Heir of Ashes (The Roxanne Fosch Files #1)

Chapter 5

When I reached the city, I had to slow down to view the scenery or I’d crash. I drove awestruck at my surroundings, absorbing everything—every small detail, every colored bulb, large and small, tall and short buildings. I particularly enjoyed driving through The Strip—which happened by accident—the grand hotels, the luxury cars, the variety of people and classes. I could feel the despair, the greed, the malevolence, the excitement, even with the windows closed. I didn’t know if they were only strong impressions or if I actually tasted them. It was like a carnival had come through and taken permanent residence.

Prostitutes dotted the streets here and there, couples walked hand-in-hand. There were as many people strolling on sidewalks as there were cars on the narrow street. It brought to mind a kaleidoscope of people, vehicles, lights, and colors. I wished, just for a night, that this was my life. I wished I could be as carefree as these people, that just for a night, I could forget all my troubles.

I decided what to do when I caught sight of the Bellagio ahead. A valet came out and took the keys to the Range Rover, and I waited until he was out of sight before turning around and walking away. I looked up, and up, and up; it was as if I was in a bubble. There were no stars, no dark sky above, only glittering lights and colors. Despite my fatigue, I couldn’t resist the allure. I wandered through the mix of tailored suits, expensive gowns and perfumes, punks with peacock heads, thugs clad in black leather and bad attitudes, along with the ordinary denim and suede jackets. I had no destination, no goals besides yearning to be free. I walked and watched people, cars, colors and lights until my head spun and my aching ribs screamed for rest. I checked in at the America’s Best Value Inn across from the MGM—using the money I had found inside Logan’s glove compartment—and ordered coffee and a light meal to be brought to my room. It was as good a place to stop and catch my breath.

After I ate the chicken salad and toast, I drank the whole carafe of coffee and fell asleep face down on the pillow, putting pressure on my ribs.

I awoke at dusk the next day, feeling somewhat rested. My ribs ached a bit, but at least they were getting better. I dressed and checked out, and for a moment, stood on the sidewalk, unsure of where to go or what to do. The need to find a place to hide was there, but so was the desire to experience life beyond surviving the next obstacle. On impulse, I crossed to the MGM Casino across the street, wanting—no, needing—to know what living was like, even if only for one night. It was a crowded space, filled with witnesses, and the last place the PSS would look for me. Besides, there was something about the tall building, an air of expectancy that beckoned me.

I wasn’t the best-looking woman in the place, especially with my faintly bruised cheek and rumpled clothes. That suited me just fine. I still caught a lot of looks, but very few second glances. I was taller than average, around six feet, with dark, glossy hair and a clear complexion that accentuated the color of my black eyes. Tonight, that clear complexion still carried hints of yellow and green, and it was where most glances focused first. As long as the looks came from plain blue auras, my alarm meter didn’t buzz.

Everywhere I looked, people were playing, some screaming with excitement. Women—scantily dressed and glowing with all their jingly baubles and clownish makeup—dangled from the arms of men like crystals on chandeliers. A few seated people sweat and bet the last chip in front of them. Several women, some in sparkling gowns of every color of the rainbow and others in conservative suits, were drinking and flirting or gambling, the expressions on their faces as intense as those of the men beside them.

Yeah, money spoke the universal language. As I watched the bustling activity in the casino, I realized how true those words were. There was a broad variety of people, a melting pot of ethnicities, economies, cultures, and religions, all boxed together in one place. A big spectrum that funneled down to one goal: to gamble and win, though it was a goal seldom achieved.

The emotions inside the casino attacked my senses, but I was reluctant to leave the safety it offered. I’d spotted a green aura, a hyena, judging by his strut and the pitch of his laughter, an orange one—either a born vampire that indulged too much in blood or a newly made one—and a silvery blue aura that shone brightly, as if the light would catch his aura just right. I had no idea what it meant, but guessed it had something to do with magic-wielding, since those who could wield magic had a glowing sheen on their auras. The three men were either busy gambling or mingling, and none of them glanced at me once. Nonetheless, I kept a wary eye on them; I hadn’t seen so many preternaturals with this much frequency before.

