Heir Of Doom

by Jina S Bazzar

  “Do you know what happens if I lose hold of you in the leeway?” he asked in a conversational tone.

  He took a step forward, I took a step back.

  “No,” I replied, nervous at the dangerous gleam in his eyes.

  Another step brought me flush with the closed door. He reached a broad hand to my shoulder and leaned close to my face. His eyes today were darker, more honey-brown than gold. He smelled of soap, of the woods, of the outdoors. There was a small tear on the lobe of his ear that I hadn't noticed before. As if someone had grabbed hold of an earring and pulled it off, tearing the flesh with it. A very fresh injury, one that happened after the last time he'd shifted, otherwise it would have healed already.

  Diggy squeezed my shoulder, his grip firm, though not yet painful, and lowered his voice as if afraid he'd be overheard. I looked behind him at the shower stalls, but all were empty. There was no one in here but us. This close, his breath smelled of coffee and chocolate. “You could be dropped anywhere, in any of the worlds, or be let wandering the leeway until your energy is gone , or if you're lucky, a guardian may find you.”

  The world suddenly flashed white, and his hand slipped from my shoulder. I grabbed for him, desperate when I found nothing but air. When my hands found his jacket, I held on for dear life. I clung to him as I began falling, back to that cursed land. I think I heard his laughter above the roaring in my ears, as my heart tried to beat its way out of my throat.

  “Or you can fall into one of those inhospitable planets,” he continued after I landed, sprawled on a cluster of particularly sharp rocks, “where fire rules, or non-breathable gas exists, or in space where you would die in the vacuum and free us all of the abomination that you are.”

  I watched his face, feeling blood already trickling out of freshly made wounds, on my back, my hands, the back of my thighs.

  He stood tall beside me, his lips lifting with that condescending smirk, and I couldn't contain the anger that surged and engulfed me. I lunged for his legs, tackling him to the ground and breaking his cool. Before I could gain some hold on him, he'd kicked himself free and was rolling up to his feet. I jumped up and attacked, talons out, anger ruling.

  My talons scraped his shoulder before he could escape, leaving a red ribbon of blood and cloth. I'd have bitten him if I could have gotten nearer. In fact, the urge was so strong, I wanted to jump him, tear flesh with my bare teeth. I rushed him, clasping a fistful of cloth, ripping it to shreds when he pulled away, my teeth inches from his exposed neck. I growled in frustration and rage – the sound rattled in my chest, while anger wrestled common sense for control.

  There was no sign of anger or satisfaction in his expression, or any sign of that familiar smirk. He retaliated, punching back, catching my shoulder when I didn't dodge fast enough. He parried my kicks, blocked every punch, disappeared whenever my talons got too close to his skin, only to reappear behind me again and kick me to my knees. Jumping up, I whirled with teeth bared in a ferocious snarl. Somewhere inside, common sense was losing the battle.

  “Control that anger. Make it your weapon.” He feinted left and swept a foot under me.

  I jumped at the last second and avoided the leg sweep, but the punch to the solar plexus that followed was unavoidable.

  I doubled over, panting, wheezing, trying to catch a breath. I didn't know if this punch was more potent than the others, or if it was because I'd recently been punched and kicked in the same spot multiple times. Whichever was true, I had a hard time sucking in a breath, my vision gray at the edges. Tears of anger gathered in the corners of my eyes, that red-hot rage recoiling inside me, its tentacles still gripping my senses.

  “Get up,” Diggy snapped. “Your enemy won't wait for you to catch a breath. Ignore the pain.” He circled as he spoke, keeping a respectful eight feet away. “Work around it, behind it, in front of it. Use it as a fuel. Whatever you do, don't stop.”

  “Go to hell,” I managed between raging breaths.

  “Someday, perhaps. Straighten up.”

  I looked at him, just a few feet away, so close, yet far enough that I wouldn't be able to catch him by surprise. Hate filled my being, anger boiled inside. There wasn't a drop of satisfaction in the fact that there was blood on the torn sleeve of his jacket, that the lapels were in shreds. The wound wasn't even deep enough to impair his movements.

