Heir of Ashes

by Jina S Bazzar

  That day, eight months after they had kidnapped me, I exhibited the first of many signs of abnormality. I had become the monster they had suspected I was all along. My talons manifested first—which had saved my life—and my ability to read auras the next day.

  It was only after a handful of episodes similar to that one that I learned they were ready to shoot the animal before it could fatally injure me. And it took me over five years of misery, hurt, and resentment to accept the fact that no one was coming for me. And over three more years for an opportunity to escape. Now this man, this Logan, had come to take me back. For what? A lousy few thousand? Is that what my life is worth? I felt a tightening in my chest and recognized it for what it was. Fear. Anxiety.

  I closed my eyes, forgetting for an instant my aches, agonizing over my predicament instead. I needed a plan—fast.

  I couldn't—wouldn't go back. I didn't think I'd survive life as it had once been.

  Suddenly, there was a loud sound of a horn, a hoarse curse and a tug at the steering wheel. My eyes snapped open in time to be blinded by the headlights and manage to avoid colliding with another vehicle, with a mere inch to spare. The Range Rover skidded, then squealed to the shoulder, and I braked, breathing hard. I had dozed off at the wheel. Oh my God, I had just fallen asleep driving. My hands gripped the steering so hard, it gave a faint rubbery squeak. I could hear Logan's harsh breathing above my thundering heart, but before I could dredge up anything to say, he growled, “Get. Out.” with barely restrained anger.

  I looked at him in disbelief. Was he going to just throw me out? Had he decided I wasn't worth the trouble anymore? The hard set of his jaws told me he was furious, but honestly, I couldn't see why.

  “I said out,” he repeated through gritted teeth.

  I looked around at the dark desert, perhaps we had reached our destination, but saw nothing but the unforgiving, endless road and desert ahead. I decided it was better to risk the rattlesnakes than keep trying to hitchhike and risk the Bad Boy Team picking me up next. I opened the door, unbuckled my belt, and gritted my teeth against the pain that assaulted my senses. All the while, I could feel the heavy weight of Logan's gaze on me.

  Suddenly he cursed, opened his door, and came around the hood to my side. Apparently, he thought I wasn't doing the job fast enough for his satisfaction. As if I had wanted to come with him in the first place. I was about to get out when he shook his head and closed in, effectively blocking me. “Just… just scoot over.”

  I hesitated for a brief moment.

  “How bad are you hurt?” he asked next.

  What kind of game was he playing? Whatever it was, I had neither the will nor the power to play it.

  “You need help?” he tried again, and there was no sign of mockery or sarcasm in his face or voice. His concern seemed genuine.

  Jaws still clenched, I began moving sideways. I saw—for the second time—Logan reaching out to help from the corner of my eye, only to drop his arm half way, deciding against it. Clever man. A groan almost escaped my lips when I reached for the belt. Again, I felt, rather than saw, Logan watching me. I leaned my head back and closed my eyes, deciding the belt was too much effort. Despite the pain, I fell asleep instantly.

  Chapter Eight

  I slept fitfully, waking every now and then with a start. It was still dark, but dawn wasn't far away. Far in the horizon, where desert met sky, there was a shifting of colors, a deep bruise in the sky, as if sunrise hurt the dark before it became.

  I shifted stiffly and stretched as best as I could. Somewhere along the drive Logan had fastened the seatbelt for me. I grimaced at the stabbing pain on my side, wondering if it'd ever go away. Were my ribs cracked or broken? There was a way I could block the pain, but pain was a good reminder of limits.

  “Which base are we going to?” I asked groggily. Logan didn't answer, but a few minutes later we stopped in front of a lonely stone building with a huge lighted sign that read 'La Estrada Hotel'—not a PSS base but a hotel.

  Rest time. Hallelujah.

  Without a word or a glance at me, Logan opened his door, climbed out of the car and picked my duffle bag from the back seat. Then he came around and surprised me by opening the door for me.

  A gentleman… Or just impatient.