I headed toward the closest bar, having to detour occasionally from people who stopped in my path to chat and laugh. I ordered a soft drink that cost more than a decent meal in an upscale restaurant and turned around, leaning my elbows on the gleaming counter, content just to sit and people-watch. Maybe it was time to consider life in a large city. Los Angeles, maybe. I let my mind drift through the possibilities while I sat and sipped my drink.

***

I’d been sitting by the bar for over an hour and had just deflected the third man on his flirtatious attempt when the fourth one arrived.

I vaguely wondered, no longer bothering to hide my annoyance, if he had been waiting for the previous one to vacate the stool.

I checked, long enough to make sure his aura was blue, and turned my attention back to the gamblers. I still held the soft drink, now tepid, the ice cubes long ago having melted.

“Hello,” the man said, leaning forward a little to be heard over the din. I had no trouble hearing him without his closeness, and I was not going to return the favor. I raised my drink in a half-hearted greeting and returned my attention to the buzzing activities.

“Can I buy you a drink?” he offered. “That one doesn’t seem very appealing.” He was too close to my ear. He sniffed my hair, and I glared at him, turning my head only once I was sure that we wouldn’t be bumping noses.

He gave me an arrogant wink and signaled to the bartender. I ignored his offer and promised myself it was okay to slap him if he came sniffing again. I resumed people-watching, absently scanning for the other preternaturals. I found both the were-hyena and the vampire at the blackjack table nearby, but there was no trace of Silvery Blue. I had seen him just a couple of minutes ago near the roulette, and somehow, while I was glaring at Sniffer, Silvery Blue had disappeared. I stood up to see past the milling people, certain that he’d just gone out of range, and began combing the casino.

Ten minutes later, I found him by the slot machines. We faced each other from about fifteen feet away, the span of two slot machines. The one closest to him was occupied by an African-American man in a blue designer suit, and the one closest to me was occupied by a brunette who looked no older than me, dressed in a nice burgundy strapless dress.

This was the first time since I’d first seen his aura that I got a clear view of Silvery Blue’s face: dark eyes, a square jaw, full lips under a straight nose, a tanned complexion, and straight, thick black hair that framed his features. As our gazes connected, something in him resonated with something in me. There was a magnetic pull … and the strangest thing happened—his dark eyes suddenly flashed a brilliant shade of yellow.

An electric shock jolted through my nervous system. I braced myself on the edge of the slot machine to keep myself standing. He inclined his head in acknowledgment before turning to the man beside him as if nothing extraordinary had just happened, returning his full attention to his companion, who was gesticulating animatedly. I looked around at the milling people, but no one seemed to have noticed the display, then looked back at Silvery Blue, now focused on his companion with his head cocked to the side. I remained frozen in place for a few beats, watching the man.

Silvery Blue would shake his head occasionally, say something back to his companion that would cause him to start gesturing all over again. In the long moments I stood rooted there, Silvery Blue returned my gaze twice. Both times, there was no tug, no pull, and his eyes remained dark. However, the third time … there was something there. Puzzlement? Speculation? I couldn’t tell. But either or both, the sharp interest he exhibited was chilling. Because it was the fascination of a stalking hunter. Of his companion, I only noticed that, despite him being agitated, his aura was plain blue, and he had gray streaks in his dark hair and mustache—before I had enough sense to turn and make a beeline for the exit. Somehow, I no longer felt safe in that crowded place.

But it wasn’t Silvery Blue I should have kept an eye out for. The moment I reached the lobby, one of the casino’s security guards stepped in front of me, blocking my exit. Despite the blue aura, he looked like one of the meanest SOBs I’d ever see, and considering my life and all the shit I’ve been through, that was saying a lot. He was as tall as he was wide, having at least two hundred pounds on me. He looked like one of those bodybuilders who had no limits. The more muscles, the better. And by his menacing stance, I deduced he wasn’t here to offer me a drink. Could I take him? Something about him reminded me of the PSS’s Elite guards, but I didn’t think he was one of them. For one, his aura wasn’t blurry, and if he was a guard, he would have found a way to shoot me already. Nullify the threat, no matter how many people witnessed it, then make excuses if needed.

He brushed his suit jacket with a hand, emphasizing the bulk underneath it.

What? Be quiet? Don’t make a scene?

