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a manipulative bastard,” I told him. My voice only shook a little. “I understand nothing about you is authentic. That you’re a machine with a dead heart.”

His fingers left my throat. “Machines don’t have hearts,” he said flatly. “Now use your anger to focus. Hit the targets.”

I didn’t hit them—I obliterated them, the wall they were painted on, and Adam’s ward. And as plaster dust rained down, and the mild autumn sunlight glinted through the hole blown in the side of the compound, the Prime laughed, his eyes twinkling and bright.

Grinning down at me, he said, “You are everything I hoped for and more, mo spréach.”

Panting and shaking from fatigue, I weighed the chances I might pass out if I tried for another bolt, this time aimed at him. “What does that mean?”

He didn’t pretend to misunderstand. “Mo spréach is Gaelic for ‘my spark.’ Because you are both.”

A spark. And his.

I was mildly surprised to find that, indeed, I still had energy for anger.

“You and Samantha deserve each other.”

Nothing. Not even a flicker of eyelashes.

“I’ve never lied to you. Not once. Hate me if you will, but I’m the only chance you have to see your father again.”

“Fuck you.”

Between one blink and the next, his fingers gripped my jaw. My face was yanked upward, giving me no choice but to stare into glittering black eyes. For the very first time in his presence, I felt real fear.

His nostrils flared and his voice came as a hiss through fangs. “I see through you, Fiona Sullivan. I see every layer of your mind and heart. And yet, somehow, you confound me at every turn. Aggravate me. Challenge me. For all your resiliency, you lack basic instinct when it comes to me. Perhaps it is because I have withheld my aura from you. Or perhaps I have been too familiar. Too kind. There are compelling reasons why I’m respected and obeyed. Once, long ago, I was worshipped. You would do well to remember that.”

Against all my efforts, tears filled my eyes. “You’re scaring me,” I whispered. “Why are you doing this?”

The black in his eyes was swallowed by green. His expression was suddenly tortured, so much that I cried out softly. He swallowed hard, the grip on my face slackening.

“To protect you,” he said roughly.

I blinked and he was gone, and I stared at the space he’d occupied until I heard a soft throat-clearing. I looked numbly across the room at Adam, standing just inside the door.

“Will you come with me, Fiona? We need to talk.”

Something in his tone overcame my need to crawl in a hole and cry.

“Can we go outside?” I asked weakly. “I need some air.”

“Of course.”

I retrieved my bracelets and snapped them on, only wincing a little as my charge disappeared. Other parts of me hurt worse.

14

Adam led me farther down the hallway, around a few turns, and out a side entrance. Our shoes crunched over dead leaves and damp gravel as we crossed a small courtyard. In the center stood a weathered fountain, its tiers empty of water. A frigid wind blew past, lifting leaves into a frenzy and not so much drying my sweat as freezing it.

“Are you cold?” asked Adam. “We can go inside.”

“No,” I said quickly. “I’m fine. What did you want to talk about?”

He motioned to an iron bench backed by a vine-covered brick wall. I sat beside him, wincing at the cold metal, and a moment later magic flared. Winter was replaced by a tropical jungle; around our bench, at least.

“That’s so nice.” I slouched against the now-warm seat. “Thanks.”

Adam nodded, his dark gaze fixed on the fountain. “I need to tell you some things about Connor.”

Physical and emotional exhaustion were apparently a winning combination, because I abruptly saw the situation through unveiled eyes. My dad called such moments the right-sizing of the ego. In other words, the usually accidental process of being humbled.

“Don’t bother,” I said with a wan smile. “You don’t have to justify his behavior. He was right to remind me who he is. The Western-freaking-Prime. I haven’t treated him with the respect due his age and power, and he’s given me a lot of leeway thus far. I finally crossed the line enough times that he redrew it.” I shook my head. “I just want my dad back, Adam. He’s been missing for seven days. What have we accomplished toward that goal? Nothing.”

