Wildfire: A Hidden Legacy Novel

“Wake up,” Rogan said in my ear.

My eyes snapped open. I flailed for a second in the sheets and sat up, blinking.

He watched me with an amused grin. He was already up and wearing dark pants and a loose T-shirt. The morning light streamed through the window wall. I had overslept.

Morning. Harcourt. All remnants of my dreams fled. I was wide awake.

“Arabella dropped this off for you.” He put a large suitcase on the bed.

I unzipped the bag and threw it open. Baby Desert Eagle and four magazines, underwear, sweaters, jeans, socks . . . A Ziploc bag with my toothbrush, deodorant, and makeup. Condoms in bubble gum flavor. She would pay for this.

“You have a weird look on your face,” he said.

“I’m trying to decide if this means I’m kicked out of my house.” Considering the fight I had with Mom last night, I wouldn’t be surprised.

“Now that would be an interesting development.” He crossed his arms. “You have no place to go.”

“This isn’t funny.”

“It’s hilarious. The stuff of romcoms. Disowned by her family, thrown into the arms of an obsessive, paranoid billionaire . . .”

I threw a pillow at him. It stopped three inches from his face. He pushed it aside with his fingers, leaned over, and kissed me. The pillow landed back on the bed.

“I’m your only hope. Face it. Your only chance to strike out on your own and take over your family business, eventually destroying your evil grandmother.”

“I already run my family’s business. And I don’t want to destroy Victoria. I just want her to leave us alone.” I climbed out of bed and realized he wasn’t wearing shoes. A piece of chalk lay on the table. The last time he was dressed like that and had chalk with him, he performed a ritual to recharge his magic. “The Key?”

He nodded. “I’ll need the power. The documents for a Verona Exception were filed with the DA this morning.”

The Verona Exception meant the State of Texas acknowledged the conflict between Houses and washed their hands of it. It would give Rogan free rein to attack the Harcourts on Rynda’s behalf.

“Was it granted?”

“We’ll find out in the next hour or so.”

“You didn’t go personally?” Lenora Jordan, Harris County District Attorney, wasn’t Rogan’s favorite person. He thought she was dangerous, which was why he preferred to deal with her directly.

“I told you I would stay with you.”

He did. If he promised, he would stay with me. It was as simple as that.

“Besides, if I went personally, Lenora would’ve spent some time explaining the folly of helping Olivia Charles’ daughter to me. I’m disinclined to tolerate a lecture. I sent a team of lawyers. I have things I need to do.”

“You don’t think House Harcourt would meet with us? Like House Rio?”

“House Rio are researchers and botanists. House Harcourt is a combat house. They think they can win this fight, but even if I rolled up to their doors with a thousand soldiers, they would still fight me. They can’t afford to appear weak.”

Yes, they couldn’t afford to appear weak, and Rogan couldn’t afford to not retaliate after Vincent’s attack, and I couldn’t take the chance that he would go after my mother, my sisters, or my cousins. Because none of us could afford any of that, we would all go to war. People would be injured. Some might die. If everyone just set aside their pride, none of this would be necessary.

“How well do you know Vincent?” I asked.

“Well enough. He was a couple of years behind me in high school. Had a reputation as a bully and a penchant for cruelty.”

“The timeline of this doesn’t make sense to me. Brian’s kidnappers called to negotiate. We’ve told them that we have every intention of cooperating. Usually there is a slow escalation of negotiations. Instead Vincent shows up and smashes the whole thing with a hammer.”

“He got impatient,” Rogan said. “As I said, Vincent isn’t much on waiting and planning. Rynda frustrated him, so he decided to apply his particular brand of pressure.”

“But why not just show up at their house and hold the kids hostage from the start? Brian and Rynda would’ve given him anything he asked for. Neither of them is a combat Prime. Why go through kidnapping Brian? It doesn’t seem like Vincent’s style.”

“That’s because it isn’t. Somebody has him on a tight leash for this particular operation.” A dangerous light crept into Rogan’s eyes. “He got loose last night.”

“Who has enough power to restrain Vincent Harcourt and make him stick to a plan?”

“That’s what we’ll have to find out.”

Rogan tilted his head, obviously thinking.

“Yes?”

“House Harcourt has one battle strategy: they summon a horde of monsters from the arcane realm and throw them at their opponents. It will be bloody and chaotic.”

“I haven’t changed my mind. Vincent threatened my family.”

“Will you let me put you in a ballistic vest?”

“Yes.” I eyed the chalk in his hand. “Do you have another piece?”

He smiled. Another piece of chalk streaked across the room and hovered in front of me. “What do I get if I give you this chalk?”

“Dinner. You and me tonight.” I deserved the nice dinner he promised me. I would wear nice clothes and pretty makeup. Also, I realized I was starving. I hadn’t eaten since yesterday’s lunch. I’d have to see if Rogan stocked any supplies in his kitchen downstairs.

“Done.”

I kissed him and grabbed the chalk out of the empty air.