  We walked together to the reception area, and I watched as the redhead receptionist scrutinized Logan's shiner, then my bruised cheek and she didn't even try to be discreet. She probably thought we'd beaten each other up. She gave him a key and a cheerful smile, asked if we needed anything, to which he politely declined.

  We made our way to the bank of elevators and passed a fountain of a marble statue of a swan with open wings—poised to take flight. Water swooshed from its beak, followed by soothing music of something with strings.

  We emerged at the top floor, which was the sixth, and made our way to the last room in the corridor. Still worn out from the beating and lack of proper rest, I found myself anticipating a hot shower and clean change of clothes. I'd think better about my predicament after that. Even better after a nice hot cup of coffee and scrambled eggs. My stomach growled in agreement, and I looked sideways at Logan, who was polite enough to ignore it.

  I took first dibs on the bathroom and Logan made no objections. After I relieved myself, I undressed, gasping at the sight of my bruised and scabbed upper half. My skin was spotted all over with purple, green and yellowish splotches, along with angry, raised, red scars. It looked like someone had dropped a gallon of rainbow on me. I knew the beating had been bad—the constant pain had been enough indication—but I hadn't realized, or imagined, how ghastly it had looked.

  The swelling on my face had gone down, leaving behind a bruise the sick color of green and yellow, and even if that particular bruise was the least severe, it was the one that bothered me the most. Perhaps there was still a piece of that vain teenager inside.

  The hot spray eased some of my aches, and I let the water soothe the abused muscles for a moment before I began to wash my hair, using the shampoo and conditioner the hotel provided. I also used the small bottle of lotion I found by the sink—even though the strong scents overwhelmed my olfactory sense—then put on one of the plush bathrobes.

  Without another look back at the mirror, I came out of the bathroom—to the wonderful aroma of coffee and an array of breakfast on a small table. Logan occupied one of the two chairs, a mug of coffee steaming between his large hands. His head came up and his eyes checked me out, before he got up and pulled a chair for me. Surprised and ridiculously touched, I hesitated a second, self-consciously aware that I had nothing underneath the robe. He didn't comment or wait for me to sit though, but sat again and resumed his cup of coffee, dismissing me. Well, at least I was in no danger of being ravished by him. Still, I looked around for my duffle, but it was nowhere in sight.

  “My bag?”

  “In the closet.” He motioned with his head, and through the slightly parted closet door I saw the corner of my duffle.

  After I got dressed in jeans, a red sweater and running shoes I joined Logan at the table, watching as he poured a cup of coffee and handed it to me. I was almost salivating at the aroma. Then he slathered cream cheese on a bagel and also passed it over. After an awkward pause, I took it and ate with gusto. He prepared the remaining two bagels, humor sparkling in his grey eyes at my famished state. I ignored his amusement and ate it all, then wolfed down all the mango and strawberry slices, no longer worrying if I looked like a slobbering pig to him.

  “I'm not going to let you take me back, you know?” I said after my second cup of coffee.

  He sipped from his cup, his eyes assessing me.

  Clenching my jaw, I leveled him a steady gaze and added, “I'd kill you if you tried.” I was proud at how firm and confident my voice sounded. Logan's eyes sharpened with interest as if just now realizing I was a wolf dressed in a doe's skin. I managed not to squirm at his intense scrutiny, and I didn't back down. I raised my chin defiantly and said, “I didn't
warn the others, but I owe you for saving my life back in the motel.” And indeed, I meant it.

  I swallowed a suddenly dry throat and could tell from Logan's sharp gaze he understood the promise. He nodded once, acknowledging the truth in my words, got up and went to the bathroom. I didn't realize how tense I had been until I heard the shower in the bathroom and exhaled a sigh of relief. I debated escaping while he showered, then decided against it when I couldn't find the key to the Range Rover. He wouldn't be but a few minutes behind me and I needed a head start if I didn't want to get caught again. Besides, I needed rest to recharge my energy before trying to run. Every instinct and common sense I possessed told me to wait for better odds. Rested, I'd be stronger and have a better chance at success, and my wounds would be better healed.