“Of course you’re worried and unsettled by being here,” he said softly. I glanced sharply at him; this was a new Omega, almost nice-sounding. “As of this morning, we’ve handed your father’s case to the FBI, with assurances that it will be given priority attention.”

“That’s actually very reassuring,” I said softly. “Thank you for telling me.”

“You’re welcome.” He sighed. “I know you don’t want to talk about Connor, but I think we need to.” I started shaking my head, but he continued, “It starts with your mother, Delilah.”

For close to a minute, I sat completely still, my mind strangely fuzzy. Finally, I nodded.

“Twenty-five years ago, Delilah was in Seattle. Connor had no idea who she was, but for days she kept appearing in the same locations as he—the theater, a park, the bar at the top of the Space Needle. Needless to say, Connor wasn’t the Prime then. Nor was he a daywalker. He confronted your mother when she tried following him home one night. He threatened her. He, uh, bit her.”

“So much for his fast.”

“He didn’t drink from her. But he did taste her blood.” He paused. “I realize that’s a fine line.”

I didn’t say anything. I was having a Zen moment. The bottom of the world was about to drop out and I was going to serenely watch happen.

Adam cleared his throat and shifted on the bench, as though summoning courage for his next words. “Her blood didn’t taste human. She wasn’t a mage or shifter, though. She was something other. Your mother… she has a gift.”

The surface of my calm shivered, cracks appearing. “What kind of gift?” I asked.

“She can see the future.”

Not what I’d been expecting.

“She’s psychic? As in palm reading and tarot cards?”

He shook his head. “No, I mean actual precognition. That was how she found Connor. She could glimpse where he would be at any future time. This all happened pre-Ascension, too. Now, her skills are greatly honed. She can find anyone, at any time, anywhere.”

I jolted to my feet. “Get her on the goddamn phone! She can find my father!”

He looked at me with such sympathy that I immediately wanted to punch something. “No one has seen or heard from her in years. Connor has been looking for her without success since the first whispers of the Liberati.”

Like tendons had been cut, I collapsed back to the bench. “If she’s some super psychic, like you say, then she probably knows my dad is missing, maybe hurt or worse, and is doing fuck-all about it.”

“Unless something has happened to her, then yes, that’s a possibility.”

I dropped my chin to my chest, then straightened as something horrible occurred to me. I stared at Adam unblinking until my eyes burned.

“Does Connor think I have Delilah’s skill?” He said nothing, which was answer enough. I laughed hoarsely. “Are you kidding me? All this focus on me tracking resonance is just a smokescreen while he waits for me to manifest some crazy psychic power? Has everyone been lying to me?”

“Fiona—” he began resignedly.

My breath whistled through clenched teeth. “Wow. I thought Delilah Greer had done damage when she abandoned her family, but that was nothing. A cake walk. This whole situation is her doing.”

Adam said softly, “Connor believes you can track magical resonance because the night before Delilah left, she told him you could. She also told him you have her Sight. I was there, Fiona. I heard what she said. I have no reason to think she was lying.”

“Because you’re a sucker,” I snapped.

“No. Because much of what has happened since Los Angeles, she predicted that night.”

The tension in my neck crackled as I turned my head toward him. “Explain.”

“Your hair turning white, the death of the Liberati agent, you freely offering blood to Connor… more random details, all of which have come to pass. But the larger message was this: she told Connor you would either be the catalyst of his success, or that of his failure. That without you, everything we’ve worked so hard to build would crumble.”

“Wow. No pressure,” I muttered.

“Fiona.” He said my name in a strange tone, both pleading and foreboding. It got my attention, dragging me out of a vortex of resentment. “There was someone else there that night, who heard Delilah’s words. Her name was Gabriella. Connor was her sire—he made her a vampire some fifty years before Ascension. It’s her room you’re occupying now.”

I scanned his face. “Past tense?” I asked softly.

“She was taken by the Liberati eight years ago.”

“Oh… Oh.”

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