Arcane circles were used for everything, from fine-tuning a mage’s power to channeling magic into a particular spell. They had to be drawn by hand or they lost their power, which was why most Primes trained in circlework as soon as they could hold a piece of chalk in their fingers. I wasn’t most Primes. Drawing a circle on the floor was remarkably difficult. Drawing a charging circle was somewhere between the seventh and ninth levels of hell. It started as a large circle, with a smaller circle inside, three small circles inside that inner circle, drawn side by side so they formed a triangle, and then three outer circles exactly opposite of the inner circles. It took me twenty minutes and by the time I was done, my back hurt and I had said enough cuss words to make Bug, who came to hang out with me, raise his eyebrows. At least I got to raid Rogan’s kitchen counter and devour an apple bear claw before I started.

Finally, I stripped down to a sports bra and spandex shorts to maximize the charge, stepped into the circle, and sat. My power shot through the circle. The chalk lines pulsed with white and faded. Magic flowed to me, sluggish at first, then a steady current, slipping into my body. I relaxed and closed my eyes.

“This one is crooked,” Bug advised.

I opened my eyes and looked at the circle he was pointing at.

“It will be fine.”

“You could’ve just asked the Major.”

If Rogan had drawn the design, it would’ve taken him three minutes and all the circles would have been perfect. “I have to draw my own circles.”

I glanced to the left. The second floor had a wide industrial door, which opened onto a large square patio of sealed concrete, flooded with sunlight. The doors stood ajar and I could see Rogan. He’d drawn circles on the concrete and moved within them, lunging, kicking, and striking, his large muscular body graceful and flexible. His grace wasn’t that of a dancer but of an assassin trained to lock onto his target and pursue it at all costs. His feet were weapons; his hands cut like blades, then struck like hammers, breaking his invisible opponents. The Key of House Rogan was a warrior key, and when he moved through it, the savage, fierce thing that made him Mad Rogan surfaced and took over. It scared me and pulled me like a magnet, which is why I drew my charging circle here, so I could watch him.

I was hoping to watch him in privacy. But Bug parked himself on the sofa right behind me, with Napoleon tucked under his arm and the laptop resting on his lap. Ogling Rogan under these circumstances would be slightly creepy. I closed my eyes and tried to concentrate on the magic emanating from the circle like heat from the asphalt on a scorching Texas day.

“Is everything okay?” Bug asked.

“Mhm.”

“You and him are on good terms?”

“Mhm.”

“So you’re talking?”

Damn it. I opened my eyes and looked at him over my shoulder.

“Good communication is important in a relationship,” Bug said.

“Everything is fine.”

“You’re not fighting anymore?”

“No. I’m trying to recharge. I need to concentrate.”

Bug nodded solemnly.

I turned back, savored the glimpse of Rogan, and closed my eyes.

“How’s the sex?”

“Did you honestly just ask me that question?”

Bug and Napoleon scooted further away from me on the sofa. “We just want to know that everything’s okay.”

“We?”

“Uh . . . Napoleon and I.”

Lie. “Bug, turn that laptop toward me and don’t you dare hit any keys.”

He hugged the laptop. “No.”

“Is that Nguyen and Rivera on the other end?”

“No.”

Lie.

“Here, I’ll say it really loud so they can hear. Are you ready? Butt out of our relationship!”

“Okay, okay!” He waved his arms.

“If you really want to help, brief me on the Harcourts.”

“What’s there to brief? Owen Harcourt, sixty, Ella Harcourt, fifty-five, Alyssa Harcourt, twenty-three, and Liam Harcourt, eighteen. Everyone is a Prime summoner. It’s going to be a bloodbath.”

“Fine. I’m going to concentrate now, so hush.”

I closed my eyes. For a few minutes, blissful silence reigned and I sank deeper into the stream of magic.

“Incoming,” Bug announced.

I turned. Rynda came up the stairs, crossed the room, and sat on the other sofa. She wore black designer jeans and a pink silk wrap blouse that demurely covered her breasts while simultaneously dipping far between them. Bug pretended to ignore her. Napoleon gave Rynda the evil eye.

Rynda studied my circlework and very carefully didn’t say anything. Yes, I know. It’s crooked.

I sat quietly. Minutes stretched. Bug typed on his laptop, hitting the keys so loud, I could hear him from several feet away.

“Are you going with Rogan to fight the Harcourts?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Is that wise?”

“Rogan will need my help when we question them.”

“The Harcourts have a reputation,” Rynda said. “It will be brutal. You’re not a combat mage.”

“Thank you for your concern. I’ll be fine.”

She fell silent, then glanced at Bug. “Could you get me some coffee?”

“No,” Bug said.

She blinked.

“I’m a surveillance specialist, not a waiter,” Bug said, his diction perfect, his voice flat. “The coffee is on the kitchen counter over there. Help yourself.”

She opened her mouth and closed it.

“Nevada?” Bug said.

Don’t do it, don’t do it . . .

“Would you like some coffee?”

“No, thanks.” Ass.

“Because I’ll totally get it for you.”

Rynda got up and walked to the kitchen counter, glancing in Rogan’s direction for a moment.

“You’re being cruel,” I murmured.

“Sue me,” Bug whispered back.

Rynda came back with a cup of coffee and sat on the couch. Bug resumed his aggressive typing. Rynda studied him for a long moment and cleared her throat. Bug showed no signs of moving. All this tension was distracting me.

