Heir of Ashes (The Roxanne Fosch Files #1)

Chapter 3

I crossed into Nevada around sunset the next day and took the first exit I found, heading for one of those no-name motels. Driving for more than twenty-seven hours had made my leg throb anew, even if there was nothing but ugly scars where the vampire had bitten me. A low-grade headache had settled in some long miles back, and a persistent grinding noise from Thunder’s worn-out engine had only added to my worries.

I parked in front of the office and took out a brown wig and contact lenses from my purse. I didn’t want to be recognized if Logan—on the off chance he managed to follow me this far—happened to describe me to anyone. Inside, a paunchy middle-aged man sat behind a dingy desk, too engrossed in a bag of sunflower seeds and a game on the TV to give me more than a passing glance. He didn’t even bother with any niceties. He motioned to the soap and travel-sized shampoo for sale with a grunt and a flick of his hand in case I needed them. I paid cash for a room and toiletries and made my way to number thirteen.

The motel was an L-shaped, two-story brick structure, and room thirteen was the last one on the shorter leg, on the ground floor. The lights outside had burned out, giving the place a deserted, eerie feel. Only three vehicles, including mine, dotted the parking lot. I wasn’t usually a superstitious person; on the contrary, I liked to believe myself very sensible. Still, something about number thirteen, that doorway shrouded in darkness, that feel of abandonment combined with that still-present sense of foreboding—well, let’s just say that number thirteen gave me the heebie-jeebies.

For a long time, I just sat in the darkened car. I wasn’t sure what I was expecting to happen, but there I was, hands gripping the steering wheel, waiting. Finally, common sense prevailed, and I shook off the unease. I climbed out, marched to the room and without hesitation unlocked the door, determined to get a good night’s sleep. As far as those kinds of establishments went, the room was unremarkable, maybe a bit threadbare. The important part was that it was semi-clean. Before going inside, I gave one last look back at Thunder, then closed and locked the door with a flimsy chain that wouldn’t deter a determined child, let alone anything preternatural.

***

I woke up a couple of hours later and knew I was not alone. Years in the PSS taught me not to react and give myself away. My mind, fully awake, assessed the situation.

If I could just see what he was … oh, but he was good. I could hardly hear anything. And he was close. Very, very close. He shouldn’t have been able to get this close without waking me. It was probably Logan, but I learned long ago never to rule out different dangers. My instinct screamed at me to open my eyes, but I resisted, afraid the intruder was watching for any signs that I was awake. So I played possum and waited, muscles coiled, ready to spring. He was so good; I could barely hear the rustling of clothes and his low, even breathing.

One more step. Come on. Not having the advantage of knowing what I was up against, all I had was the second I’d get if I could surprise him. He took a step, and I rolled, catching a glimpse of something long and metal hitting the pillow where my head had been just a second before. Stuffing from the pillow exploded from the sides, and—I swear—I felt the iron frame of the bed bend and dip a little.

Shocked, I wondered—even as my inner voice screamed for me to run—if he was trying to kill me. Had the PSS given up on capturing me and just wanted me off the grid? Was it because of the vampire incident? I didn’t have time to think. I grabbed the cold metal thing—baseball bat—and pulled with all my strength. He didn’t let go, stumbling forward instead, and I lashed out with my talons, aiming for his throat. He ducked just in time, and I sliced three shallow gashes across his cheek. Blood, thick and dark, oozed from the wounds, but he didn’t falter.

I sprang from the bed, still clutching the bat, but he yanked it away. He wobbled when the bat slipped from my grasp, but gained his balance easily, then turned to face me. He was definitely not Logan. The man had a blue aura twisted with something very dark—black? Blue was for ordinary humans, while black … black could be many things I couldn’t take the time to ponder. I noted, though, that the blue was very faint and that whatever the black was, it was taking over his humanity.

He gave me a wide, deranged smile, something I could see clearly despite the dimness of the room, and took a step forward, swinging the bat at my head. Instead of retreating, I stepped into his swing, catching the bat under my arm and slashing at his neck once more. Again, he dodged, narrowly avoiding the strike. His free hand shot out, grabbing a fistful of my hair and yanking me forward. Awkwardly, I raised my talons and sliced a path from shoulder to shoulder. His face twisted with a ferocious snarl, and he viciously twisted his hand in my hair. I cried out, desperate, and raked my talons across his wrist. He hissed, the pressure on my scalp easing, and I immediately backpedaled … only to fall straight into someone else’s arms. There were two of them! How could I have missed something like that?

I struggled to free my arms, and to my increasing alarm, I couldn’t. The man behind me had me locked into a bear hug, pinning my arms to my sides. The smell of sour sweat and leather wafted off him in acrid waves, and the ease in which he’d immobilized me was terrifying.

Bad Boy One with the bat sauntered closer, his crazed, deranged smile fixed on me. The oozing blood smearing his cheek looked like dark war paint. The predatory way he moved, the look in his eyes, vacant of any signs of humanity, told me that whatever he had in mind, it wasn’t to club and hustle me unconscious to the nearest PSS base.

