In the bottom margin Neena had scrawled Thomas Anthony Gladstone. Kiarra touched the name, wishing she could verify its contents. All clues signaled that Thomas Anthony Gladstone had been a Fire Talent. And if what Jaxton had said was true, and she was also a Fire Talent, then there was a lot she could learn from Gladstone if she could get her hands on the rest of his journal.
All texts and letters related to first-born training or elemental magic had been destroyed in the 1950s, with the implementation of the AMT compounds. To possess anything written by a pre-1950s adult first-born was rare, but to possess the writings of a Talent was unthinkable.
She reread the page and stopped at the part where Thomas mentioned a Conduit, the same word Neena had used last night. From context, Kiarra guessed a Conduit helped focus a Talent’s abilities, just like Jaxton had helped focus hers.
Maybe Jaxton was her Conduit.
The thought made her pause. Jaxton’s effect on her could be a result of attraction, not necessarily some legendary power amplifier.
Continuing her second read-through, Kiarra felt a shiver as she read: Possessing the power to both heal and destroy is terrifying to the general F. population.
If such power existed, it would be dangerous in the wrong hands. Jaxton’s words about an army gathering to protect a Talent started to make more sense.
As the person in front of her on the bus stood up, Kiarra forced her gaze from the journal entry and checked her location. She’d asked earlier for instructions, and the bus driver had told her which landmarks to watch for. She spotted the small row of brightly colored shops and Kiarra pushed the button, requesting the next stop.
She’d let Gladstone’s words stew and ask Neena about it later. Right now, Jaxton and Millie were her top priorities.
Kiarra only hoped that she had the strength to carry out the plan and let herself be captured.
The sound of screeching voices jolted Millie awake.
She tried to focus, but whatever the hell they’d drugged her with earlier had left her groggy. The booming music was not helping matters.
Once her eyes and brain started working properly again, Millie did a quick sweep of the room, on the lookout for the bastard who’d interrogated her with his fists.
But she was alone. For now.
Cataloging the aches and twinges, nothing felt broken, and a small wiggle told her that the straps were looser. If she could just get the straps removed, she might have a chance.
The last time she’d been conscious, Millie had noted two flaws in the room’s design. First, nothing was bolted to the floor. Second, various chemicals lined the far wall.
An experienced interrogator always assumed a person was trying to find a way to escape. An unbolted table or shelf could be thrown or toppled, distracting or even injuring the interrogator. Chemicals only made an escape more likely.
Between the flaws and the medical equipment in the room, Millie reckoned that she was inside a research facility acting as an ad-hoc interrogation room.
The music ceased and the door on the far side of the room opened, revealing not the big bastard interrogator from earlier, but the well-dressed young man who’d made the phone call to Jaxton and Kiarra.
Unlike before, he didn’t keep to the shadows, and she caught her first real glimpse of him—medium height, olive skin tone, black hair, and dark brown eyes. She’d suspected that he knew Kiarra, but now that she could see his face, there was no doubt that he was her brother. The shape of his eyes, combined with his coloring, gave it away.
He stood beside her, and only because she was watching him closely did she notice a brief flash of regret in his eyes. But it was gone between one heartbeat and the next. Curious.
Millie needed to see what the man was made of. “Did they send the posh lad to do the dirty work?” she asked.
The man leaned close enough that Millie could see the gold flecks in his eyes. Did Kiarra have them too? She’d never noticed. “Fists only accomplish so much.” He straightened and walked to the table of chemicals. “I have other ways to make you talk.”
He reached for a syringe and Millie thought about her options.
They’d administered rowanberry juice just a few days ago, so unless they wanted to kill her, it was unlikely they’d dose her again. If they had some other type of concoction to weaken her defenses, she’d been trained to resist interrogation and knew to lie as close to the truth as possible. She worked investigation for private clients, nothing more. Spinning DEFEND into a human rights activist group was easy enough. Amnesty International would suffice.
And she honestly didn’t know Kiarra or Jaxton’s location.
Prep review done, she focused on the broad back of Kiarra’s brother. Despite his posh clothing and restrained manner, he had a quiet aura of power. Much like people misunderstood Millie’s bubbly behavior for daftness, she reckoned people mistook his appearance and behavior for weakness.
The contrast of power and reserve intrigued her.
The man—she still didn’t know his name—turned around with a cloth-wrapped syringe in his hand. Clever move, hiding the contents to inspire fear; too bad it wouldn’t work on her.
Millie held his gaze and raised an eyebrow. “Is that a present for me? And to think, I didn’t get you anything.”