A passerby gave me a knowing smirk as he talked on his cellphone while the security guy motioned to the left. There was a long, nasty scar running down his neck that disappeared inside the lapel of his suit. I followed the direction he indicated and saw another security guard. Behind me, people approached.

“Follow me,” he said quietly, and it didn’t escape me that he assumed I’d be able to hear him above the din. He waited a beat, and when I made no move to obey, he took a threatening step forward. When he reached for me, I grabbed the person behind me and shoved him—her—into the security SOB, turned, and bolted back inside.

Behind me, a squeal of outrage pierced the air, but I didn’t turn to acknowledge the chaos erupting in my wake. I marched through the throng of people as fast as I could. The multitude of bodies that had given me some sense of security earlier were now nothing more than live obstacles in my path.

I spotted a security guard and veered in the opposite direction. Every person who looked at me was a potential threat, and every step in my direction felt suspicious. I had to get the hell out of there. Yesterday.

Near the craps tables, a hand clamped down on my forearm from behind. Without thinking twice, I fisted my other hand, turned, and struck. My punch connected with Sniffer’s nose, crunching loudly. He stumbled back into a cocktail waitress, his arms flailing, sending her tray flying and showering the tall man behind her in a cascade of alcohol and glass. Blood gushed from Sniffer’s nose like an open faucet. Covering his face with a hand, he began screaming—like a girl—in outrage and pain.

Any other time, I would have apologized profusely, tried to help, and looked back on the memory with a fond smile. This wasn’t any other time. Every eye within earshot was on us, including those of the security personnel. Suddenly, Sniffer’s eyes rolled back, the whites showing all around, and he fell like a rock. A guy caught him before he hit the floor, glaring blue eyes up at me, and a swarm of people closed over Sniffer’s prone body, blocking my view. I turned and hurried away as fast as possible through the thick crowd, hearing some of the people who had stopped to help Sniffer calling after me.

I received glares from the sympathetic, amused looks from the cynical, and wondering looks from the curious. No one tried to intervene. Not by stopping or restraining me or helping by moving out of the way. Most just stood and watched with different expressions while the rest were too engrossed in their gambling to care.

A security guard stepped in front of me—the mean SOB from the lobby—and seized my arm before I could bolt. I swung my fist into his stomach, and it was like punching an iron wall. I kicked his shin, and he grunted and tightened his grip. It was the same reaction I’d gotten from Bad Boy Two. The only difference: this time I had boots on and should have gotten a more dramatic reaction than a measly grunt. I had kicked enough scientists in my life to know I should have at least cracked a bone.

I looked around but there was no one there to help, even though people surrounded us in every direction. Some pointed fingers at me. Some gave me disgusted looks. Some laughed at my futile struggles. Some looked outraged. And, oh God, some raised cellphones and recorded the spectacle.

The security guy snapped a handcuff to my wrist and secured the other to his own. I met Silvery Blue’s indifferent gaze from not too far. Then another security guy stepped in, blocking my view, then another and another. Four of them against one of me.

I yanked on the cuff, sure I could break the link, but nothing. Not even a faint metal squeak. I yanked again and again, with no result. Without a second thought for the avid spectators and their recording devices, I jerked my left hand and … nothing happened. No talons. I jerked it again, and nothing. I searched the cuff for any runes, but the metal was smooth, with no markings to be seen.

The crowd parted for the security guards, and it was either I move, or risk being dragged by the wrist. I had no doubt the giant bodybuilder would have no trouble dragging me behind him like a rag doll. So, I followed and tried to take note of where I was being taken.

My guard entourage took me to the back of the casino, past the bar and an empty stage, beyond the restrooms, until we reached a set of double doors marked “Private”. Two guards stood sentinel, barring entry to the less privileged. They stepped aside for us to enter, giving no other acknowledgment to our passing. The other three guards didn’t follow us inside.

We entered a plush hallway decorated with paintings and cleverly sculpted marble statues mounted on top of gleaming dark wood, placed carefully in intervals between closed doors. I was hustled from hallway to hallway until we reached a lonely elevator at the end of an empty corridor. Nothing marked the metal frame of the door except a small keyhole. No lights, no numbers to indicate the car’s location, no call button. The feeling of foreboding, festering inside me since I had left Paul’s diner weeks ago, reared up and slammed into me full force, knocking the breath from my lungs. My steps faltered, but the giant didn’t pause or miss a step. He inserted a long, thin key into the lock, and the elevator doors slid open, revealing a sterile, brightly lit interior. No chimes, no music, just the hiss of the doors.