  But if I managed to hit that side again…

  “No, don't telegraph. Never let your opponent read your next move. Don't tense up, avoid looking where you want to hit. Keep your opponent guessing,” he kept instructing, not fazed by my reaction. My pain, my feelings, my needs were nothing to him. He'd been given an assignment and it mattered not if he liked or disliked it; he was going to see it through until someone higher up said otherwise.

  I straightened, anger deflating, and inclined my head. “Show me.”

  Chapter Seven

  We fought for the next five hours, stopping twice for water and a power-bar break, only to return to the locker room twelve minutes after he'd dragged me to the Low Lands.

  At 8:10 in the morning I was thoroughly beaten, hardly able to stand, and the day had hardly begun.

  Without so much as a snarky remark, Diggy opened the door to the locker room and stepped out; no doubt glad he was rid of me. He paused at the threshold, half turned to me and said in that mild tone, “If you're not here tomorrow morning at seven thirty sharp, I will only come and drag you from home. And I won't be in a good mood.”

  * * *

  The following two weeks went by with a routine of bruises and injuries. It wasn't boring, exactly, but within a few sessions the days started blending together. I'd arrive in the gym on time, Diggy would flash us to that horrible frigid land, where he'd proceed to kick and punch the stars out of me while I tried to defend myself and avoid getting hurt.

  Two times I had slept through the alarm, and like Diggy had promised, whenever that happened, he'd arrive at my doorstep, pick my lock when I refused to open the door, barge into my home and flash us to the Low Lands with whatever clothes I had on.

  He was a punctual prick, but I had to admit I was learning a lot.

  He didn't talk as we trained except to critique or tell me what to do, how to move, how to stand, how much distance to keep from my opponent. Didn't pause except for water or a energy bar – both of which he'd bring with him. Within the first few sessions, I learned he was relentless, merciless, thorough, and brutal with his instructions.

  On the Thursday of our second week, the routine broke. I was dodging his attack, trying to find an opening to take the offensive when he stopped mid-motion, his head rising, his nostrils flaring. My punch connected with his jaw with such force that his head snapped back with a loud crack. He was so intent in whatever had caught his attention, he didn't even flinch. My shock at the fact that I'd landed him a square on faded fast at the ferocious glint in his eyes. His head turned away, sniffing the air. I sniffed too, but didn't smell anything, except for our sweat and my blood. Maybe his olfactory sense was better than mine. But whether he could smell better than me or not wasn't the issue. Something had caught his attention.

  A chill skipped down my spine, and I rubbed my palms on my arms, trying to work some warmth into them. I glanced around and sniffed again, opened my mouth to ask him what he had smelled, but his hazel eyes flashed with warning before he shifted eastward. Or what I thought was east in a land without a sun.

  Sensing danger, I turned, searching the illuminated circle around us, trying to see into the darkness beyond. I wanted to whisper him a question, but my words were held back by his savage expression.

  Diggy shifted and took a step forward. I followed, and he raised a fist in the air, a silent command for me to stay still, and I froze. He glanced back over his shoulder, placed a finger on his lips, which I thought was ridiculously funny, considering.

  And he disappeared. There once, then gone. Not moved in a blur or too fast that I couldn't follow.

  Just dis
appeared into thin air.

  He left me. Alone, in the Low Lands.

  I whirled around so fast, I lost balance and went down hard on one knee, barely feeling the needle-sharp rocks that dug into my skin.

  He'd done the unthinkable.

  He left me.

  Alone in a land where no one would think to search for me.

  With his absence, the lighted circle plunged into darkness, nothing to be seen and nothing to be heard.

  Diggy! I thought, barely containing my need to scream for him. Diggy!

  Was this it? Was he Angelina's business partner after all?

  Was this the part where he'd say “I only left her for a moment and when I returned I found her like this” – dead and dismembered?

  In a land where even buzzards didn't exist, what would happen to my body?

