“But…” My knees went watery, and I couldn’t seem to get enough air. My mind shot back to my mother’s old complaint of no more children between her and my dad. I had thought she had meant because of my discovered genetic blood disease, but now…And her free-thinking advice about marrying for love and having children with the right man. Had she meant marrying whom you loved and having children with someone else? The age-old practice of witches borrowing their best friend’s brother or husband for a night to engender a child when they married outside their species? And what of the lovingly retold story of her invoking all my dad’s charms for him in college in exchange for him working all her circles. Witches couldn’t be turned. That meant…

I reached for the arm of the chair, my head spinning as I forgot to breathe. My dad wasn’t a witch? Just who had my mother been sleeping with?

My head came up, and I saw Trent’s bitter satisfaction that my world was going to be rearranged—and I probably wasn’t going to like it.

“He wasn’t my dad?” I squeaked, not needing to see his nod. “But he worked at the I.S.!” I exclaimed, scrambling for a way out. He was lying. Trent had to be lying. Jerking me around to see how screwed up he could make me.

“The I.S. was fairly new when your father joined,” he said, clearly getting a lot of satisfaction out of this. “They didn’t have good records. Your mother?” he said mockingly. “She’s an excellent earth witch. She could have taught at the university—gone on to be one of the leading spell developers for the nation—if she hadn’t been saddled with children so soon.”

My mouth was dry, and I flushed when I remembered her slipping Minias a charm to hide his demon scent. And catching her this week reeking of heavy spell casting, only to have it muted a few hours later. Hell, it had even fooled Jenks.

“You get your earth magic from your mother,” Trent said, his words seeming to echo in my head, “your ley line skill from your real father, and your blood disease from them both.”

I couldn’t move, shaking inside. “The man who raised me was my real dad,” I said in a surge of loyalty. “Who…,” I began, having to know. “You know who my birth father is. You have to. It’s in your records somewhere. Who is he?”

Smiling nastily, Trent eased back into his chair, crossing his knees and setting his hands gracefully in his lap.

Son of a bitch…

“Who is my father, you freaking bastard!” I shouted, and the roadies at the far end of the room stopped what they were doing to watch.