Wildfire (Hidden Legacy #3)(51)

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.