“Is Kyle feeling better this morning?”

She startled. “Yes.”

“Glad to hear it.” There. A little less tense.

“I didn’t realize you were there when I called Connor.”

And we’re back to awkward. Great.

I smiled at her and watched Rogan through the window.

“I understand that you and Connor have a relationship,” Rynda said. “But I need him more than you right now. I hope you understand.”

Oh no. No. “Rogan and I have something.” I kept my voice as gentle as possible. “You are not a part of it.”

“I’ve known him a lot longer than you.”

“And I understand that Brian is gone and you’re scared. But Rogan won’t be anyone’s plan B. He isn’t a backup option.”

“Is that a threat?”

I sighed. “No. I’m not going to threaten you. You’re my client and you’ve been through a pressure cooker. This isn’t a ‘back away from my man’ conversation. I’m simply telling you that what Rogan and I have is genuine. I don’t blame you for trying and if you somehow succeeded, I wouldn’t be as angry with you as with him. That’s not my point.”

Her lips were pressed together so hard, they were almost bloodless. “What is your point?”

“Suppose for a moment that you get Rogan to somehow become involved with you. Then what?”

She didn’t answer.

“Were you relieved when he broke the engagement?”

“That’s a private matter.”

“You were relieved, because you didn’t really want him. He is volatile and frightening. You want the security his presence provides, but you don’t love the man who creates it.” But I did. I loved him and all his volatility.

“You don’t know me,” she said. “You don’t know the first thing about me.”

“You asked what my point was. Here is my answer: if you continue to rely on others for that security, you will never find it. You’re a Prime, a woman, and a mother. Make yourself secure. Take charge of yourself. My circlework may be shaky and crooked, but it’s mine. I taught myself how to do it by studying books and now I’m using it. I didn’t ask Rogan to draw it for me, because I didn’t have to.”

Rynda rose, her coffee in her hands, walked over to the open doors, and stood on the left side, watching Rogan power through the final motions of the Key. He finished and walked into the room, nodding to Rynda. “Morning.”

“Nobody here likes me, Rogan,” she said, her voice soft and broken. “Your people don’t like me.”

“They don’t have to like you,” he said. “They will, however, protect you and your children with their lives.”

“I feel like an invader.”

“You’re not an invader. You’re here at my invitation.”

She hugged herself. “Can I talk to you? Privately.”

He invited her to the patio with a sweep of his hand. She walked into the sunshine, and he followed. They strode to the edge, Rynda saying something, an urgent look on her face.

“I can tell you what she’s saying,” Bug said.

“Thanks, but no.”

“It would just take a second. Two keys.” He raised his laptop and waved it at me. “It’s not rocket surgery.”

“No.”

Bug heaved an exaggerated sigh. “Don’t you want to know?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because it doesn’t matter. I trust Rogan.”

I closed my eyes and let the magic flow into me.

“Nevada?” Rogan’s voice pulled me out of the deep well of magic inside the circle.

I opened my eyes. He was crouched by me. He wore an army combat uniform, but instead of the familiar camouflage pattern or the darker woodland/jungle variant, his uniform was black and grey. A black tactical vest hugged his chest. A sophisticated communication set curved around his neck in a collar-like shield, with the thin filament of the mic stretching to his lips. Another man stood next to him, about my mother’s age, probably Japanese, broad-shouldered, but not bulky. Greying hair, trimmed so short he was almost bald, a short neat beard and mustache, and piercing dark eyes. He wore the regular urban camo ACU and he held himself like he’d spent the best part of his life in some sort of uniform.

“We got the Verona Exception,” Rogan said. “Are you ready?”

Magic coursed through me, strong and potent. I felt tighter, more focused. I would’ve liked another couple of hours, but it would have to do. I got up.

Bug held up a stack of clothes for me: socks, boots, the same uniform as Rogan, but instead of black, my ACU was patterned in shades of grey and beige. The urban variant. Also a helmet.

“Are we going to war?”

“As close to war as we’re allowed,” Rogan said.

“I have my own clothes.”

“If you wear this, you’ll blend in with the rest of my people and lower the probability of you being singled out as a target.”

I eyed his black uniform. “You don’t mind being singled out.”

“I don’t. I’m wearing this so they will key on me. I’ll have a personal aegis.”

I could stand there and argue about the uniform, or I could just put the ACU on and stop holding everyone up. I took the stack. The older man watched me carefully.

Rogan offered me my phone. “Also, your mother has called several times.”

“Did she say what she wanted?”

“No, but it sounded urgent.”

Great. I took my phone and escaped into his office to get dressed and to call Mom.

She answered on the first ring. “What’s going on?”

“Rogan is going to attack House Harcourt.”

“He has two modified armored personnel carriers up front. I’m watching his people load them. He’s packing enough firepower to start a small war.”

“That’s the plan. Harcourts are summoners. There will be a lot of otherworldly creatures.”

“Are you going with him?”

I braced myself for an argument. “Yes.”

“I’m coming with you.”

“Mom?”

“You heard me.”

She hung up.

I finished getting dressed, tightened my ballistic vest, put my helmet on, and walked out.

“My mother will be joining us.”

Rogan didn’t miss a beat. “Glad to have her.”