  And I bet he knew that too.

  Exhausted, I crawled under the sheets and wondered vaguely, not really alarmed, where he was going to sleep.

  Chapter Nine

  I woke up to a dark room. For a disorienting moment I had no idea of where I was. Then it all rushed back to me like a cold bucket of water had been dumped on my head.

  I heard the sound of even and low snores coming from beside me. The question of where Logan would sleep was answered. My outrage at his audacity squelched rapidly, giving way to amusement. No sleeping on the couch or the floor for this man. He might have opened the car door for me, pulled me a chair and slathered cream cheese on a bagel for me, but he wasn't above giving up his comfort for any woman.

  Suddenly I realized that this was my chance to escape. I eased out of bed, aware that we had slept all day long. I crept to the bathroom, grabbed my denim jacket and shrugged it on. I had slept dressed in the jeans, sweater and running shoes that sank half an inch into the thick carpet and muffled my steps. Then I hurried for my duffle bag and first took the wallet that contained my rapidly waning emergency money, Dr. Maxwell's journal next. The latter I placed on the inside pocket of my jacket and promised myself I'd burn it the first chance I got. I had already memorized it letter by letter, and I didn't want anyone getting hold of it. I didn't want to leave my belongings behind either, but I knew sooner or later I'd have to.

  I was ready to leave when Logan stirred and sat up.

  I cursed and moved to the window, as if that had been my destination all along.

  Had he been aware of what I was doing, faking asleep to see what my next move would be?

  What a SOB.

  I parted the curtain and glanced outside at the dark night, acting as if I hadn't yet noticed he was awake. If only I'd woken up earlier… I cursed myself again and felt the weight of his eyes on me. The window I had chosen overlooked the front of the hotel, and I watched as a black sedan parked by the entrance. I couldn't see auras from afar, so the only thing that set my alarm off was the bulge under the jacket of the three hulking men that climbed out. I stiffened and heard the rustle of the sheets as Logan got out of bed. He was beside me in an instant, but the men had already disappeared inside. I knew that brusque pace and stiff, straight posture. I've seen it so many times.

  “I gotta get out of here. Now,” I murmured urgently.

  For some reason I'd question later on, he put on his shoes and wool coat and followed me out of the room. He called both elevators, although we silently agreed they were out of the question and moved for the stairs at the opposite end of the hall.

  I opened the heavy door slowly and we both listened for the sound of anyone coming up the stairs. We were on the landing of the third floor when we heard footsteps hurrying up toward us at a fast clip.

  Logan pushed me to the corridor and knocked on the first room facing the stairs.

  “Come on, come on, come on,” he muttered under his breath and tried the door knob. It was locked, of course. The moment the door opened a crack, Logan pushed himself inside—my forearm held firmly in his grip—and locked the room behind us. He halted the man's protest with a glare and a hundred-dollar bill that appeared like magic in his hand. He searched my face, then bent to whisper low in my ear, “You okay? Can you run if you need to?”

  Was he psychic? I wondered before I realized I was grimacing. I straightened my shoulders and set my expression into a blank mask before giving a small nod. Whatever happened next, this man had an agenda that involved me being well and rested.

  Feeling a little awkward with his intense scrutiny still focused on me, I whispered in a low voice that there were three men. Because I knew what these men were capable of, I knew I'd need Logan if I wanted to get rid of them. Maybe if I was at my best… or maybe if there was only one of them… but I wasn't, and there wasn't.

  Logan fumbled inside his pants pocket and surprised me by handing me the keys to the Range Rover. “I want you to go ahead and start the car if I have to distract them. Turn it around and keep it idling, ready to go. Can you do that?”

  Of course I could. I hoped he took a very long time distracting them.

  Before I could give him a reassuring response, we heard footsteps going up to the fourth floor. But it was one set only.

