasantness.”

  Rage shivered in the corners of my grandmother’s mouth. She glared at me. “You’re an idiot. You will regret this.”

  Her gaze stabbed at Rogan. “You should’ve returned my calls. You think you have her, but you’ll never keep her. She’ll dump you the moment the Scroll gets a request.”

  She turned around and marched out, her human Rottweilers in tow.

  “Well, that was tense,” Linus Duncan said. He opened a billfold, took a card out of his wallet, and offered it to me. It had no name, only a phone number. “In case you need help or advice. Call any time.”

  “Thank you.” I took the card.

  The darkness vanished. The Keeper smiled at me. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Baylor. We’ll be watching you. We’ll be there in case of any problems, won’t we, Michael?”

  Michael nodded.

  Rogan and I didn’t speak the whole way to the car. Outside, the sun had set and the bottomless Texas sky spread above us, an upside-down black ocean studded with stars. We got into the car, and Rogan drove out of the parking lot.

  The night city slid past my window while the whole scene kept replaying in my head over and over: petitioning, my name in calligraphy on the page of an ancient book, the raptor stare of my grandmother, the living darkness on the ceiling . . . It didn’t seem real, as if it had happened to someone else.

  I glanced at Rogan. There was this odd distance between us. He was there, in the car with me, but he seemed contained, as if I were a stranger.

  “She called you?” I asked finally.

  “She left a message,” he said.

  I waited but he didn’t elaborate. “What did she say?”

  “That if I helped her bring you into House Tremaine, she would give you to me.”

  “Nice. And was I just supposed to go along with that plan?”

  “You would if she had your sisters. Or your mother.” His voice was casual. “Holding a knife to your mother’s throat would make you very agreeable.”

  Connor was gone, and I got Mad Rogan instead: cold, calculating, cruel when he had to be.

  “And the Scroll?”

  “The Scroll is one of the three main DNA databases,” he said. “You will be required to submit a sample to the Keeper to prove that you and Catalina are sisters. Once the sample is submitted, you must choose a database. They will sequence your entire family.”

  “Is it used for genetic matches for future spouses?”

  “Primarily, yes. Also in cases when paternity is in doubt.”

  The gulf between us was getting wider. He was pulling back from me. He was still thinking about children and matches. Was he trying to give me an out?

  “Please pull over,” I said.

  He guided the car onto the shoulder. I unbuckled my seat belt, reached over, and kissed him. His lips were like fire. He didn’t respond, but I tried harder, licking his lips with the tip of my tongue, wanting to taste him.

  His seat belt snapped free. He caught the back of my head with his hand and claimed my mouth. His magic wrapped around me, mixing with mine. The taste of Connor, the heady intoxicating taste that burned with lust, power, and need, filled me, and I drank it in, melting into it. The strokes of his tongue turned possessive, his fingers tangled in my hair, holding me to him. There was a hint of menace in the way he kissed that warned me that when I tasted dragon fire, I’d get burned and then I would never be the same. It made me want to strip and climb naked on top of him.

  Magic slid over the back of my neck, like molten honey, sizzling pleasure on my skin. I gasped into his mouth.

  “You’re mine,” he said, his voice rough. “I’m not letting you go.”

  “I’m glad we cleared that up.”

  “Do you understand me, Nevada? I’m not walking away. I thought I could, but I can’t and I don’t want to.”

  I brushed his cheek with my fingertips. “What makes you think I would let you go?”

  He pulled me to him, and I climbed over, onto his lap. He kissed my neck. Magic swirled along my spine, a heated bliss. I wanted him between my legs. I wanted him inside . . .

  There were blue and red lights behind us.

  Rogan growled.

  A cop was walking toward us, a flashlight in his hand.

  I crawled back into my seat and put my hand over my face.

  Rogan rolled down the window. “Yes, Officer?”

  “Is your vehicle disabled, Mr. Rogan?”

  “No,” Rogan growled.

  “Then you should move along. The road is dark, and you’re presenting a safety hazard.”

  Wow. Apparently we’d run into the one cop in Houston who wasn’t intimidated by the Butcher of Merida.

  “Ms. Baylor,” the cop said. “DA Jordan says hello.”

  Oh.

  “Please move your vehicle for the safety of the public.” The cop stepped back. He showed no signs of leaving.

  Rogan rolled the window up, we both put our seat belts on, and we pulled back into traffic.

  Lenora Jordan, the Harris County District Attorney. When I was in high school, she was my hero. Incorruptible, uncompromising, she served as the last line of the public’s defense against crime, especially when committed by the Houses. The first time I saw her was on TV, years ago; she walked down the steps of the courthouse, where a raging fulgurkinetic Prime wrapped in a web of lightning refused to be arraigned on charges of child molestation. Lenora strode right up to him, summoned chains from thin air, and bound him, right there, in front of all the cameras. And then she dragged him into court.

  I never thought I would meet her, but I did. She was everything she seemed, and she scared the living daylights out of me. Even Rogan treated her with the kind of respect one affords to a hungry tiger.

  “Was that a love tap on the shoulder?” I asked. “To tell me she knows we’re filing?”

  “Yes. Come home with me tonight.”

  “I can’t. A lot has happened and I need to be with my family. They’ll have questions.”

  “I’ll wait.”

  “I don’t know how long it will take.”

  “I’ll wait,” he repeated.

  I would give almost anything to go with him. He would take me to his bedroom, strip off my clothes, and love me until I couldn’t even think anymore. I would fall asleep wrapped in him, with his muscular arm around me, and his hot hard chest pressing against my back, and in the morning we’d wake up and make love again. Saying no hurt. Physically hurt. “Rogan . . .”

  “Nevada?” My name rolling off his lips was a care
ss.

  “I just turned my family’s life upside down. Everything is in shambles. I need to be there tonight. If one of my sisters knocks on my door at two in the morning, I want to be there to reassure her. If my mom isn’t able to go to sleep and comes checking on me in the middle of the night, I want to be there. And I can’t do that if I’m over at your place, and you can’t be at mine, because you make me moan and scream, and that’s not what my family needs to hear.”

  His face told me he didn’t like it.

  “What are you thinking?”

  “I’m planning to kidnap you until the trials,” he said.

  “We’ve tried that, remember?”

  “I had the air-conditioning fixed in the basement,” he said.

  “Is there a nice chain waiting for me?”

  “No,” he said. “But I do have some handcuffs.”

  “No,” I told him. “Okay, maybe. Who’ll be wearing the handcuffs?”

  He grinned.

  We reached the warehouse.

  “I have to go,” I told him. I didn’t want to.

  He opened his mouth and I put my finger on his lips. “Please don’t say my name. If you say my name, I won’t be able to get out of the car.”

  He smiled against my finger. It was a wicked male smile, and it made him look both handsome and evil, like a demon.

  “I mean it, Rogan. Don’t say my name, don’t kiss me good night, and don’t look at me . . . yes, like that. Don’t look at me like that. I have to go investigate your ex-fiancée’s husband’s disappearance tomorrow, and I need sleep.”

  I still couldn’t move from the seat. He pulled at me like a magnet. It wasn’t the spectacular sex and it wasn’t his looks, although both helped. It was the way he looked at me when he thought I wasn’t watching him. Like I was the center of his universe. When he looked at me like that, I would do anything for him. It scared me that I could love someone that much, so I fought like crazy to keep every shred of independence I had left.

  “I see Caesar’s shadow,” he said.

  I did too. But until we had some evidence, jumping to conclusions did no good. “It does seem like a big coincidence—Rynda’s mother dies, then, within weeks, her husband disappears. But, apparently, he has a history of taking off when things get rough, and things are rough for her right now.”