We went downstairs. A group of Rogan’s people in combat gear waited by the two armored personnel carriers, some in urban ACUs, some in older style camo. I had a feeling they just wore whatever felt familiar. The third vehicle, a massive heavy expanded mobility tactical truck, idled behind the two transporters, its cargo in the long, reinforced bed hidden by a green tarp.

Rivera appeared by my side and handed me a rifle.

“Ruger AC 556. Three modes of fire: semi-auto, three-round burst, and fully automatic. Major thought you might like it.”

I took the weapon and checked it over on autopilot.

My mother exited the building, carrying her Light Fifty, a Barrett M82 Sniper Rifle. Leon trotted next to her, like an overeager puppy.

“He’s coming with me,” she said. “I need a spotter.”

“Thank you for coming with us,” Rogan said.

I remembered to pick my jaw up off the floor and climbed into a personnel carrier.

Riding in a personnel carrier was about as comfortable as riding in a tank. It felt like sitting on a bag of potatoes while it bucked and jumped over every tiny bump in the road. The carrier had two rows of seats along the walls, facing each other. I sat next to Rogan toward the front. My mother and Leon rode across from us. The older Japanese man sat quietly on the other side of me, watching Leon and my mother. Further on my left, within the depths of the carrier, uniformed bodies and helmeted heads filled the space. The hum of human voices hung in the air as Rogan’s people talked. Fragments of conversation floated up, interrupted by sudden peals of laughter.

An odd expression claimed my mother’s face. The corners of her mouth had turned up slightly. The frown wrinkle between her eyebrows that had been permanently there for the last three days smoothed out. She sat relaxed, calm, and perfectly at peace, as if she was riding to a picnic at the beach. There was something almost meditative about her gaze. Next to her, Leon could barely stay in the seat. If he could, he would’ve jumped up and bounced around the carrier.

The older man next to me touched his headset and said in a deep, calm voice, “All right.”

My helmet’s comm system channeled his voice into my ears.

All conversation stopped.

“This is for the new people and those of you who didn’t pay attention. House Harcourt occupies a fortified facility. It’s U-shaped, with left and right wings protruding. The entrance is located between them. There is only one approach, through the front door, through a corridor between the two wings. This is their killing field. When we enter it, the shooters from the two wings will fire. The front gate will open, and the Harcourts will release the MCM.”

MCM stood for magically created monsters. My memory served up the mouth of a bat-ape gaping at me, about to sink its teeth into my face. A chill rolled down the back of my neck. I sat up straighter.

“The snipers, including Mrs. Baylor and her spotter, will disembark prior to engagement and take positions at the Magnolia Apartment Towers, buildings A and F. They will concentrate on taking out the shooters in the two wings of the Harcourt building. Upon arrival to the Harcourt building, the carriers will form a barricade. You will position yourselves behind that barricade. The Major will be behind you working on his circle. Melosa will shield the Major. Tom and Li Min will provide top shield for the line. House Harcourt relies on blitzkrieg tactics. They will send wave after wave of creatures trying to overwhelm our defense. We will hold that line until the Major finishes the circle and deploys the grinder.”

What the hell was the grinder?

“No matter what nightmare comes out of those gates, you will hold the line. Am I clear?”

A chorus of voices exhaled at the same time. “Yes, Sergeant.”

“Major and Ms. Baylor are VIPs. You will keep them alive. Do you get me?”

“Yes, Sergeant.”

The sergeant settled back and looked at me. “My name is Heart. Stay on me, Ms. Baylor.”

I nodded.

The carrier rumbled. Moments built into minutes. Rogan reached over and took my hand. He didn’t say anything. He just held my hand in his.

“What’s the grinder?” I asked him quietly.

“A House Rogan spell.”

House spells were of the highest order. They unleashed incredible magic, but required a lot of preparation and complex circles.

Leon was grinning to himself.

“Don’t do anything stupid,” I told him.

“I won’t.” He rubbed his hands together. His smile looked positively evil.

“We’ll need to talk after this.” I looked at my mother to make sure she got the point.

“Is Heart your real name?” Leon asked the sergeant.

“It’s the name I chose.”

“Why?”

“Because I care too much,” the sergeant said.

Leon decided to shut up.

I had been in a firefight before, but this sitting still while riding to one was completely different. The urge to jump up, scream, do something hummed through my body. My rifle felt too heavy in my hands. My adrenaline was up and the fight hadn’t even started. My mother was still in her serene place. Sergeant Heart on my left had an almost identical expression on his face. Rogan on my right was smiling quietly to himself. At least Leon hadn’t gone to his happy place.

My cousin fidgeted in his seat. “Why don’t we just shoot a rocket at the building? It would be faster and easier.”

“Because the Verona Exception obligates us to avoid unnecessary loss of life,” Rogan answered. “When you blow up buildings, fallen debris and explosives don’t discriminate between combatants and civilians.”

“What would happen if we did it anyway?” Leon asked.

“Your sister and I would be hauled before the Assembly and forced to explain ourselves. Depending on our answers, we would be released with a fine, jailed, or killed.”

“But you’re Mad Rogan. A Prime.”

“Primes have rules,” I told him. I was learning them, and none of it made me happy.

