Heir of Ashes

by Jina S Bazzar

  Not just alone, but lonely.

  Yet there Logan was, acting as if nothing had happened—as if all were forgiven. He was a better person. Or was he a better actor?

  The smell of warm food wafted out of the bags and my stomach growled. I watched him take some cartons, french-fry bags, two Cokes, and small sauce containers from inside the bags and divide them into two portions on the table.

  “I'm sorry for the way I reacted back in the car. I know you didn't mean to do that,” he said, startling me. I don't know what I had expected from him, but it certainly was not the understanding I could clearly see in his eyes. I acted confused.

  “You didn't mean to do that, did you? Back in the car?”

  What did I do? I wanted to ask, but stayed quiet instead. When I didn't reply, he went on. “You had no idea you were doing it until I called you on it. You were shocked and afraid and even confused when you realized what you were doing…” he trailed off, narrowed his eyes, and asked, “You didn't know, did you? You didn't know you could do that, whatever that was.”

  How could he know? Or did he, really?

  Was he just giving me a way out, or was he fishing for information about me as a potential rival he wanted to take precautions from in the future?

  I couldn't take any chances.

  I pursed my lips, looked straight into his eyes and ignored the ball of disappointment rolling inside me. “You would do good to keep in mind there is a good reason all these people are after me.”

  I held his gaze, telling myself that even if he was trying to understand, it was better if we kept our distance. After all, after he got what he wanted, he'd just forget about me and go on with his life.

  He held my gaze for a moment longer, his eyes gentle, without signs of discrimination I so often faced in the PSS showing through. “No, Eliza, you're not as good a liar as you believe yourself to be. I don't think you knew. I think you were shaken, afraid of it. I think… the Society are not the only people who don't know your limits.”

  “You think too much,” I scoffed coldly. “Don't fool yourself thinking I'm the poor, mishandled, damaged escapee of a nightmare. You won't be doing me, or yourself, any favor,” I paused a second, my eyes flat, “Besides, what are you? A shrink? Maybe I just found your anger irresistible.” There was a nervous flutter inside my stomach. I clenched my fist to keep myself from pressing my hand above the flesh.

  I stared at him, holding his gaze, my blank mask in place while my insides churned in disappointment and maybe a little fear. How could he read me so well? Without blinking, Logan inclined his head and turned his attention back to the food.

  He took one of the chairs, opened one of the cartons and began eating rice with a plastic fork.

  “It's good,” he said and looked at me. “Aren't you hungry?”

  Off balance, I stared at him—maybe a little dumbfounded. Was he doing this on purpose, trying to keep me off guard?

  My stomach growled, reminding me that off kilter or not, I was still hungry. I snapped the journal shut, placed it on the night stand, took the chair opposite his, and began to eat.

  “How's the hand?” he gestured to the newly bandaged limb.

  “Healing.” Fortunately, it was. In fact, it looked like it was a couple weeks old. The blisters were almost gone, looking now more like angry pimples, and where the skin had been charred just a few hours ago, it was now a patchwork of healthy, pinkish skin. I administered myself the same miracle treatment he had earlier, using first one kind of ointment, then another before re-bandaging it.

  He nodded and went back to eating his food in silence.

  After we finished, I resumed reading the journal while Logan cleaned. I offered to help, but he refused and I didn't argue or insist.

  “Bedtime story?” he asked, peering down at the journal. I snapped it shut before he could read enough to make any sense of it. He looked at me questioningly. I guess I was being rude, but I wasn't about to let him see the journal.

  He straightened, turned and went around to his side of the bed and began working on his laptop.

  “What's your mother's name?” he asked me after typing a password to log on.

  “Elizabeth Deninsky Whitmore.”

  “Her last known location was Sacramento?”

  “Hmmm.” I suppose I would have to tell him that was ten years ago.

  “What about your father?” he asked as he typed.

  “He died in an accident a few days after I was born.” I was glad there was something I was willing to talk about. I never met my father, and there was only some regret for never getting to meet him.

  “Car crash?”

