I wake up in familiar territory, a red room I’ve vacationed in previously. If not for the room, the mirrors everywhere would’ve given it away. Hotel Looking Glass. “Buenos Aires,” I mutter.

I make a fist shield around the tiny piece of Brody that has been preserved. Only, my hand is empty. I expect my internal temperature to rise exponentially, followed by a prick to the arm, but the fire doesn’t even flicker. No pricker, either. I scan the room, surprised to see my father sitting in a chair by the dresser, doing a weirdly routine thing. Reading a newspaper.

“How many days?” The words are razors slicing my dry tongue.

Dad neatly folds the paper, placing it on the dresser before sitting next to me on the bed. My arms are mush. Guess my body didn’t get the wakeup memo.

“Two,” he answers quietly.

He hands me Brody. My rock. All that’s left of my friend is a smooth stone. At least I can carry him with me. I’m glad my father was holding him and not someone else. I’m not sure how I feel about any of them. I won’t soon forget their unwillingness to help during the attack. Why did they just stand there staring instead of acting?

I tighten my grip, tears trailing down my cheeks. Weirdness persists. They stir no flame. No fire is circling my veins. Am I dreaming, or have they figured out a way to douse the heat constantly threatening to consume anyone I pay any serious notice?

“It worked,” he whispers. Point to the latter.

“What worked?” I force myself into a sitting position. My muscles protest.

“They brought you here, and a man just...” He’s struggling with the words. Everything’s still so new to him. “He just kind of…slurped the power out of you.”

If they were hiding a secret sponge, it would’ve been nice for them to tell me the last time we were here. Clearly, they’ve been keeping secrets from me. That’s a secondary issue. The primary issue is the loss of my flame. Sort of need that for Operation Rescue Mom.

“You’ve got that look in your eyes,” he warns.

I clench my fists at my sides. “What look?”

“The look you get when you’re plotting something.”

“Didn’t realize I had a look.”

“Forget it,” he backpedals. “Best I don’t know.”

The timing sucks, but if I tell him he isn’t my bio dad, maybe he can walk away. A disappointed dad turning his back on me is a safe dad. His safety is more important than his or my feelings. Logically, he’ll leave when he learns the truth, guaranteeing his protection.

“Do you ever feel like you’re missing critical information? A fact that could alter your course?”

“Not really, no.” His scowl is the most disapproving yet. “I like my fishbowl just fine.”

“What if your fishbowl is dirty? What if I took you out just long enough to clean it?”

He scoffs. “My fishbowl is plenty clean, thank you very much.”

My path ahead doesn’t have parallel lines. It’s a tunnel blocking other possibilities. We can’t revert to the parent/child relationship where he protects me. We didn’t even have that before all the flame-induced misfortunes. I can’t be just his daughter. He can’t be just my dad. Things aren’t so simple anymore, if they ever were.

“Let me tell you something, Sheyla.” He places his hands over mine. “Truth is all about perspective. How one person sees something isn’t how someone else sees it. You’re real smart, so we’ll never need to have this conversation again.” His brow furrows, deepening the wrinkle lines on his forehead. “You’re curious by nature. That’s why we’re going ahead and stopping this train wreck before it happens. I love you, but I don’t need every truth, okay? I’m not curious by nature. You’re fine, right? You’re good?” His pleading gaze is a heat-seeking missile aimed at my conscience not to chuck him into the ocean of unblissful insight. “Sure you are. You look better than I ever saw you looking before. That’s all I need to know.”

The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

I slump down further in the bed. I can’t bring myself to breach the wall he’s put up between him and the world. It isn’t my place to alter his perspective or fishbowl view. He’s happy with his half-truths, and I need to preserve his peace. There are varying degrees of right. What’s right for me isn’t necessarily right for someone else. Sometimes, the only right thing is middle ground. For him, middle ground is blissful ignorance.

A knock at the door has me pulling for the blankets. “Make them go away,” I demand.

He shakes his head. “You need to eat and drink.”

Though my mouth is the Sahara, I have zero appetite. I’ve just lost Brody, my mother is missing, and someone slurped out the only thing that could’ve helped us get her back—my flame. I rub the rock in my hand. The lack of heat curdles my stomach. “Not hungry.”