Oh, hell no. I renewed my struggles, kicking, punching and, yes, even screaming—like a girl. Aside from a mean glare, Giant didn’t acknowledge me. He entered the elevator, pulling me behind him like a stubborn mule. I braced a leg on the metal frame, grabbed the link of the cuff, and pulled. Hard. And fell butt down when Giant came forward willingly. He picked me up, threw me over his shoulder, and carried me into the car. I screamed and kicked all the way up.

We ascended to the topmost floor, to what I assumed was the penthouse and the source of that foreboding. The car door opened, and I was dropped unceremoniously on my feet and shoved roughly with a beefy hand. I fell to my knees and glared up at Giant, who took a key from his pocket and undid the handcuffs.

Immediately, I jerked my hand, and talons appeared. The security guard smiled menacingly, his aura becoming completely black, like Bad Boy Two’s aura had after he got shot.

I scrambled backward, something flickering in the depths of his eyes … something not of this world. Every hair on my body stood on end. Then, as if a switch had been flipped, his smile vanished, his stance relaxed, his aura returned to a harmless blue, and his eyes focused on a point behind me.

I rose to my feet slowly, took a step back, and kept an eye on him as I looked around. I had a hunch that if Giant was allowed to hurt me, he’d have done it already—and enjoyed it immensely. With the wall at my back, I studied the empty, plush sitting room: the beige carpet and white sofa, the crystal chandelier hanging low above the gleaming coffee table, the mirrored bar, and the pastel-colored paintings I assumed were originals or very good and expensive imitations. Across from me, a wall of glass windows framed Las Vegas in its full glory. There were four doors that opened to the living room, not counting the elevator, all closed.

There was no one in sight, and I couldn’t hear any sounds coming from the other rooms. Regardless of the quiet, my heart began slamming hard against my ribs. One thing I had learned in the PSS over the years was never to ignore my instincts. Something was wrong here, and that otherness inside of me had recognized it—had been giving me warnings for more than two weeks, in fact.

Cold shivers ran down my spine, like scores of frozen fingers. My stomach fluttered nervously. I concentrated, sending out my senses, and after a few seconds, I sensed some kind of buzzing energy, like static, like high-voltage cables, filling—no, surrounding—the entire space. I caught myself holding my breath, waiting for the next bad thing in my life to manifest.

The energy grew, became almost tangible, and goosebumps broke all over my body. I didn’t hear any footsteps, but something—not someone—was approaching the first door on my left. I turned to face it, bracing myself, and sure enough, the door opened, and a man? A midget? emerged, dressed in an off-white tailored suit.

His appearance was in such discord with the dreadful monster in my mind, I had the most hysterical need to start laughing maniacally. But somehow, through herculean strength of will, and probably because of all the odd and surreal things happening lately, I managed to restrain myself. I tried not to notice details—something my mind was doing furiously without my consent—lest I start laughing at any moment. As it was, I couldn’t keep my eyes fixed on his without involuntarily averting them.

The man was about five feet nothing, with thick white hair, ears too big for his small head, and an albino complexion that looked very odd with his dark—possibly black—eyes behind oval, white, plastic-rimmed glasses. I had a feeling he dressed like the furniture to look less conspicuous. My mind doubled over with laughter, but my poker face was impeccable. I thanked God for all the years of training I’d gotten in the PSS. My inability to hold his gaze sobered me, though not as swiftly as I would have liked. The energy crackling in the room around us was another sobering factor. I could actually see electric sparks in my peripheral vision, like electric shorts. I was aware the static in the room was coming from him, oozing from his pores like his own personal body wave.

The man paused a few feet away and looked up at me. “Miss Roxanne Whitmore Fosch. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you. Please have a seat,” he said, his voice a nasal rumble. He sounded like he was saying “Biz Roxanne Widbore” but this time I didn’t feel like laughing.