  “No. Hunting accident. He was attacked by a bear.”

  “Oh?” There was a brief pause. “What was his name?” he asked with a strange expression. Something in his tone sharpened my focus.

  “Yoncey Fosch,” I told him and eyed him. He was doing nothing to mask his shock. I could practically see the wheels turning inside his head.

  “You're… You're Yoncey Fosch's…”

  I straightened. “You knew him?”

  I had calculated Logan to be on his late twenties, but with a preternatural, it was hard to tell.

  He could be any number from twenty and up, even over a century.

  Or that's what I read in the journal. Because “preternatural beings' tended to pretty much heal any infection, diseases and injuries; they tended to live a long life. That is, if one didn't meet a fatal accident first.

  “Not really,” he said, shaking his head for emphasis. “I knew who he was, what he looked like, but I never had any reason to interact with him.” He raked a hand through his hair, tousling it. “I should have made the connection though,” he murmured, looking at the screen, seemingly distant in his thoughts. “I should have made the connection,” he repeated, but I could tell it was more to himself. Then he looked at me, his shrewd eyes examining me with a new intensity.

  “What's your name?” he demanded.

  I was about to tell him Eliza Daniels when I gave it a second thought. If he'd heard about my father, then perhaps he could give me answers; besides, he knew I hadn't given him my real name. Apparently, neither had the PSS. “Roxanne. Roxanne Whitmore Fosch.”

  “Ah, if you only told me.” He shook his head once, as if that explained everything, then asked, “How old are you? No, no…” He shook his head and waved a hand, “How old were you when the Society took you?”

  “Twelve.”

  The fierce glint in his eyes had me wanting to start squirming as if I had been caught with my hand in the cookie jar.

  “How long?” He demanded tightly.

  “About nine years.”

  Something flickered in his eyes, masked before I could decipher it. He returned to his screen, staring blankly at it.

  “Tell me her last known address,” he murmured.

  “Tell me what you know.”

  His eyes shuttered and he shook his head. “I don't know… I'm not sure… There's something…”

  “Please. I need to know. Tell me.”

  He opened his mouth, then closed it again. “Alright. But let me make sure first. I don't want to give you false information, which is apparently what I have.”

  I wanted to insist—beg if necessary—for him to tell me what he knew, what he had heard, what that flicker in his eyes had been, but I conceded, not wanting to hear any lies either. I let the topic drop for now, even if it went against all my instincts.

  “Give me her address.”

  I rattled off an address. “But she doesn't live there anymore. Last I checked, that address was under someone else's name.”

  He typed, clicked, verified, grunted. “We'll try by name then.”

  “She isn't registered. Never has been. Still, I've checked that too, just in case.”

  He grunted again, unconcerned. “Alright then. Let me tug some lines, see what I can come up with.” Then he took a small notebook and began browsing the internet and
taking notes.

  An hour later, I found myself nodding off, so I burrowed under the sheets.

  “Hey, do you know what an aura is?”

  He looked at me blankly for a moment. “Ah, trivia? Do I get a free trip to Hawaii if I answer correctly?”

  “Maybe,” I replied with a faint smile.

  “Hmmm… I think I once heard my mentor say that auras are the theme of one's true nature, what that person is like inside.” He frowned, as if pondering what else to say, but didn't.

  I mulled over his words for a moment. It made sense better than the soul theory, but it didn't tell me anything about Remo.

  “Can you see them?” I asked curiously.

  Logan studied me for a moment before he spoke next. “Very few species can naturally see them, and even fewer can interpret them correctly. Me? I trust my senses.” He pressed a fist over his stomach. “Trust your instincts. Listen to what your senses tell you. They're more reliable.”

  Hmmm. That wasn't a no, but it wasn't a yes either. Could he tell what I was? I wondered.

  “Did I answer your question?” Logan asked, still watching me.

  “Hmmm.” He knew he didn't, but he gave me good advice. I held his gaze for a moment more before covering my head.