“Weapons check,” Heart called out.

I checked my rifle. I had a thirty-round magazine and three more in the pockets of my ACUs. My helmet felt too heavy. Sweat gathered on my hairline.

Heart leaned toward me. “Don’t worry. It will be fine. Watch me, watch what the others are doing, follow orders, and you will survive this.”

I pulled my phone out and made a group text message, tagging my sisters, Bern, and Grandma Frida. I love you so much.

That’s it. There were other things to say, but that would have to be enough. I turned off the phone and put it away.

The carrier came to a stop. My mother rose and nodded to Leon. He unbuckled his harness and went toward the side door. I had this terrible feeling that I would never see them again.

My mother fixed the sergeant next to me with her sniper stare, distant and cold. “Keep my daughter alive.”

“I will,” he told her.

“I love you,” I said. “I’m sorry.”

“I love you too. Don’t forget to breathe.”

My mother exited the vehicle, the door slammed shut, and we were off again.

Rogan’s phone rang. He answered it and put it on speaker.

“Liam, what a pleasure.”

“As I said, we don’t know where Vincent is. So I suggest you turn your transports around and go back the way you came.”

“I prefer to ask your father in person.”

“Not going to happen.”

“I must insist.”

“No, you mustn’t. We have four Primes in residence. Do the lives of your soldiers mean so little to you? They think they’re going to come in here and kick our asses. We both know it’s not going to happen. If you care about them, take them home.”

“Your concern for my people is touching. If you want to avoid bloodshed, open the gates and we can talk like civilized people.”

“No. You’re not coming in. You’re not talking to anyone. Don’t come here with your bullet-meat soldiers and threaten us. Nobody is scared, Rogan. If you persist in your idiocy, we’ll wipe you off the face of the planet.”

“That’s a big promise.” Rogan smiled.

“Suit yourself. Your funeral.”

Liam hung up.

Rogan slid the phone into an inner pocket and squeezed my hand. “Hold on.”

The vehicle made a sharp turn and my insides went sideways. The back of the carrier dropped open, turning into a ramp. Rogan was already moving, lost ahead of me behind bodies in fatigues. Sergeant Heart thrust himself into my view and barked, “Follow me! Move!”

I grabbed my Ruger and got the hell out of the carrier.

Outside, the bright sunlight slapped me. Bullets buzzed by us like pissed-off bees, striking the top of the armored carrier with metallic pings. The space directly above us pulsed with blue as the two aegises shielded us with magic.

“Move!” Sergeant Heart roared.

I dashed forward, following the line of ex-soldiers. They grabbed the edge of the armored plate on the side of the carrier. Metal clanged, sliding into place. The armored plate split and its bottom half dropped down, forming a platform attached to the carrier’s flank.

“Up!”

I jumped onto the platform and pulled myself up between the other soldiers. Servomotors whined and the platform rose, carrying us up. Rogan’s people grabbed the top half of the armored plate, still attached to the carrier. Metal clanged again, and the armored plate slid up. Heart reached in front of me, yanked on a lever, pulled a rectangular shutter open within the plate, and secured it. I was looking through a window, two feet wide and one foot tall. The top of the armored carrier was right in front of me and I could rest my rifle on it.

A concrete yard stretched in front of us, bathed in bright sunlight. Sheer walls rose on both sides, and ahead, about two hundred yards away, another wall towered. Within it a massive door loomed, painted black, like the door of some giant castle.

Next to me, Heart called out, “Okay boys and girls, weapons ready. Safeties off.”

I slid the selector switch on my rifle to full auto.

A chorus of voices barked back. “Roger, Top.”

“Rodriguez, range to target.”

A male yelled out, “Two hundred and eleven meters.”

“Fire on command.”

Heart leaned next to me. “We work in teams of two. I’m your teammate. When I give command to fire, you fire. When you’re out, say ‘Out!’ and take two steps back. If you jam, say ‘Jam!’ and take two steps back. Understood?”

My heart was beating too fast. “Yes.”

The massive door split in the middle, showing a glimpse of complete darkness.

“Hold your fire,” Heart ordered.

My hands shook. I took a deep breath, all the way to my stomach, held it in for a few seconds and slowly let it out, concentrating only on breathing.

The gap widened. Something stirred in the ink-black darkness.

In . . . and out. In . . . and out. It wasn’t working.

The doors swung open. A pale spindly leg thrust into the sunlight, a sickly mottled grey, the color of old concrete.

“Hold it,” Heart said next to me, his voice echoing in my helmet.

A creature stepped into the open. It stood on four spindly legs, bent backward like those of a grasshopper, its knobby knees protruding up. Its body hung between them, little more than a sack of flesh. There was no head, no eyes, and no nose. Only a mouth, a round cavernous mouth, lined with rows and rows of conical teeth all the way around. It was a monster designed to feed.

The creatures stumbled in the sunlight. Another emerged from the shadows, then another, and another.

We were two hundred yards away. That meant, considering the door, that they were . . . the size of a small car.

The first beast froze. Two long, feathery whips snapped upright from its shoulders, like antennas. They turned toward us. A sea of feathery antennas sprang up. Oh dear God.

“Hold it,” Heart said.

The creatures charged.

