Heir of Ashes

by Jina S Bazzar

  After I retrieved Dr. Maxwell's journal from one of the guards, I climbed in the driver's seat, aware of the blood coating the seat. I tried covering it with a blanket I had found on the back, then folded my sweater atop it to provide my pants a thicker barrier from the gore.

  Kincaid closed the door and came to stand at the window, uncertainty flickering in his blank eyes.

  For letting a killer go? For aiding a monster? The smell of blood, gore and released bowels permeated the air inside the SUV, stronger where I sat, but the source of my nausea was the knowledge of what I had done and the lives I had no right taking. Three of the guards were dead; blood from two of them stained the broken edges of my fingernails.

  “This won't look good on my résumé,” Kincaid said, I guess in a skewed attempt at a joke.

  I nodded once, then forced myself to say, “Thank you.”

  He exhaled and looked away, before returning his attention to me, his expression empty. “Ditch the vehicle as soon as you get to a crowd.”

  Again I nodded. When he tapped the door once and took a step back, I started the SUV. Like Logan's Range Rover, the engine purred smoothly to life.

  “They won't send me next time,” he warned, but it sounded ominous, like a threat.

  Had he intended to help me all along, or was he just mad his own team darted him? Had they darted him because he wasn't “vanilla human”, or plain ordinary? Discrimination and prejudice were a requirement in the PSS.

  “How did you get to come in the first place?” I asked, because Kincaid served in Seattle, back in the headquarters and his being here was no coincidence.

  “Dr. Maxwell pulled some strings. He doesn't want you hurt.” Of course. Dr. Maxwell knew Kincaid wouldn't hurt me.

  I nodded, and without another word I stepped on the gas pedal, moving slowly at first, heading back to Sacramento.

  * * *

  Logan woke up just as I was parking at a 7-Eleven. I was thankful I didn't have to carry him somewhere to await his recovery. The rain had let up some, but it was still pouring hard. I watched as he inhaled deeply. Could he smell the blood with the bracelet on? This time, it took a few minutes for him to focus. I waited for the haze to clear from his eyes.

  When it did, he took in that I had the driver's seat first thing, then swept the back with one glance. I shouldn't have worried about his wolf nose scenting the blood around us. His human eyes took in everything, even the stains underneath my nails.

  He leveled me a look I couldn't decipher, full of confusing emotions. No doubt he wanted an account of what had happened and how I had come to hijack the SUV. Would he believe me if I told him Kincaid turncoated on his colleagues? True. Or that I nicely asked for The Elite Team to let me go? With my talons bared?

  He held my gaze, waiting for an explanation, but after I shrugged—my shoulder protesting fiercely—he conceded, turning to scan the parking lot.

  Aware of time ticking away, I got out of the car, eager to get away from PSS's property, and Logan followed suit.

  Because I had taken off my sweater to keep blood and bowels released from staining the rest of my clothes, all I had on was the thin oversized t-shirt I had slept in and pink flannel pants and they got soaked in an instant. Logan wore dark jogging pants and a matching jacket, covered all over with blood, and didn't fare any better. The good thing was that the rain kept at my nails and Logan's clothes, washing the blood away.

  It was cold, but getting away and farther from PSS property was my only ambition.

  We moved toward Midtown, sometimes taking random corners, sometimes crossing alleyways to the next street over.

  Despite the cold and heavy rain, it was a busy day in Midtown Sacramento. There were people everywhere. Shouts and laughter spilled out of opened store doors. Some streets were jammed with vehicles, others moved in steady traffic. Most restaurants and storefronts were packed, a typical reaction with this weather. My heart was full of regret for the time lost; hate for the people that made me lose it; and longing because I knew this ordinariness would never be my life.

  I had to shake myself mentally and shift gears to keep up with Logan. Belatedly, it dawned on me that Logan seemed to have a destination in mind. “Where are we going?”