  Chapter Twenty

  I woke up in the middle of the night, teeth chattering, freezing cold. I opened my eyes and found Logan asleep beside me. It was disturbing, sleeping beside a man I hardly knew, and I wondered if he meant for me to sleep on the floor and I was just too dim to realize it. He was facing me, radiating a beckoning heat, and while I lay there shivering, watched him sleep. His expression looked tough even asleep, but there was a boyish undertone, a relaxed quality to him while he slept that softened some of the hard edges. Dark stubble covered his cheeks, a shadow I could see even with the room cast into darkness, and I wondered if he had to shave every day to keep his face smooth. He breathed evenly, his lips closed, so he didn't snore or drool. Had he watched me while I slept?

  I shivered again and burrowed closer to Logan, telling myself I'd move away before he woke up. Movement outside the window made me glance upward. Logan hadn't closed the blinds tightly, leaving the slats slightly parted. What I saw had the fine hairs on my body standing at attention. A figure stood outside, silhouetted by the moonlight. Alarms rang out in my head. It was not the shadow of anything human.

  Even as I watched, and the unnerving comprehension that I was facing something not human sunk in deep, it began to mist away. The air in the room cooled a couple of degrees more, and my breath formed tiny clouds in front of me. Reflexively, I reached for Logan just as an eight-foot figure dressed in what looked like square patches of leather materialized by his side, right over his head. I reacted, grabbing Logan and rolling out of bed just as the figure's hand—a skeletal hand covered in a light-colored material—came down on the pillow. A soft, unnatural glow emanated from the hand, and despite the fragile thinness of the limb, it packed a strong punch. The hand went through the pillow, making a hole where Logan's head had been just a moment ago. I caught another movement as we rolled out of bed, this time from the other window, the one on my side. Logan was wide awake now and was pushing himself upright, his gun in his hand, raising it to aim at me. It didn't pass me that he had slept with a gun on him, anticipating that I would double-cross him. But, trust issues aside, another shape began materializing behind him. At the same time, Logan noticed the other figure standing with its skeletal hand embedded in his pillow. A low curse issued from his throat, along with an honest-to-God growl, before he shifted his aim and shot twice. The bullets went through, making two neat holes in the wall behind it. I hoped no one occupied the other room. No more than three seconds had passed since I spotted the figure outside.

  The moment the figure finished materializing behind Logan, it moved after him, its hand emitting a soft glow. From the way Logan's attention hadn't wavered to the figure behind him and the lack of congealing breath balloons, I figured Logan couldn't sense their presence at the same level that I did. As the second figure moved to attack, I wrestled Logan to the floor, the glowing hand brushing my forearm as I passed. What I had perceived as leather patches turned out to be thin, dark square plates placed all over the figure's body like the patchwork of a strange quilt. Nothing was left uncovered but its hands, feet and face—the latter of which was partially obscured by the end of the plates that covered the sides of the head. Logan hit the edge of the wooden chest with a woof and a curse, and the flat screen jostled, but didn't fall on us.

  There was a cold burning sensation on my upper arm where the figure's glowing hand had brushed, but besides registering the pain, I didn't pause to examine the damage. I tried kicking the figure's leg from under him, but like the bullets, my bare feet just went through.

  The figure changed course and advanced on us, no faster than an ordinary human despite it being something else. The other figure, after disentangling its hand from the pillow, came around the bed to close in on us.

  “What the hell is that?” I squeaked. I dove to the left, Logan to the right. We both dodged the glowing hand inches before it reached us, though Logan had to dodge the other figure before it caught him with its eerily-glowing limb.

  “Watch out!” I shouted as the first figure's hand almost smashed into Logan's head. It was pure reflex since Logan was keeping both in sight now.

  The one closest to me adjusted course and reached for me. I heard Logan fire again, and again the bullet went through. I used the only weapon I had. My fingers jerked, becoming the sharp, scalpel-like talons I had learned so well to use during my years as a captive. My talons, unlike those from certain animals, had a flexibility to them, like liquid steel, and they were the size and length of my fingers. As the glowing hand came down, I struck, and the figure howled in pain—or anger. It was the first sound it made since I had seen it. There was a sudden burst of light that momentarily blinded me. When I could see again, I realized that the skeleton had dematerialized into mist, and even as I watched, was beginning to form again. The howl of pain it had shrieked became a definite snarl of anger. All I had managed to do as it re-formed was piss the thing off. My heart was pounding with fear and adrenaline, making me short of breath.