They came at us in a ragged pale mob, rushing in a whirlwind of legs, their mouths gaping open.

“Range!” Heart called out.

“Two hundred meters,” a male voice called down from the left.

Sweat sheathed my palms.

“One ninety.”

My mouth went dry. Waiting was torture.

“One eighty.”

I glanced over my shoulder. Behind us, shielded by a blue sphere of Melosa’s magic, Rogan was drawing a complex arcane circle with chalk.

“Eyes front!” Heart barked.

I spun back to the horde. The stench of ozone hit me, the same one that I smelled in Rynda’s house.

“One seventy.”

I sighted the beast directly across from me, a big ugly creature. Shooting it in the wrinkled bag that was its body probably wouldn’t do much good. The skinny legs would be a much better target. I moved the selector to three-round burst.

“One sixty.”

My breathing deepened. I focused on the legs.

“One hundred and fifty meters.”

“Fire!” Heart roared.

I squeezed the trigger. The first burst went wide. I sighted and fired again. The beast’s left leg crunched and broke. I sighted the second front leg and fired. The creature collapsed.

The second beast took its place. I sighted and squeezed the trigger. Screw the Harcourts, their beasts, and Vincent’s threats. I was my mother’s daughter and I did not miss.

Bodies piled in front of me. To the right someone lobbed a grenade. The explosion scattered the bodies. Yellow ichor and pale guts flew.

I switched to full auto. I was in the zone now, and it was faster.

The gun clicked.

“Out!” I took two steps back.

Heart stepped into my place, thrusting a fresh magazine at me. I released the empty one and slapped the new one in. A woman ran up to me, snatched the empty magazine out of my hand, and held out a full one. I took it.

“Out!” Heart barked, and took two steps back.

I shoved the full magazine at him and took his spot.

The creatures kept coming, scuttling over the corpses. The two massive .50 cal guns mounted on top of the carriers came to life and spat thunder and death, chewing through the advancing horde.

More beasts poured out of the gates: smaller yellow creatures that looked like skinny cats with wolf heads; bloodred raptor-like things moving fast on two thick legs; a six-legged horror sheathed in glistening thin tentacles that writhed like earthworms, its top half erect as if it were some nightmarish version of a centaur . . . They came and came and came. Time lost all meaning. Only two things mattered—shooting and calling, “Out!”

The space between the carriers and monsters shrank. Barely thirty feet separated us now.

I unloaded the last of my magazine into a tentacled monstrosity. “Out!” I stepped back, ejected the old magazine . . .

I grabbed the new one from the runner, slid it into the weapon . . .

A huge blue cat that looked just like Cornelius’ Zeus lunged onto the top of the carrier and charged us. Heart fired, point-blank, his rifle spitting a stream of bullets. The cat snarled and rammed the armored plate. It bent. It shoved its massive paws through the window, trying to rake at Heart with its claws.

I threw myself against the armored plate, thrust the rifle through the window, pointing it almost straight up, and sank a stream of bullets into the cat’s throat. Blood splashed on me. The great beast collapsed, the light fading out of its beautiful eyes.

“Out!” Heart and I yelled at the same time.

No runner came. I pulled a spare magazine out of my pocket. Heart did the same.

Creatures piled on top of the carrier, snarling, screeching, clawing, slipping in the blood. We fired point-blank.

A woman screamed on the right.

A tentacle whipped through the window and wrapped around Heart’s arm. He jerked a knife out and hacked it in half.

Last magazine. We were overrun.

Magic moved behind me like a tsunami. The armored carrier under me slid. I grabbed on to the armored plate. The two massive vehicles slid to different sides like the two halves of a door opening wide.

I turned. Rogan stood inside one of the most complicated circles I’d ever seen. It glowed white.

The animal horde abandoned the carriers, streamed toward him, and crashed against the boundary of the circle. Rogan had drawn a high-level spell. The amount of magic he’d fed into the circle was so high, its outer boundary no longer existed in our world.

The green tarp covering the cargo of the truck flew aside. Three long metal cylinders lay in the back of the truck, each thirty feet long and twice as wide as a telephone pole. Rogan raised his arms in a classic mage pose, palms up, elbows bent. The cylinders shot straight up and spun in place. Dozens of blades slid out of the metal shafts. The cylinders turned sideways, forming a triangle, two on the bottom, one on top, rolled over each other and cut into the beasts. Severed limbs flew.

The grinder.

The blades swept through the horde, mincing flesh. Blood drenched the pavement, pooling in puddles under the heaps of cut-up bodies. The air smelled like blood and ozone.

Someone retched. I couldn’t even vomit. I just stared at it, mute. The slaughter was so bright, so vivid, there was no defense against it.

The flood of creatures stopped. In the back, in front of the gate, a knot of magic formed thirty feet above the ground. Black, shot through with violent lightning, it churned, growing larger and larger. Something strained within it, stretching at its boundaries from within.

The blades mopped up the last of the beasts and hovered near it, waiting.

Magic pulsed. The invisible blast wave hit me in the chest. My heart skipped a beat. For a torturous second my lungs locked up. I staggered back and managed to draw a hoarse breath in.

The darkness tore. A colossal foot landed on the pavement, thick toes splayed wide. The armored carrier shook.

