Wildfire

“So the man is a mushroom.” Rogan raised his eyebrows at me.

“Don’t be mean. He had one social network account.”

“Oh?”

“Pinterest.”

“Tell me it’s porn. Please.”

“He saved pictures of mushrooms to it,” Cornelius said helpfully from the backseat.

Rogan sighed. “I don’t understand why she married him.”

“You told me before that she married him because she needed stability.” Something Rogan couldn’t give Rynda even if he tried.

“Let me rephrase. I don’t understand why she stayed married to him. This isn’t stability, this is a slow suffocation.” Rogan turned onto our street, guiding the car past the security booth. “Rynda wanted to be loved. She needed to be loved. She needed someone who would take that extra step to support and shield her. Most of all, she needed someone to step up and be there. Instead she got this prick who torments his brother and runs away at the first sign of trouble, leaving her to pick up the pieces.”

“It’s not too late. You could be that strong supportive man for her.” And it just fell out.

Rogan parked the car in front of the warehouse, turned, and looked at me, his blue eyes incredulous. “Are you jealous?”

“Nope,” I lied.

He glanced back at Cornelius. The animal mage raised his hands, palms up.

Rogan pondered me for a long second and laughed. I managed to get out of the car without slamming the door. There was an unfamiliar Volvo parked in our lot. We had a visitor.

The Volvo rose in the air and gently landed in front of the warehouse door.

I turned. Rogan leaned against the Honda, his arms crossed on his chest.

“I like that you’re jealous.”

“Rogan, put the car back.”

“Come to dinner with me tonight and I’ll consider it.”

Yes! “No. I don’t negotiate with terrorists.”

“If you don’t go to dinner with me, I’ll have to do something drastic like stand by your window with a boom box blasting some idiotically sappy song.”

“Where would you even find a boom box?”

“I’m sure I can scrounge one up.”

I pretended to think it over. “Pick me up at six o’clock.”

“Seven,” he said. “It’s five now and you’ll be busy for the next hour at least. Have fun giving your samples.”

What samples?

The Volvo rose and slid back into its place. It had a custom plate ATCG105, which told me nothing.

Rogan walked away, heading toward his HQ.

Cornelius opened the car door and cautiously peered out.

“Yes?” I asked.

“Checking to see if it’s safe to come out.”

Everyone was a comedian. I sighed and went into my office.

A man waited for me in our conference room. Bernard sat with him. He looked up from his laptop and gave me a little wave when I came in.

The man was about forty, with the build of a marathon runner—lean, tall, long-legged. He wore a conservative black suit over a black shirt with a sleek black tie. His hair was dark and combed back from his face, the frame of his glasses was black too, and against all that darkness, his light blue eyes stood out.

“Nevada, this is Mr. Fullerton of Scroll, Inc.,” Bern said. “He says he’s here to get our DNA on behalf of the Office of Records.”

Anxiety shot through me. Sooner or later, Arabella would have to submit to DNA testing, and I had no idea what would happen next. Monsters hid in our bloodline, and once they were found, it would be too late to do anything about it.

Mr. Fullerton rose and offered me his hand. I shook it. He had a firm, dry handshake.

Behind me, Cornelius walked into the hallway and paused before the doorway to the conference room.

“Good evening, Mr. Harrison,” Fullerton said. “How is your daughter?”

“Good evening,” Cornelius told him. “Matilda’s well.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

Cornelius glanced at me. “I had to go through genetic testing twice, first as a child, and the second time as a father. Would you like me to sit in on this with you?”

“Yes. Please.”

Cornelius nodded and took a seat at the table.

Fullerton and I sat as well.

“Catalina should be here as well.” I picked up my phone and texted my sister.

We waited. A couple of minutes later, Catalina walked through the door and took a spot next to Bern without saying a word.

“As you are aware, Ms. Baylor, you must submit a genetic sample for everyone who is qualifying with you,” Fullerton said. “The genetic sampling done by the Office of House Records is very basic. They ascertain only that you and everyone who is testing with you under prospective House Baylor are related and their familial status matches the one you indicate. In other words, they will test to determine that you and Catalina are sisters and that Bernard is your cousin.”

“Do they ever make mistakes?” Catalina asked.

“The OHR is extremely thorough,” Fullerton said. “But human error is always possible. That’s why all OHR results are also independently verified by a third party, usually one of the genetic archives, which is where I enter the picture. I represent Scroll, Inc., the largest genetic archive in North America. Today I’m here to obtain the genetic samples for the Office of Records; however, I also would like to take this opportunity to present our services to you. The testing we provide is considerably more extensive. We create a comprehensive genetic profile, a snapshot of your family. We test for all known predispositions to genetic diseases. At your request, we can trace the roots of your bloodline. We can also suggest potential partners who would be most likely to produce offspring with the magic talents you specify.”

Rogan’s specter rose in my mind. We’re not compatible, Nevada . . . I wondered how much he really cared about it. Maybe more than he admitted. Brian Sherwood could barely handle that his son wasn’t a Prime.

“But it’s not a guarantee,” I said. “This genetic matching doesn’t always produce the . . . the child one wants?”

“Magic is a poorly-understood phenomenon,” Fullerton said. “Through our projections, we can greatly increase the likelihood of a child within a particular branch. Mathematically speaking, we have an eighty-seven percent success rate when it comes to predicting what branch of magic the child would fall into—elemental, mental, or arcane. This is a broad statistic. The actual chances depend on the specific match.”

“How does this work?” Catalina asked.

“If you choose to employ us, I will collect blood samples. I will transport them to our lab, where your DNA will be analyzed. The results of that analysis are sealed. We cannot be compelled to disclose them even by a court order. You have complete control over the information we will provide. If another House wants to consider you as a prospective match, they may request your profile, which contains basic information. You will be notified, at which point you may accept or reject the request. We won’t release anything without your approval. If consent is granted and the other House finds the results intriguing, they may request an in-depth profile. Again, it’s up to you to allow it or reject it.”

Fullerton paused and leaned forward, his blue eyes focused and clear. “We safeguard your genetic information. If we become aware of any attempt by an unscrupulous agency to collect, analyze, or sell your genetic samples or results of their analysis, we will pursue them with extreme prejudice.”

“You will sue them?” Catalina asked.

“We will kill them,” Fullerton said.

My sister glanced at me.

“It’s standard practice,” Cornelius said quietly. “Any of the larger registered agencies will do the same.”

“Your privacy is of paramount importance to us,” Fullerton said. “We take any attempt at DNA theft very seriously. By law, I’m obligated to provide you with the list of our rivals.”

He opened a file in front of him and passed me a piece of paper with a list of companies on it.

“I do hope that you will consider us. As I mentioned, we are the largest archive in North America. We’ve sequenced over sixty percent of all US Houses, including House Rogan.”