  “We have to get out of here!” Logan shouted, jumping onto the bed, grabbing the keys by the nightstand and his laptop.

  I dodged a blow to my head, going for the bed and the journal under the pillow. Our advantage was that we were faster than them. My duffle bag was by the nightstand, my purse inside it. I picked it up and flung it behind my back. By ordinary standards it was heavy, approximately fifty pounds, but I carried it like it weighed only five. Logan jumped to my side and we both dodged the second figure, opened the door, and ran barefoot for the Range Rover parked a few yards ahead.

  “We're lucky they're slow!” The words had just left my lips when both the figures materialized right in front of us. Logan grabbed my arm to keep me from colliding with the glowing hand, but my other arm kept arcing forward, following momentum. I pulled it back just before it hit the figure and lowered my head, dodging the hand that was trying to flatten it to the ground. Was it my imagination or had it moved faster than before? There was total silence surrounding the figures, a vacuum of sound that kept me off balance.

  The figure moved again and my hand jerked in an upward arc, into the glowing hand, connecting right where the glowing ended and its wrist began, right at the edge of the plate. There was a shock of impact, an icy sensation that travelled up my arm, numbing as it went up to my shoulder. The glowing hand flew and disappeared mid-air.

  The figure screamed and burst into light, then re-formed itself, its eyes glowing demonic red. Its hand did not reform. But the other hand was still there, and its left foot was now glowing. It had indeed gained speed, confirming my previous suspicion.

  I dropped the duffle and dodged the foot aimed at my head, but I wasn't fast enough, and it connected with my left shoulder. There was a sickeni
ng pop as I spun with the impact and almost lost balance and fell.

  Beside me, Logan wasn't faring any better. Dimly, I heard him shout something and start running away from me, attracting the figure to follow. I looked up in time to see the fast figure, the one with only one hand dashing after Logan… almost in a blur! No wonder I couldn't dodge the foot in time.

  By now, other people, guests in the motel, were coming out to see what the commotion was all about. I heard a crash from inside the motel room and heard the shrill scream of the figure. Logan had hit it. Someone shouted a warning that they had called the police, but I couldn't see how the police would be of any help. God, there were children in the motel. There was another loud crash from the room seconds before Logan came running out. I saw the skeletal hand of the figure in front of me glowing, reaching for me and I kicked it, knowing that it would only make it faster and angrier, but my arm was still numb, my left shoulder hurt like shit, and the few seconds I'd get would be better than nothing.

  Logan approached fast, as if the devil was behind him. Or maybe just its minion. Almost upon him was the one-handed figure. His plates, which previously looked dull, now shone as if polished, making clinking noises as it moved. As they neared, I noticed Logan clutched something in his fist. His eyes never wavered from the slower figure materializing beside me, as if he wasn't aware of what was behind him.

  Everything after that was a blur. The figure behind Logan jumped to attack him, one hand outstretched in a forward claw, his figure, plates and all, emanating that soft glow all the way. I opened my mouth to shout a warning, and time stopped as I tried to suck in enough air to scream. The figure in front of me re-formed completely and it wasted no time—it had become faster, and Logan was really close to it. The skeletal hand glowed and shifted to Logan, no doubt perceived as the immediate threat, while the other descended ever closer to his back.

  Logan's hand opened and white powder sprayed all over the obscured face, causing the second figure to start glowing immediately; even the plates shone, making it seem like it previously was just a washed-out version of itself. Shifting off course, Logan tackled me to the ground and rolled us away as the two figures collided. There was the blinding flash of light again, followed by an ear-piercing shriek, leaving me blind and deaf and in agonizing pain from my shoulder. Logan stayed on top of me, shielding me from the worst of the explosion a few feet away, and all I could see was white.