Wildfire (Hidden Legacy 3)

A dull pain came from somewhere deep inside me. I had expended too much magic and I would likely need more.

“This is too much for her.” Mom’s voice. “You’re asking her to take apart something that . . . woman built with years of experience.”

“She’s right.”

Shaffer. Who let him in?

“I can feel the hex in his mind. It is exceedingly complex. It’s a trap and she’s too inexperienced to realize it.” Shaffer again.

“But is it breakable?” Rynda asked.

“No,” Shaffer said. “It’s a perfect trap. Get her out of there before she overextends.”

“She’s fine,” Rogan said. “She knows her limits.”

They all needed to shut up.

The hex was too complicated to alter. There were loops within loops, twisting magic onto itself.

But I didn’t need to alter it. All I needed to do was shield Vincent’s mind from the daggers.

I pulled on my magic. It came from within me, stretching into a thin line glowing with silvery blue. I slipped it under the bottom layer and began to weave. A direct shield wouldn’t work, no more than a blunt approach would’ve worked with Vincent’s father. There was too much power in the hex. I had to redirect the energy of the spell away once it collapsed. I had to . . . Yes. That would work.

“If you want your daughter to live, you will stop this,” Shaffer said. “Look at him. He doesn’t care if she lives or dies, as long as he gets what he wants. I care. I want to marry her.”

“Nevada knows what she’s doing.” Mom’s voice. Cold. She didn’t like him.

The pattern grew more complex, spreading under the hex like a snowflake, unfurling from the center.

An insistent pounding began in my head, a sure sign that my magic resources had grown low. I was walking a tightrope.

“Have all of you lost your minds?” Shaffer demanded.

“Will someone shut that weakling up?” Victoria snapped.

The last stroke of my bottom layer. It was all or nothing.

I molded my magic into a blade and severed the top layer of the hex.

The blackness broke. I was back in the room, with the glowing pattern in front of me. I had drawn it in chalk on the floor, a circle of rivulets with nine points within it locked in the spirals. The ghostly radiance of Victoria’s hex flared above it, an echo of the real hex.

Someone gasped.

The top layer collapsed, flowing into the second, like sand or water spilling from a hole in the bottom of a vase. Its power flowed into the triangles, bending them down, feeding into them, stretching them into razor-sharp blades.

The second layer collapsed into the third. The daggers punctured through it and met the soft rivulets of my circle. Their points touched the nine spots where the lines twisted together. They flared with silver, channeling power out. The silver glow spread through the blue, overpowering it. The lines grew thicker, channeling the magic. The spirals I had made rose, fed by the hex’s collapse, stretching higher and higher, glowing, beautiful, unfurling as they grew. An ethereal carnation bloomed in Vincent’s mind, its nine petals delicate and shimmering with magic.

It glowed for a long moment and vanished, the hex’s power expended.

A vicious sound echoed through the silence and I realized it was Grandmother Victoria laughing.

I turned. Shaffer was on his feet. His hands shook. He stared at me, turned, and fled.

Rogan smiled at me. There was pride on Mom’s face, shock on Grandma Frida’s, and respect on Catalina’s. Leon looked slightly freaked out, while Bern acted like nothing had happened. Rynda sat very still.

I turned back to Vincent. He swallowed.

My magic snapped out and gripped him in its vise. My voice dropped into an inhuman register, suffused with power.

“Where is Brian Sherwood?”

Chapter 13

I blinked. The ceiling looked familiar. I lay in Rogan’s HQ, on one of his second-floor couches. Gloom shrouded the room, the windows dark and full of night. A warm blanket covered me. Someone had taken my shoes off, and I curled my toes under the blanket. Mmm, comfy.

The interrogation went as expected. Vincent answered all my questions. Alexander Sturm owned a ranch outside of Houston. Brian Sherwood was cooling his heels there. They had contacted him intending to offer him the financial bailout of his company in exchange for Olivia’s files. When they found out that he had no idea where Olivia’s files were hidden, they struck a bargain. Brian would be their willing victim, but he didn’t want money. He wanted his wife dead instead. Prior to contacting Brian, Sturm and Vincent had briefly considered kidnapping Kyle or Jessica, but Sturm was afraid that Rynda would snap, and taking a child carried more risk. Brian turned out to be perfect for the task. He knew Rynda, he knew which buttons to push, and he was sure that the threat of his death could pry Olivia’s files out of her.

Rynda was supposed to die during the ransom drop. Failing that, Brian wanted her killed in a tragic car accident. According to Vincent, Brian didn’t care if the kids were in the car with her or not. Apparently, he’d said, “Whatever is more convenient.”

Vincent had no idea what was in Olivia’s files, just that Sturm referred to it as “vital.” Vincent was under the impression that unless the files were recovered, all of them “would go down.” They had to get the files back and they would do anything to get them. Sturm had directed every aspect of this plan, except for the attack on Rynda’s house, where Vincent had decided to take the initiative.

They watched Edward Sherwood, and once he moved to declare himself Head of the House, Sturm realized that we must be aware that Brian was in on the whole mess. They needed new hostages. There was no traitor. They had watched our tornado drills through some high-tech equipment, which was how they figured out where the kids would be. Vincent’s creatures had tunneled for two days to grab the children.

Rynda listened to it all, politely excused herself, and left.

After I pried everything Vincent had out of him, I released him. He slid to the floor, curled into a fetal ball, and cried. I didn’t feel sorry for him. Fatigue had mugged me. I remembered wanting coffee. I made it out of the room and up the stairs, and then everything went blank.

Now I was on the couch.

Voices came from the kitchen area.

“. . . and now I have nobody,” Rynda said. “I’m truly and completely alone. Do you know what that’s like?”

“Yes,” Rogan said.

I should’ve sat up. Instead I quietly turned on my side. They were standing at the kitchen island, illuminated by the soft glow of the kitchen lamp. A cup of coffee sat in front of Rogan. He looked slightly tired and a little rough around the edges. A dragon in his off mode. I liked when he looked like that.

Rynda stood close to him, her slender body almost touching his. And I got a small stab of jealousy right in the heart. It never failed. They looked good together.

“I don’t know how we’re going to survive,” she said quietly.

“You always were more resilient than your mother gave you credit for. You will persevere, Rynda. I’ll help you. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Thank you. Thank you for saving my son. Thank you for everything.”

She stepped closer, slid her arms around his neck, stretching herself against him, and kissed him on the mouth.

That was going too far. Half of me felt heartbreaking sadness at her desperation and the other half wanted to run over and punch her in the face.

Rogan didn’t move. He didn’t put his hands around her. He didn’t push her away. He just stood there.

She dropped her arms and stepped away. “This was a mistake,” she said in a broken voice.

“Yes,” he said.

“Why, Connor?”

It was absurd to hate a woman just because she used Rogan’s name.

She searched his face with her gaze. “We know each other. We have a history. We have things in common. Same background, same set of friends growing up. I’m pretty. There would be no learning curve.”

Thanks, Rynda.

“I would be a good wife.”

“I’m in love with someone else.”

“But why, Rogan? What is it about her? Is it because she’s violent like you?”