  He didn't answer. Either he didn't hear me—the bracelet's effect—or he chose to ignore me. His strides were long, rapidly eating the distance. My legs were long too, but I had to hurry to keep up. We bypassed a man who looked to be in his forties, talking on a phone and carrying a huge black umbrella that almost blinded me, before Logan glanced briefly at me, gave me a once over.

  “A hotel, maybe,” he said, crossing the street. I followed, jumping over a big puddle by the sidewalk. “I need somewhere private so I can check you for anything the Scientists are using to track you.”

  That thought brought a chill down my spine. My steps faltered a moment, before my mind kick-started again and realigned. Or it could have been the cold rain pelting my face. Either way, my thoughts were clear.

  No way. I shook my head. “I ran away over a year and a half ago. If they could track me so easily, I would have been in their dungeons a long time ago.”

  “How many times have they found you?”

  “Three. We've already established that the Bad Boy Team was sent by Remo.”

  “Four, because I was given your exact location the day I met with you in the food court. No, that's not true. It's five with the ambush today.”

  A chill went down my spine.

  “Look, maybe I'm wrong. Maybe they have some clever PI on retainer who they use to help whenever they have a particular merc they want to hire,” he conceded easily, “but still, it wouldn't hurt to check.”

  We turned another corner and Logan pointed ahead to a stucco building. Two sycamore trees stood high before it. “We'll rent a room there.”

  “Alright.”

  Because I sensed he had something else to say, I encouraged him, recalling we'd been interrupted when he had finally decided to talk about my father.

  “You have something in your mind. Do you want to tell me?” I asked hesitantly.

  He hesitated a brief second before saying, “What if, you know, they have been keeping tabs on you all along?”

  Huh? “What would they do that for?” I asked curiously. “It wouldn't have furthered any research.” Wasn't that what Dr. Maxwell kept boasting about? “The PSS will be the most recognizable research facility in the entire world… We have the best scientists… our research has improved the living conditions of many… The PSS prevented a war from breaking in South Africa… stopped a supernatural revolution from overthrowing the human authorities in Europe… the development of the strongest weapons in the hands of the U.S….” Yada yada yada. As if there were no preternaturals anywhere but in the United States. I couldn't imagine how watching me run and hide furthered any project.

  “I don't know. Maybe they wanted to see how you interacted among other people, but I could be wrong.” He shrugged his shoulder, and I could tell he wasn't convinced.

  But I was. There was no way they were watching when I attacked the fire mage and didn't interrupt. No way… Yet, no one from the diner had come out to watch—hadn't I thought I'd seen someone by the glass door? I stopped so suddenly, the woman behind me almost plowed right through me. I barely felt the impact, but the cuss word muttered under her breath came through clear enough.

  My God, if they had been watching that day when I killed the fire mage… They must have had a field day. And no wonder no one had come out of the diner to check out all the commotion outside.

  But they wouldn't have known what I had done to the vampire. We were inside my room, they would have needed cameras to have been able to monitor and watch inside.

  A sudden thought struck me then like a slap, brutal and shocking. The day I had come back to Marian's bed and breakfast from work and she explained how John, the local handy man, had been sick and he'd sent some replacement from the next town over to fix things ar
ound. How she'd chastised me for not telling her my lighting had been faulty. How she'd praised the man “a nice, respectful man… looked like military, that's how big and capable he was…” At the time, I had dismissed her ramblings as the attempt of an old lady bent on matchmaking. But hadn't he been fixing the light that had been working perfectly when I had left for work? I had told myself either John was mistaken or the handyman had misunderstood John's directive.

  If they had been watching that day with the vampire or the fire mage… even that wolf I had evaded—outrun—with speed, speed no human could achieve, jumped off a three-story roof, and kept going, without breaking a limb or momentum.

  The bastards! The bastards! All this time!

  Rage gripped me so intensely, I had to double over to keep myself from exploding. All along! All this time! I thought I had been free of them, and I had been no more than a freak show. A pawn in a game of goons and monsters. Send me some goons, sit back and see how I managed. If I won, I stepped up to the next level, the higher goon. If I lost, game over.