I didn’t want to die. Fear fueled my adrenaline and I thrashed in earnest. The man holding me responded by squeezing his tree-trunk arms tighter, close to breaking my ribs, making it hard to breathe. Bad Boy One’s smile grew at my struggles, enjoying my helplessness. He swung the bat with both hands to the left, taunting, then to the right, the second time only half an inch away from my nose. If he swung the bat a third time, it was going to shatter my jaw at best, crack my skull at worst—if it didn’t outright kill me.

Bad Boy One took one more step, and I stopped struggling. My heart was drumming a fast rhythm, almost one single inseparable tone. A wild gleam of anticipation entered his eyes before he raised the bat again with a low whistle of air. I shifted, replacing my weight on the balls of my feet. The moment he came into range, I pushed, slamming my feet into his chest with all the strength I could muster. The impact sent Bad Boy One stumbling back a few feet, hitting the nightstand on his way, and falling down to one knee with a thud, while Bad Boy Two staggered but didn’t let go. Panic flared, increasing my desperation. I screamed, hoping someone would come but knowing even if someone did, chances were they would die with me. Then I stabbed the talons of my right hand into Bad Boy Two’s thigh.

He grunted in my ear and staggered, his hold loosening just enough for me to slam my head forcefully back into his jaw. Pain exploded behind my eyes, but I forced myself to struggle and wriggle harder. The instant I twisted free, I threw myself sideways and crawled, pushing with hands and feet and managing to gain some distance before Bad Boy Two grabbed my scarred ankle and hauled me back.

I kicked wildly with my other foot and struck his thigh. His only response was a hiss. I stomped twice more in quick succession, and this time I heard a sickening popping sound as his knee gave way. Bad Boy Two fell to his knees, hollering inhumanly, the sound kick-starting my fear to a higher level. Instead of letting me go, his grip on my ankle only tightened. I’d have his hand perfectly printed around my ankle like a henna tattoo.

By then, Bad Boy One had gained his feet and stalked toward me, his face twisted with rage. I jerked my hand into talons and was about to slash Bad Boy Two’s wrist when I realized it would expose my side to Bad Boy One. So, I tried slashing at the latter, but the angle was wrong, and my talons scraped uselessly against the iron bedframe. Whatever that black on their auras was, it gave them speed, strength, and endurance beyond anything normal.

Bad Boy One sidestepped my next attempt, then stomped my hand with brutal force, sending shockwaves of pain up my arm. He followed with a kick to my side, his boot striking hard between my ribs and hip. My vision burst into white hot stars as I curled into a ball, trying to protect myself.

Bad Boy Two let go of my ankle and stood. The popping sound apparently hadn’t been a broken bone because he joined his companion, and they both began kicking and stomping me to death. I had enough sense to cover my head, though after a while, I realized I was just prolonging the inevitable.

The sound of a loud boom and a roar filtered through some eternity later. At first, I thought I had been the one screaming, but after some confusing and painful seconds passed, I realized no one was kicking me. I coughed, tasting blood, my vision dimming at the edges. I might have blacked out for a second or ten. I spat a wad of blood and wondered, vaguely alarmed, about its origin. I heard grunts and curses and the sound of flesh hitting flesh. A voice in my head told me to go, go, go, and I had enough survival instinct left to crawl out of the room and get to my feet slowly, so, so slowly, supporting myself on the doorframe. I was disoriented, unsure of what to do next.

When I looked back, I found Logan, his familiar green and yellow aura wrestling one of the bad boys while the other lay writhing in a heap, blood amassing under his head. A gun lay on the floor, no doubt the weapon responsible for the pooling blood. I turned my attention back to the fight in time to see Bad Boy One scoop up the bat and swing it at Logan, missing his head and glancing off his shoulder with a sickening thwack. And even though the blow must have hurt like a bitch, Logan didn’t miss a step. He closed in and punched Bad Boy One with an uppercut to the jaw, then tackled him to the ground. They rolled around in the confined space, each trying to get the upper hand and strangle the other.

Should I help? I debated picking up the gun. While I hesitated, Bad Boy Two, still writhing on the floor, gave an inhuman howl, and as I watched, his aura flashed once, then turned completely black, deciding for me. I didn’t want to know the outcome of the fight.

Staggering out of the room, I made my way to Thunder. Two motorcycles and a black Range Rover were parked near my truck. The reception guy was crouched by the dim office door, talking urgently on a cellphone. He saw me and stood, dressed in nothing but boxer briefs, his belly protruding forward, his torso and legs bare to the chill wind. He crouched again when something back in room thirteen broke with a loud crash. Probably the TV.

“They’re shootin’ and breakin’ everythin’! Just send someone, damn ya!” he shouted into his cellphone. “One of them is runnin’!” he screamed in outrage, watching me go.

Not wanting to find out who he was talking to, I went around to the truck’s bed as fast as my battered body allowed, grateful that the lights outside room thirteen had burned out. With trembling fingers, I uncovered the extra key I had glued under the leather carpet in case of emergencies. Every muscle in my body throbbed, forcing me to hunch over, trying to relieve some of the pressure.