Another foot, thick purple-red, its texture rough. Thick claws, each the size of a car, dug into the pavement.

My mind refused to accept that something that large could be alive.

A giant beast landed in front of the gates. It stood on all fours, its legs spread wide like those of a charging Komodo dragon. Thick horn spikes studded its purplish hide and united into bone plates on its shoulders. Its head resembled that of a snapping turtle, but a forest of teeth filled its mouth. Angry white eyes stared at us.

The blades moved toward it and ground against the beast’s side. A grinding noise lanced my ears.

The beast swatted at the blades, knocking them aside. The cylinder flew, spinning. The gargantuan creature raised its front left leg and stomped toward us.

Boom. The carrier shook.

Boom. Another step.

The blades scraped along its sides and dove under its stomach. No effect. The beast opened its mouth and bellowed, an unearthly lingering sound. The sonic blast hit us. If it wasn’t for the helmet, I would’ve clamped my hands over my ears.

Boom.

We had no cover. The armored carrier wouldn’t hold it. If the creature stomped on it, the vehicle would be a metal pancake. The wall was behind us. Everything else around us was gore.

“Fire at will!” Heart’s precise voice snapped in my helmet. “Everything you have. Light it up.”

Boom.

“Belay that,” Rogan’s voice said in my helmet.

One of the bladed cylinders fell to the ground. The other two rose, spinning so fast, the blades became a blur. The cylinders streaked to the beast and punctured its eyes, drilling their way into its skull.

The creature screamed.

In the circle, Rogan’s whole body shook as if he were trying to lift a great weight. The light of the circle faded, its power exhausted.

The blades burrowed deeper.

Rogan snarled.

The blades sank in all the way and disappeared into the creature’s skull.

Not enough. It was still moving. It was still—

The colossus trembled. Its head pitched back. It staggered forward and collapsed. The pavement cracked under its weight, breaking in big chunks, like ice on a frozen lake.

I let out a breath. My legs gave and I sat down on the platform.

Heart crouched by me and patted my shoulder. “You did good.”

I realized something wet was on my cheek and touched it. A tear, tinted with alien creatures’ blood.

“Look at it,” I whispered. “It’s awful. So much death. Why?”

“House warfare,” Heart said, and patted my shoulder again.

I took off my helmet. Someone handed me a wet washcloth and I cleaned the blood off my face. Rivera appeared next to me, as if by magic, and I gave him back the rifle. The battle was over.

I pulled out my cell phone with shaking bloody fingers. There were two messages from Catalina and Arabella, demanding to know what was going on, one from Grandma Frida asking if I was feeling okay, and a smiley face from Bern.

I dialed Mom.

The phone rang.

She picked it up.

“Mom?”

“We’re okay. Are you okay?”

I almost cried. “Yes.”

“Good.” She hung up.

Rogan walked out of the circle. His face was haggard. He walked like his whole body was sore. He was looking at me. I walked toward him. We met halfway among the gore. He hugged me to him, tight, hard, and kissed my hair.

We walked together to the gates. Rogan’s people formed around us. We entered the dark building. There was nothing there. It was basically a cavernous hangar, reinforced steel walls and a concrete floor, empty except for the stench of ozone and signs of many animals crammed into a small space: clumps of alien fur, a few torn-off tentacles, and puddles of urine. We crossed it to a door on the far left, walked through a short hallway with the same concrete floor and reinforced walls, and through another door.

I blinked. An expensive black and red Persian rug ran over a beautiful floor of golden wood. Paintings decorated the tall walls. It was like suddenly stepping into a palace.

Rogan nodded, and the core of our force peeled off to guard the entrance, moving past us to secure other doors, leaving only Rogan, Rivera, Heart, and me.

We walked through the hallway to a wide-open door and entered a large room. The floor was golden wood, shielded by another Persian rug, this one in the calming shades of white, beige, and brown, glinting with what might have been touches of real gold. Inside, a gathering of expensive couches waited, arranged around the coffee table. Delicate and ornate, with the weathered curved wooden frames supporting shimmering dark grey cushions, it was at once elegant and inviting. If the Sun King had built Versailles in the twenty-first century, he would’ve picked this set.

A family rested on the furniture. An older man slumped back in a chair, a handkerchief pressed to his nose. Owen Harcourt. A woman in her mid-fifties, with mahogany-red hair, thin, wearing a blue pantsuit, sat next to him, gently patting his arm. His wife, Ella. Another woman, this one about my age, and with the same rich mahogany-red hair, leaned forward on the other couch, her hands clenched into a single fist. That would be their daughter, Alyssa. The youngest of the four, Liam, from the phone call, with dark blond hair and a pale face, looked like he could be one of the college friends Bern occasionally brought home when they ran short on cash and needed a home-cooked meal.

Liam saw us and jumped off the couch, his gaze fixed on Rogan. “You bastard!”

“Sit,” Owen said.

“Father—”

“Sit. We lost. You’re the future of the House. Don’t give him a reason to kill you.”

Liam landed back on the couch, his mouth a thin slash across his face.

Ella looked up at us. “We’ve removed our people to avoid further bloodshed. You won. But Vincent is our son. You’ll get nothing from us.”