  A nearby sound had me scrambling upright, not breathing, my frantic eyes roaming left to right, searching the impenetrable darkness. Another sound, this time to my left. Then another and another, and I knew I was surrounded. My hands covered my mouth, trying to hold back the scream pushing to escape. Suddenly I was back to that day two months ago with Dr. Dean and Remo Drammen. The agonizing screams, the tearing of flesh, the blood, the frenzied feeding. All rushed back to the forth front of my memory, a recurring nightmare reborn anew, breathing down my neck. Pumping my heart with fire, making my blood roar through my veins.

  I could see them ahead, two bodies being torn apart bite by bite, bloodied piranha-like teeth everywhere, Dr. Dean's screams of agony, Remo's roars of outrage. They came for me, their bloody, missing limbs reaching forward. Something touched my back and I gasped, blinded with fear, blood roaring like a raging river in my ears. I whirled with my talons extended, but my knees buckled and I fell, a talon scraping my thigh before I could stop myself. Something large clamped down on my shoulder and I brought talons down on it, opening a few gashes in my shoulder when it wrenched away. Fear was making me careless, keeping my moves clumsy, my thoughts sluggish.

  I was grabbed, encircled from behind, my biceps pressed tight to my sides. All the air from my lungs was squeezed out. I began thrashing, a choked scream of terror escaping through my lips as my talons dug deep into flesh.

  A snarl sounded in my ears, and the vice tightened, confining me. Suffocating me. I screamed, bucked, kicked backward, threw back my head. Hit something hard. I gained an inch, threw myself sideways. I pulled myself forward, rocks digging into my flesh before I had enough sense to lift my body off the ground. I was about to run blindly into the darkness when something heavy fell on top of me, grabbed my wrists and wrenched my arms above my head.

  “Easy, easy, easy.”

  I threw back my head again, hit something that crunched. My neck spasmed with a twinge, an ache that pulled from the back of my skull to my shoulder. I bucked, up, down, sideways. But I wasn't able to dislodge the weight off my back. If it bit me… I was going to die in the Low Lands after all, like Remo and Dr. Michael Dean.

  “Roxanne, easy, easy there,” the voice kept saying, and through the terror I recognized it, realized I could see again. I raised my head an inch, my neck smarting, my breathing short, ragged pants, and glanced to the left and right. There was nothing there.

  “Diggy?” I choked.

  “I'm going to let go now. Ok?” He let go of my wrists, then rolled off, taking all the warmth with him. I glanced at him, jolted when I saw blood running down his face, the slashes on his forearms and hand. He rose and took a few steps away, expression unreadable.

  I let my head drop to the ground and took in a few calming, shallow breaths. Every small atom in my body was shaking. When I was sure my legs would support me, I stood, turned to face him. My breathing was still rapid, my heart shoving hard against my ribcage, but the panic attack was more or less under control.

  I drew in a long, shuddering breath that smelled strongly metallic, of his blood and mine. There was no satisfaction to the fact that I had managed to hurt him at last. I rubbed both palms over my face, trying to gather some composure back. Diggy stayed put, not moving, perhaps afraid he'd trigger another panic attack if he did. His eyes looked wary, uncertain.

  You left me in the dark, I wanted to accuse. “Are we done here?” I asked instead, hating the fact that my voice shook.

  He nodded and reached for me, hesitated a fraction of a second before his fingers closed around my wrist. The world flashed white and no sooner I began falling then I was standing in the locker room, Diggy already at the door.

  A glance at the far wall told me it was 7:48 in the morning. I had been gone for less than ten minutes. I washed, covered my torn clothes with an ugly beige coat I kept at base for emergencies and took a cab home, dropping keys and coat on the counter the moment I stepped inside. I sensed Frizz before he appeared, a soothing wave wafting from him.

  “You call, Master, I come to you,” he said in that odd hissing tone. I could tell he was hurt I hadn't asked him to come help. Again.

  I rubbed my hand over my face, weary and tired – emotionally as much as physically. “I'm sorry. It didn't cross my mind.”

  If I didn't order him to stay home while I was out, he'd have been there. He'd have been there when Angelina had attacked too. But people could sense his presence, even when he was in a higher dimension and invisible to the naked eye, and I'd figured keeping him a secret would do me better than to flaunt him around.