All my internal alarms were blaring. Every single one of them. He knew my real name. How? No one and I mean no one, had used my real name in over ten years. For the entire year and a half since I’d escaped the PSS, I had assumed the name of Eliza Daniels. Before that, I was Subject UX 01-484. And here this man was using my full name, and I had never met him.

Rooted in place with shock and wonder, I waited as he came forward—his steps small, measured, and soundless. He took my hand in his cold ones and guided me to the sofa. His skin gave me the impression of something scaly and slimy, and I wanted to yank my hand back but found myself incapable. Instead, I followed him like an obedient, collared dog.

Note to self: never let this man touch me again. My wild moment of desired hysteria deserted me, replaced by dread. Who was this man? This something?

“Who are you?” I asked, my voice breathy.

He paused, as if the answer required careful consideration. “Pardon me for my rudeness,” he said with that nasal rumble as he helped me sit on the soft sofa cushion. “My name is Remo Drammen. At your service.” He added a little bow, the gesture as natural as if he’d popped out of eighteenth-century London.

The name seemed familiar, but I was sure I had never met this man before, and even surer that if someone had ever described him to me, I’d have never forgotten it.

“May I offer you a drink?” he asked ever so politely.

I wondered who he really was and what he really wanted. Could Silvery Blue downstairs have anything to do with him?

He waited, his face expressionless, as if either unable or unaccustomed to faking human emotions. He was so short, even standing, he was eye-level with me.

He inclined his head, the gesture minuscule, as if involuntary. “You remind me of someone I knew once, long ago. Pity she died.” His words held no inflection, not a bit of remorse. Threat and fact. “She had a strong will and a sense of righteousness that is still unrivaled.” He moved around the seating arrangement, never taking his eyes off me as he continued. “She had such a strong spirit …” He picked up a crystal ashtray from the gleaming coffee table, not even having to bend a little to reach it. He glanced at it, then returned his dark eyes to me. “She could manifest the wildest storm. It was truly a sight to behold.” He waited expectantly, though I had no clue for what.

“Why am I here?” I asked.

His fingers twitched on the ashtray, his only outward reaction. “Like calls to like. Haven’t you felt it?”

My heart skipped a beat. I scooted to the edge of the sofa, hands suddenly damp. “You mean I’m like you?” I asked directly, not wanting to dance around this subject. For a very long time, I’d wondered about the thing inside me. What I was. Though I felt a pang of fear of being anything like this man—this creature—I’d gone too long wondering about myself to beat around the bushes or feign ignorance when a clue was presented.

“No, not at all. There are none like me, though there used to be two.” He cocked his head to the side, studying me with his flat expression. “Can’t you feel it? The sense of awareness that tickles the back of your brain. Once there, then gone? Has it not beckoned you?”

The foreboding intensified, mixed with a dash of excitement. “What is it?” I whispered. I’d felt it on and off for years now, even in the PSS—the impression that I needed to be somewhere else.

Remo Drammen’s gaze snagged on mine with a sharp intensity that felt almost physical. I could no longer look away, and the black of his eyes looked like two black holes ready to devour me. “Yes, you do remind me of her. You will do.” He nodded in approval and returned the ashtray to its previous position, breaking eye contact and leaving me breathless. “You know, Miss Fosch”—Biz Fosch—“fate wants you here with me, for I have been searching for you, sent out flares. You must have sensed them too, else why come here and now?”

Flares?

He glanced at his watch. “But I’m afraid I’m wanted somewhere else. Suffice to say, I have a business proposition for you, Miss Fosch.” He picked up a brown cane from beside the sofa. It and his eyes were the only dark colors I could see.

My heart was pumping wildly, blood roaring in my ears, and things were beginning to blur together.

“Imagine, Miss Fosch, power with no limit.” He gestured grandly. “Riches with no end. For an entire eternity.” He took a step forward and paused to add, “Think about it, for when I return, we’ll discuss it further and set the rules.”

Whoa! Set the rules? “And if I decline?” Was it the reason that whoever I had reminded him of had died?

He waved a tiny hand in dismissal. “What I offer you are things you will not be able to refuse.” His gaze bore into mine, and my eyes averted of their own free will. “Imagine yourself free of those who seek you. Exacting vengeance for all the injustices they have caused you. Knowledge that has eluded all others. Power with no limit. You’ll never need to be alone. You’ll have anyone you choose to follow you like eager puppets. You will never ever yearn for anything again.”

