Wildfire (Hidden Legacy #3)(99)

“So she can control it.”

“Yes. It was touch and go between the ages of eleven and fourteen, but she’s slowly maturing. We’re cautiously optimistic she will achieve complete control by the time her hormones settle down, which should be around twenty or so.”

“Cautiously . . .” Rogan choked off the word. His blue eyes were hard like a glacier. “Is it genetic?”

“Yes.”

“Is there a possibility of your children manifesting it?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“Victoria Tremaine couldn’t carry a child to term, so she paid off a Prime to obtain his sperm, had her egg fertilized and implanted into Misha Marcotte, who is being kept under sedation somewhere in Europe. Misha was the only Prime available to be a surrogate. My father carried the truthseeker gene from his mother, the siren talent from his father, and, apparently, the Beast of Cologne abilities from the surrogate. I don’t know how it’s possible, since talents are supposed to be genetic, and none of Misha’s genetic material would’ve made it into his DNA, but here it is. We are his daughters. We all carry his legacy.”

Rogan squeezed his eyes shut for a long moment. Well, here it was. His head would explode.

“Is there anything else you would like to tell me?”

“I forgot to mention that Victoria Tremaine also knows. She admitted it when she and I had lunch together earlier today.”

He stared at me.

“The Office of Records sent Michael to kill her, but I talked them out of it, because she’s my grandmother and because she pushed me out of the way when one of Sturm’s thugs tried to kill me. She was bleeding from her shoulder and I couldn’t bring myself to watch Michael fry her to death. I now owe them a favor.”

Rogan’s face snapped into an impenetrable mask.

“Connor . . .”

He held up his hand. I shut up. He clearly needed a minute.

Rogan looked at me, opened his mouth to say something, clamped it shut, and shook his head wordlessly. A terrible internal struggle was taking place.

“Use your words,” Kyle suggested helpfully.

Rogan glared at him for a second, then looked back at me. “It’s nice that you saved your grandmother, but if she ever comes for you, I’ll kill her.”

“She won’t hurt me. I’m family.”

Rogan made a noise that might have been a snarl or a growl, it was hard to tell, and pulled out his phone.

“Good afternoon, Keeper,” he said. “Due to unprecedented circumstances, I, as a witness, urge the Office to move up the Baylor trials. Ms. Baylor and her family will need the immunity immediately. . . . Yes, related to the I-10 incident. . . . Yes.” He turned to me. “Will Arabella register? Say yes.”

I hesitated.

“If she demonstrates ability to reason during the trial, her status as a Prime of your House will protect her from federal authorities. Otherwise, they will take her into custody under the Danger to Public Act,” Rogan said.

“Yes.” She would be overjoyed.

“She will register. . . . Sealed demonstration. . . . Thank you.”

He hung up and pulled up another number. “Mother? I have a favor to ask. I’m sending a young girl to you by car. Could you please keep her hidden until I come to get her? . . . No, she isn’t my secret love child. I’ll explain later. Thank you.”

He dialed a third number. I heard Sergeant Heart’s crisp hello.

“We’re about to get federal visitors. Lock it down. Nobody goes in, nobody goes out, nobody knows anything.”

He hung up and looked at me. “No more surprises. At least for the next twelve hours.”

“I’ll do my best.”



“You had one job.” My mother fumed. “One.”

Bern, Catalina, and I stood in the kitchen. Grandma Frida sat at the table, resting her chin on her hands, her expression grave. Leon had stormed off because I refused to let him kill Vincent.

“You had to keep her hidden. You know she has no sense. And you failed.”

I waited. There was no point in talking.

Mom glared at us. “Do you have anything to say for yourselves?”

I opened my mouth. Catalina beat me to it. “You let her get into the helicopter.”

Mom blinked. Catalina almost never got into a fight with anyone except Arabella and me.

“I was taking care of Jessica. You let her run out of the house and climb into the helicopter, Mom. What were we supposed to do? Was I supposed to telepathically make her behave? Were Bern and Nevada supposed to magically make her stop while they were being shot at?”

Mom opened her mouth.

“No,” Catalina said. “I’m sick and tired of everyone making excuses for her. She’s special. She’s under a lot of pressure. She’s a spoiled brat who’s used to getting her way. She acts like a five-year-old and you want all of us to compensate. Well, she’s too old for us to do that. I’m not going to listen to any more of this. I’m done. Seriously, I’m fucking done.”

She turned and marched away. A door slammed somewhere. The pressure of the upcoming trials was getting to her.

“What is happening to this family . . .” Grandma Frida murmured.

“Arabella did what you taught her to do,” I said to Mom. “She turned, took care of the problem, saved hundreds of people, turned back, and split. She didn’t linger, she didn’t show off, and she didn’t pose for any photos. She did her job and vanished.”