  I sensed his need to be near, his need to comfort, to make sure I was alright, so I crouched and patted him some, scratched behind his ear, before I shuffled to the bathroom. I wanted to reach out to him, to give him a tight hug, to soak in that soothing presence, but I was too bloodied and filthy for that.

  I stripped off my bloodied, torn clothes and threw them away, like most articles of clothing I'd worn to train in the Low Lands. My wardrobe was disappearing away like toilet paper down the hole. At this rate, I'd go naked before the end of the month.

  I reached for the light switch and it hissed with static before the bulb blew in a shower of light and glass. As if that had been a signal, tears rushed unbidden to my eyes. I swallowed them, refusing to give in. I rubbed my hands over my face, pressed palms hard against my eyes until a burst of color bloomed behind my lids. I slipped into the shower, sidestepping the glass, and let scalding-hot water wash and burn away my fatigue, my memories, my sore muscles.

  The next day Diggy arrived at my front step and waited for me to answer the door before stepping in. He told me to get ready and dress warmly, paused to wait by the kitchen. A glance at the time told me he was fifteen minutes early. Maybe he was feeling guilty for yesterday, I told myself as I dressed into warm, worn sweat pants and a bulky sweater I used to wear when I had nowhere to sleep but the cab of my car, Old Thunder.

  When I returned to the living room, I found Diggy standing in front of the window, hands tucked in his pockets, his back to me. There was a pile of snow at the corner of the window, the world a white blanket on the other side. It was still snowing, the flakes small like miniature white butterflies. He turned when he sensed me, his eyes wary.

  “You ready?” he asked and I nodded once.

  He took a step forward, inhaled a deep breath. “About yesterday…” He frowned, trailed off. “Look, about yesterday. I'm not sure what really happened…” He trailed off again, raked a hand through his hair, frustration clear in his eyes as he searched for the right words.

  I waited, knowing I'd overreacted big time, but wanting to hear his explanation nonetheless.

  “Yesterday, after I went… yesterday,” he said forcefully, “I only restricted you because you were hurting yourself. I'm sorry if I was rough, if I added to the panic attack, or hurt you in any way.” He must have seen my incredulity, because his brows furrowed, and I could almost see him shifting gears. “Our training sessions are not the result of superior strength, of a dominant subduing a weaker subject,” he said, insulted. “When you refuse to learn, I discipline you the way I would any other under
ling. When you're injured fighting back, they're like taxes paid for learnt knowledge. Yesterday I overpowered you, used my strength against your weakness, and that is not acceptable. I apologize for doing it, but at that moment I didn't know what was wrong, and I couldn't think of any other way to prevent you from hurting yourself more. It's not an appropriate excuse because I should know better. Your terror caught me off guard, had me on alert, and when you attacked me I drew on instinct, which I later realized was what drove you on the offensive in the first place.”

  He wasn't apologizing for leaving me there alone; he was apologizing for how he handled me after he returned. I studied his frustrated expression, aware the apology sounded rustic because it wasn't something given often. Yet here he was, his nose somewhat discolored, though the swelling was gone, offering an apology.

  “I can give you the day off, if you want, resume the sessions monday,” he offered, flustered I hadn't reassured him it was ok.

  None of the usual hostility he'd harbored the last few weeks was present today, so I decided to ask a question of my own. “Why do you hate me?” My tone was curious, maybe a little intrigued.

  The corners of his eyes tightened a fraction, something I wouldn't have noticed if I didn't spend so much time with him. Yet I couldn't decipher what it meant.

  “Who said I do?”

  “The hostility kinda gave it away.” I meant to pose it as a question, but it came as a sarcastic comeback.

  Annoyance fleshed in his eyes, along with something else – guilt? He glanced out the window and when he looked back, the calm mask he wore at base was back on. “I don't hate you. It's just that…” He paused a second before sighing, long and hard, resigned. When he continued, his expression looked sincere. “I don't hate you as a person. But I don't like the fact that I was given the task of training you from ground zero. I'm not a patient man, and, in truth, I'd have rather been in the field solving hard cases than be stuck here, attending to bar brawls because I have to stick around base.” He fell quiet, and I had no idea what to say to that.