I considered him, my eyes unable to focus. “And what if I decline?” I repeated.

The thought of storming the PSS and leveling the entire facility was undeniably appealing. Living my life with no fear and not having to hide and keep watch over my shoulder was my ultimate goal and, admittedly, I could feel that tickle now, stronger in his presence. But at what cost? My sanity, my soul? Eternal servitude? If he was willing to offer me such power, knowledge, and slaves to follow me, what was he getting in return? I didn’t believe, not even for a second, that to gain the aforementioned, all that would be required of me would be manning the phone and taking messages. Not that having eager puppets as followers or power beyond limit was tempting, not at all.

Like I’d said before, I’d give up all my abilities to take back my life where I’d left it ten years ago. The only tempting things he offered me was revenge and freedom. And … the freedom … the freedom carried enough weight to have tempted me on its own. But would the price be worth it? I eyed him, still unable to hold his stare. The man just oozed menace, treachery, and danger like heat from an open furnace. Yet he looked like something a soft breeze could blow away.

How deceiving!

No matter how much I longed for freedom, if I accepted his proposition, I’d regret it greatly; I could feel it in my bones. No, no matter how alluring his offer, I’d never be able to live with myself. If I wanted my freedom, I’d get it by other means, even if they were impossible ones. God, I shouldn’t even be debating it. What kind of person was I becoming?

Remo gave me a sinister smile that sent cold shivers down my spine and said, “I can and will make you do my bidding whether you are willing or not.” He paused. “Of course, I’d prefer our dealings to remain amicable. I’d hate to have to resort to … unsavory methods to achieve my goals.”

It was then, at that precise moment, that his name jarred my memory. Remo Drammen, the infamous black sorcerer. I’d heard his name mentioned in hushed conversations among the Scientists, accompanied by tales of demon-summoning, plague attacks, and the darkest sorcery. And there I was, sitting in his living room. Come into my den, said the spider …

The energy crackling around us took on a new significance. It was no doubt the residual energy of his power, as if he couldn’t contain the whole amount and keep it from overflowing. If I could feel it when I was oblivious to preternatural beings much stronger than myself, how powerful could this fragile-looking man be?

And then something clicked. “If you want me to work for you, why send the Bad Boy Team to kill me?”

Remo cocked his head to the side and repeated, “The Bad Boy Team? You mean the Edmond brothers?” He dismissed the thought with a flick of his small hand. “Consider them your preliminary trial.”

But I wouldn’t have survived if it weren’t for Logan. And Logan wouldn’t be there next time. Something told me the next trial would be worse than the Edmond brothers. My predicament just went from grim to grimmer.

A knock at the door behind me drew my attention, and I turned my head enough to see Giant enter and bow respectfully to Remo. When had he left? Maybe after Remo was gone, I could take my chances with the human—or whatever the hell he was—and the bulk beneath his jacket. Remo Drammen acknowledged the security guard with a small nod.

“It’s time,” Giant said with deference.

Remo stared at him with something akin to annoyance—the first expression he’d shown since my arrival—and I noticed that Giant couldn’t hold his gaze either. When Remo’s attention returned to me, his face was once again blank. “I apologize for having to leave you so soon,” he began, pulling a thin pair of off-white gloves from his suit pocket and putting them on. This man had a serious fixation with pastel colors. “My presence is needed downstairs. Please feel free to request any services you need.”

He turned to leave through one of the remaining three closed doors, not the elevator. “Ah, and one more thing, Miss Fosch”—Biz Fosch—“there is a ward at the door that will prevent anyone I haven’t cleared from leaving this room. That includes you.” He paused for a moment, studying me with a flat look, his dark eyes abnormally large behind his glasses. “Should you be foolish enough to attempt escaping, you’ll be reduced to cinders in mere seconds.”

With that threat delivered, Remo Drammen departed with the security guard in tow, a giant shadow trailing behind him, his black suit and imposing height contrasting sharply with Remo’s ensemble.

No one was left behind to guard me—just that buzzing, static-like sensation. God, what could someone as powerful as Remo Drammen want from someone like me? Who the hell was I?