Derry opens the door, tray in hand. I eye the contents warily. Of the steaming hot coffee and water, I choose the water, gulping it down in three glorious chugs. Putting the empty bottle back on the tray, I snatch the coffee. It gets the same treatment. “I drank something. Now go away.”

Derry frowns. Bright side: his emotions are in hiding with my flame. “You don’t have questions?”

I was, and am, on the precipice of eruption. They delayed the inevitable by finding someone to plug my craters. I get why they did. I couldn’t control it. I also get whatever mystical feat they pulled off is something I should be grateful for. It means I’m alive to fight another day. More significantly, even more innocent bystanders weren’t destroyed in the process of my volatile transition. Knowing all that doesn’t change what happened or help me understand why, and it doesn’t explain how I’m supposed to move forward in the wake of the carnage we left behind.

“Why did you bring me here?” I grumble. “We weren’t welcome the last time. What makes you think this time will be any different?” Matthew doesn’t strike me as someone capable of a change in opinion, especially when that change is thrust on him. He couldn’t be the one who subdued my flame, anyway. He isn’t a sponge. He’s a beta blocker, minimizing the frequency Sumairs need to feed.

“We didn’t exactly have a choice,” he admits.

“There was a choice. You could’ve just let the transition happen.”

He sighs. “You don’t want that.”

“I don’t want to be here.”

“We just need to see how long the relief lasts,” he notes.

“This is temporary?”

“Yes.” He narrows suspicious eyes on me. Apparently, he’s familiar with the look Dad mentioned earlier. “The Sumair who siphoned you absorbs existing powers. He doesn’t impact the generation.”

“Awesome.” I close my palm around Brody. “Someone’s out there blowing off my steam.” I don’t like the prospect of losing my powers. I like the prospect of someone using them even less.

“No, his ability doesn’t allow him to use the powers. He just absorbs them.”

“Why didn’t you tell me about him before?”

“His help comes with conditions, and you wouldn’t have wanted to meet those conditions.”

“That’s changed?”

He shrugs. “Maybe.”

“What are his terms?”

He shrugs again. “He’ll only discuss them with you.”

“Well, when do I meet him?”

“Right now,” says a voice from the doorway, his accent as sultry as Matthew’s.

Defensively, Derry sits beside me on the bed. What’s his master plan? He has just as much protective magic as me—none. Regardless, he’s being overly dramatic. The guy leaning against the doorframe isn’t intimidating. To be fair, my definition of dangerous is a smidge skewed because of wolf-bear people eaters as a benchmark.

“Allow me to introduce myself,” the man proceeds. “My name is Tayte Chandler. I’m Matthew’s father.”

Nice. The Rebel leader. He must talk a great talk. His walk is lackluster. He isn’t taller than other Sumairs I’ve met. He isn’t muscular. Actually, he’s scrawny. Rude to judge, but cut me some slack. Barry could snap him in two with his eyelids.

I warm my hands in my armpits. “What do you want?”

It’s unlikely he came here for proper introductions. He’s after his fee. He had a free slurp. In my mind, we’re square. Depending on what he wants, I might pay for a second round, but I’m not offering blind return on something I didn’t ask for in the first place. And name-dropping Matthew? Hah. Like that’s earning him fire fuel credits. His son is a jerkwad. Makes him a jerkwad by association until he proves otherwise.

“Right to business, is it?” His tone’s as confident as his stance. “Are you frightened? Is that why you’re all wound up under a silly comforter?”

The comforter is for security. I’m a bit underdressed, deprived of my fiery armor. While I don’t legitimately feel threatened, I’m not a fan of being blind to his feelings. Sad fact: I rely too heavily on my empathy. Yay! More hard lessons. If Tayte can take my powers, is it something he does at will, or is it an innate absorption? Does it have a shut-off valve?

“You’ve got me at a disadvantage. Maybe you’d like to give me a few minutes to gain my bearings before we start negotiating.”

“I’ll be in the meeting room.” He smiles with a tad too many teeth. “Please, take your time.”