  Logan said something, but I barely heard him over the roar inside my head. My anger and rage were so fierce, so hard and fast, I had to press my hands on both sides of my head to keep it from bursting, to keep my anger under control.

  A snarly, growly noise rattled in the depths of my chest. Logan crouched in front of me, took my hands in his, and said something, but I didn't hear.

  A tremor ran down my body— I was on the verge of… something. It should have scared me.

  I wanted so badly to go to that damn PSS base and cause havoc amidst them that everything else became secondary. All I could think, all I could feel, all I could see was the PSS enjoying themselves, celebrating each time I had exposed myself.

  The next growl turned into a gasp midway.

  Suddenly, the rage turned into pain, just as intense.

  In front of me, Logan was crouched, squeezing my twice dislocated shoulder until my eyes began watering with the pain.

  “Watch out—the talons,” he murmured low, but there was an urgent quality to it.

  Huh? His left hand still rested on my shoulder, probably in case he needed to get my attention again.

  Seeing the confusion among the haze of pain and dissipating anger, he tapped the finger of his right hand over my wrist.

  I looked down. My talons were out. Logan's right hand covered them, but one glance around and I realized we had gathered quite a crowd.

  I retracted my talons and wiped tears of rage from my face, only to be replaced by the pounding rain. Logan also seemed to have broken Kincaid's dulling spell, because my shoulder and head throbbed like a PMS-ing bitch.

  “You alright?” he asked, still shielding me from prying eyes, his concern clear in his searching expression.

  I nodded, and a moment later he straightened and began assuring the crowd gathered around us I was fine, just had received some bad news from home.

  Home indeed, my inner voice scoffed.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Logan waited beside me until I regained some control, deflating any concerned onlooker with a gesture or word. The rain had started to let up, and the hotel was just across the street. Without a word, I began making my way toward it, Logan falling in step beside me, his pace even with mine. He walked alongside me, invading my private space, no doubt making sure if I lost it he'd be between me and any innocent bystander. By the way his shoulders were tense and his steps stalkish, it was clear that he didn't trust me not to lose it.

  God, I didn't trust myself either. Clenching my hands into tight fists, I realized if Logan hadn't been there, I'd have probably killed someone in a fit of rage, some innocent bystander.

  Was I really the monster the PSS always believed me to be? I shuddered and told myself to get a grip.

  We entered the lobby of what seemed like a low-star hotel. The reception desk was plain wood, decorated with a phone and flat screen computer, with the requisite numbered key holder framing the wall behind a scrawny, pimpled boy who seemed to be no older than eighteen. There was what looked like a very comfortable seating area to the left with soft-cushioned, dark-colored sofas and some tables arranged in a cove-like area to the right, for eating. Both arrangements faced each of the sycamore trees outside.

  We registered under our real names—no need for deviousness if I could be tracked via transmitters. If not, we were only here for the time it took to check myself for the damned transmitter. Logan handed the reception boy an extra twenty to get us the strongest pain killers on the shelf, took the room key—or card—before toeing me toward the utilitarian metal grey elevator.

  The room was a small one, a downgrade from the previous two, but it was clean enough.

  Like a routine, I went to the bathroom first, only this time, I took off my clothes to squeeze the excess water out in the sink. Then I squeezed my hair. Before Michelle had convinced me to dye it red, it was as black as my eyes, both colors contrasting now with my pale skin. Usually I kept it pulled back, tightly tied up in a bun, but now I left it down, conceding only with a loosely-fitted rubber band, partly to cover the thick bandage that covered half my forehead and temple, partly so it would dry faster. Before I was done, Logan knocked on the door and offered me his jacket, which seemed to be clean of blood. Must have something to do with the material, some mix of nylon, polyester and cotton. I know, I checked the label inside.

  After squeezing the excess water from it too, I put it on, shivering from the cold. It smelled of rain, man, and faintly of blood. It almost reached mid-thigh, the sleeves swallowing my hands. After a brief hesitation, I put the wet pants back on. I left the squeaky shoes in the bathroom and returned barefoot to where Logan stood at the door, dwarfing the reception boy, who held a CBC bag in one hand. Either the twenty had been a good incentive, or there was a CBC pharmacy nearby. Good to know either way.