  Logan took out the gun he'd pointed at me earlier and held it at the ready. I noticed that the other man was backing away, heading for the phone on the stand. Probably going to call security. The dollar note though, was nowhere to be seen.

  The cautious opportunist.

  Logan opened the door a crack, checked, then we moved out of the room. I followed him down, both of us moving as quietly as possible. We veered left at the lobby, and we both spotted the man blocking the entrance, head lowered, one hand pressed to his ear, the other hovering near the bulk of his unbuttoned suit jacket, eyes scanning the lobby. There was a wire spiraling down from his ear, disappearing inside the lapel of his suit. Three golden, starry buttons adorned the lapel, arranged to look like a golden triangle.

  A PSS Elite guard.

  The kind that had guarded me my entire stay at the PSS. I felt a tremor run down my spine and clenched my fists. I was no longer a victim, a prisoner, a freak.

  I would fight back and, if necessary, I would not hesitate to kill. I was no longer that frightened and disoriented teenager. They wouldn't abide by the law, something they had proven many times in the past, and I vowed to myself that neither would I.

  They had made me what I was today.

  The Elite, at first glance, had blue auras just like every ordinary human, but if one concentrated a bit, the aura would seem somewhat blurry. I already knew they were stronger and faster than the ordinary guard and doubted that this was all there was to it.

  And the bulge under their jacket still gives me nightmares. Instead of live bullets they had tranquilizer darts. God only knew what they did to an unconscious, uncooperative subject. If they saw us, they would shoot first. No questions asked.

  Because they were faster than the average human, we wouldn't be able to disarm them before getting shot. No, they were trained to avoid hand-to-hand combat at all costs, though they were all well trained in that area as well.

  We quickly ducked and backed away, moving in the other direction, going for the back entrance. Past a set of double doors, down a narrow corridor where a maid pushing a cart stopped us. Logan shot her a lopsided, dazzling smile, explained to her that because of his skin condition the receptionist suggested we hit the parking lot from the back. If she just paused a second to process his words instead of ogling at his charming smile, she would have known the lie for what it was, given that it was dark outside.

  Logan continued his charming explanation, “But I guess we misunderstood the directions …” he made a frustrated gesture, and I watched, vaguely amused as the woman's friendly smile was replaced by a sympathetic one.

  She motioned us to the end of the hall and indicated a set of double doors on the other side.

  “That's the kitchen. If you go that way you'll find a back door for the kitchen staff, but you'll probably get in someone's way.” She pointed a bright red painted fingernail to the left. “But, if you follow the hall o
n the left and take the door to the right, you'll exit between the employee and guest parking lots.”

  Logan thanked her with a sheepish expression and waved her a thank you before taking my hand in his and gently tugging me forward.

  As soon as she was out of sight we hurried our steps to the end of the hall and veered left. There were three doors at the end. The one to the left was unmarked. The one directly across had a small plaque that read “janitorial”, and the one to the right read “exit”.

  We spotted the third man—the third guard—the same time he saw us. He stood by the exit door, slightly angled so he could watch both the exit we emerged from and the kitchen's entrance farther down. Logan moved fast, almost in a blur, kicking the man's hand away before he reached his gun. If we had emerged from the kitchen door, he would have had time enough to have drawn and shot us, even as quickly as Logan moved. Logan followed with a punch to his stomach, not giving the man time to recover. The guard doubled over, and for an instance I thought the fight was over, that Logan would either kick the guard in the head or punch him unconscious. But, before he could deliver either move, the guard stood, a long knife he produced seemingly out of thin air, catching Logan in the stomach as it arched upward. Logan jumped back in a blur, the only indication that the guard had hit was Logan's brief touch to his stomach through his split shirtfront. If Logan hadn't moved out of the way, that would have been a fatal wound. As it was—I noticed with a jolt—his front was rapidly getting soaked in blood, though somewhat obscured by his dark, unbuttoned coat.

  The guard backed away, putting some distance between them, his knife at the ready. When he changed the knife to his other hand, I knew what he was going to do.