“He attacked Rynda Sherwood in her house,” Rogan said. “He slaughtered her guards, he critically injured her brother-in-law, and then he tortured him in front of his six-year-old niece and four-year-old nephew. He would’ve killed the children.”

“You don’t know that,” Alyssa snapped.

“I do,” I said. “I was there.”

She didn’t even look at me. Clearly, I wasn’t important enough to warrant an answer.

“Bring on your tortures.” Ella crossed her arms on her chest. “We are ready.”

Rogan sighed, pulled out a piece of chalk, and offered it to me. I took it.

The beautiful Persian rug slid aside. I crouched and drew a simple amplification circle. They watched me. I stood inside it and concentrated. Before I started, I had to assess their strength.

My magic washed over them. I sank into it, looking for a way to fine-tune it. I had done this once before, with Baranovsky, another Prime, when I was looking for Nari’s killer and trying to pull the information out of his mind. My magic moved, shimmering in my mind’s eye. Come on . . .

There. The magic fell into place with an oddly satisfying inaudible snap. In my head, the four of them glowed with pale, almost silver light, each mind a spot of darkness.

Strong-willed. Every single one of them. They were exhausted, but their mental defenses were strong. Who would be the most likely to know about Vincent? It had to be the father. Owen was the Head of the House. He would want to keep tabs on his son.

I wrapped my magic around Owen, letting it saturate him. He stiffened. Wow. His mind was a wall. If I barreled through with brute force, he would fight me every step of the way. I wasn’t sure there would be a mind left after I was done.

“Today!” Liam snapped.

“Hush,” I told him. “I’m trying to make sure you still have a father after I finish.”

The Harcourts glared at me.

“Who is this idiot?” Alyssa demanded.

His wall was strong. Hard, dense, heavy, like granite. But granite was also brittle. Hit it the right way and it fractured. I needed to hit it the right way.

Like a wave. A wave that battered the pier.

I felt an urge to draw a wave within the circle. I had never seen that anywhere before. But I needed it. I needed the pattern. The magic wanted it.

I crouched down and let it flow through me. The white line stretched from the tip of my chalk, a perfect sine wave all the way along the inner boundary of the circle.

Ella Harcourt gasped.

Magic punched me, strong and pure, like a clear mountain spring.

“Where is Vincent?” the voice that came out of my mouth didn’t belong to a human being.

Liam stared at me, his eyes horrified. Owen’s will fought mine, and I sent the first wave into him. It smashed against his mental wall and cracked it.

“A Tremaine!” Ella jumped to her feet, disgust and horror on her face. “You brought a Tremaine here? Are you out of your mind? This is too much even for you!”

“Oh God.” Alyssa clamped her hand over her mouth. “Oh God.”

Liam turned white.

“I love my father.” Alyssa swallowed, words coming out too fast. “He’s the only one I have. Please, please don’t take him from us. Please!” She spun around. “Mom!”

“We’ll tell you whatever you want,” Ella said. “Just make that abomination release my husband.”

Rogan turned to me. “How would you like to proceed?”

They were looking at me, a mixture of panic, disgust, and utter desperation on their faces. I was the monster in the room.

“Abomination?” I asked. “You forced hundreds of creatures from another world into a needless slaughter to protect your sick psychopath. He let his summoned creatures eat people alive. I watched one of them dig in Edward Sherwood’s stomach for juicy tidbits while two children hugged their mother, too scared to cry. Your precious Vincent called me and promised to murder my mother, my baby sisters, my cousins, and my grandmother. But I’m an abomination? What the hell is wrong with you? Are you even human?”

Owen moved within the grip of my magic. Words came out of him slowly, with great effort. “House . . . Harcourt . . . no . . . ill will . . . to . . . your . . . family.”

Liam covered his face with his hands. His shoulders trembled.

“Let him go,” Alyssa begged. “Please let him go.”

Ella Harcourt took a step back. “Please.”

I pulled my magic back to me. Owen collapsed in his chair, breathing deeply.

They all crowded around him, as if trying to shield him from me. I felt sick.

“Where is he?” Rogan asked.

“We don’t know,” Ella said.

“She’s telling the truth,” I told him. “Vincent kidnapped Rynda’s husband. He wants something from her. What?”

Owen shook his head. “We don’t know.”

Damn it.

“He didn’t do this on his own,” Rogan said. “Vincent isn’t one for elaborate schemes. He prefers brute force. Someone is pulling his leash. Someone with enough power to keep him in check.”

“I agree with you,” Owen said.

“So you know who that is?”

The patriarch of House Harcourt drew himself up straight in the chair. “Do you think that if I had any idea where my son is or who he is with, I wouldn’t have taken steps? We don’t serve other Houses. We stand on our own. Do you think I would allow my heir to fall under the influence of another Prime?”

“Alexander Sturm,” Liam said.

Everyone looked at him.

“He’s with Alexander Sturm. Sturm has a collection of medieval swords. He owns an Oakeshott XIIIa sword, a Grete War Sword. It’s a precursor of a Scottish claymore. The one Sturm has is supposed to be the true sword of William Wallace. Vincent sent me a picture of him with it two days ago.”

Owen and Rogan swore.