  Logan took my wrinkled shirt from my hand and passed it to the blushing boy, with instructions to dry it for another tip. The faster he could do it, the bigger the tip.

  The boy took it with the kind of enthusiasm only teenagers possessed, promising he wouldn't be long before he hurried away.

  I wished modesty hadn't made me put on the wet pants back, so I could have sent them to be dried too.

  Logan shut and locked the door, drawing my attention to him like magnet. He took up most of the space of the room, not in mass, but in presence. Why hadn't I noticed it before? No doubt he was an alpha, in and out of a pack. He had on an undershirt that seemed melded to broad shoulders and a flat, well-defined stomach, the muscles showing more with the wet shirt. His hair was wet and tousled as if he had just finished a shower. The beginning of a shadowy stubble covering his cheeks gave him a masculine appeal I hadn't noticed before. He stood, tall, broad and military straight, and watched me.

  Despite all that was happening to me, I noticed him. Which was, after all was said and done, a distraction I didn't need.

  “So,” I gestured widely around, “what now?”

  He extracted a few pills from a generic bottle and passed them to me. His eyes searched my face, probably looking for some sign that I'd go psychotic on him.

  Under any other circumstances, I'd have refused. Like I said before, pain was a reminder of limits, but I didn't want to waste time arguing, and that was what my refusal to take the painkillers would provoke. I dry-swallowed them and raised both eyebrows.

  He gestured regally to a straight-backed chair for me to sit.

  Without pause or hesitation, I did, straddling the chair, figuring if there was a transmitter it would be somewhere I don't access easily, like my back. And I wanted this transmitter gone.

  “Yes?” I prompted, turning my head so I could see him. My shoulder protested fiercely, and my head agreed with a pulsing throb.

  “I'll start with your back first,” he said. “Loose the jacket, please.”

  So much for modesty, I thought, unzipping it and shrugging it off.

  I clutched the
bundled jacket to my front and waited.

  And waited.

  And waited.

  I've been examined naked so many times through the years that this time shouldn't be any different.

  It was.

  Self-consciously, I turned my head again, this time ready for the pain that accompanied the motion.

  Logan was standing behind me, staring at my back, his face devoid of any expression. As I watched, his hand reached out, tracing softly a random path on my back. I stifled a shiver.

  “When did this happen?” he asked softly.

  Ah, the bruises. I so seldomly lacked them, I no longer preoccupied myself with them.

  Trivial, pesky things.

  I shrugged and looked away. When I smacked my back on Remo Drammen's wet bar, early dawn yesterday, but I didn't doubt some of the fainter bruises marked the boots of the Bad Boy Team.

  A moment later, after brushing my hair gently aside, the tips of his fingers began circling the base of my skull. Clockwise, then counterclockwise. I frowned down at my pink bra. Was I wearing matching panties? I didn't think so. I was never the type who tried to match my undergarments; I didn't even wear matching socks. Accidentally though, my flannel pants were the same shade as the bra.

  His fingers lowered a fraction, warm to my cold skin. Goosebumps erupted all over my body, and I shivered.

  It felt good. Really good.

  I closed my eyes, relaxing a little at the hypnotizing rhythm. Before long, he was moving to my sore shoulders and down. His fingertips left no inch of skin untouched and despite the purpose of the exercise, my body enjoyed it very much.

  I kept the jacket clutched to my front and, after the barest hesitation—felt only for the faltering rhythm—Logan loosened my arms and placed them on the back of the chair. Before I could protest, he skillfully checked my armpits, then moved back to my shoulder blades, leaving me to lower my arms and clutch the jacket again. I was glad I had taken the time the night before to shave. His hands moved systematically, lowering once he'd covered a specific patch thoroughly. By the time he had reached my waist, I had passed the self-conscious stage to ticklish embarrassment. I squirmed a little and opened my eyes. I could see Logan's face in the bureau mirror across from me.