I had difficulties pressing the clutch and gas pedals, but I clenched my teeth and backed out of the parking lot, tires screeching. I drove away, drunkenly taking exit ramps and coming back to the highway, meandering around in a zigzag motion, keeping a wary eye for any black Range Rovers or motorcycles. Why had Logan helped me? Was that a fight for the bounty the PSS had placed on me?

Up ahead, I spotted the flickering lights of a gas station and decided to risk stopping. I parked in a dim corner and crawled with some difficulty to the backseat where I kept my duffel, shrugged on a jacket, and pushed my feet into my spare pair of boots.

I headed for the bathroom first. The harsh lighting stabbed my eyes, making me squint. I winced at my reflection. The face that stared back at me was pale, paler than usual, and my black eyes were glazed, both from the close call and the pain. One of the kicks had definitely hit my face before I had enough sense to cover my head, because my right cheek was swollen and turning purple. I healed fast, faster than an ordinary human, but the process of healing was the same for me as anyone else.

My red hair—now with three inches of black roots—was a wild mess, and I tried to pat it down. I washed my face with cold water, my cheeks protesting with throbbing vengeance. I looked like hell, and I felt even worse. I tucked my shirt inside my pants, buttoned my denim jacket all the way to cover the blood, and surveyed myself in the mirror. I was still hunched to the left, and when I straightened, a hot, fiery pain shot through my side. Yet it was nothing compared to the pain I felt when I probed my ribs. I barely managed to suppress a scream of agony, hissing through gritted teeth instead. I wanted desperately to curl up in a dim corner and bawl until I was numb, but I couldn’t afford that luxury.

I breathed in and out, inhaling through my nose and exhaling slowly through my mouth, willing the pain to subside. When it finally eased, I made my way to the grocery store next door as fast as I could. I was aware of places in my body I had never felt before. I grabbed some painkillers first, opened the bottle, and dry-swallowed six pills. Then I grabbed some snacks and soft drinks and went to pay for my purchases. The guy manning the register gave me some dubious looks but said nothing. I paid and left in a hurry, afraid that whoever had won the fight back in the motel would be right behind me. I drove for the rest of the night and half the next day, then parked behind a deserted factory where I reclined my seat and promptly fell into a deep, exhausted sleep.

***

It was fully dark when I awoke. My head pounded in sync with my pulse and my body still ached horribly. I downed six more painkillers, chewed on a power bar, and washed it down with one of the soft drinks before getting back on the road.

An hour in, the truck began making the same grinding noise as before, only louder this time. I ignored it, even as unease twisted my gut. The road stretched out ahead, dark and cold under a sky mostly clear of clouds. I hadn’t seen another vehicle for a long while. Two hours into the drive, the truck sputtered, coughed, and gray smoke began to curl out from under the hood.

“Hell, not now,” I muttered. I got out to check the damage, having to punch the hood a few times and jostling a few forgotten aches, before it finally gave. I was welcomed by a cloud of thick smoke that obscured my view of the engine for a second, keeping me from noticing the fire at first.

I backed away and dashed for the fire extinguisher that, to my dismay and growing frustration, was missing from the holder. I cursed as I grabbed my duffel and my snacks, and hurried away. I was only about a hundred yards away when Thunder exploded. I didn’t look back.

I tried hitchhiking, but the occasional trucks that passed never stopped. All the gentlemen of the world seemed to be gone. I kept walking, each step a battle of willpower.

Three hours after my truck blew, I heard the rumble of a sixteen-wheeler approaching. I raised my thumb, holding my breath, silently begging for it to stop. After a second, it began to slow and I exhaled in relief, the hope to rest making my exhaustion more pronounced. But as soon as the cab drew level with me, the driver blasted the horn, one long key, effectively deafening me. I could almost hear the driver’s cruel cackling before the sixteen-wheeler roared off, leaving me alone on the dark, empty road once more.

My ears buzzed, the sound ricocheting inside my head like a frantic pinball. I screamed in frustration. What happened to those people who couldn’t help but stop for a lone woman stranded on a desert road at night? Miserable and cold, aching all over, I trudged—more shuffled really—for maybe another hour, until I realized I was wheezing and hunched over.

I searched the dark desert on both sides of the road for a place I could spend the night. There was nothing. Nothing but a lonely cactus. But really, what was I looking for? A tent with a warm bedroll? If I wanted to sleep unnoticed by the occasional vehicle, I wouldn’t have to walk far into the desert, but I’d have to be up before morning or I’d stand out in the sea of sand like a verdant tree. I’d be in more danger from a rattlesnake or whatever lurked out there. In my current state, I’d probably die without even knowing I had been bitten.

I eyed the dark desert and contemplated my options. Fatigue won out, and I was making my way into the desert when I heard the low rumble of an approaching engine. I almost sagged with relief before I remembered the world was filled with assholes like the driver of the sixteen-wheeler. I stuck my thumb out anyway and watched the blinding lights reach me. When they did, I mentally kicked myself for not taking my chances with nature five minutes earlier. Because there was nowhere to run, I waited until the passenger door opened … only to find myself staring down the barrel of Logan’s gun.