Heir of Ashes (The Roxanne Fosch Files #1)

Chapter 9

“They hurt you,” Logan murmured, his knuckles brushing my cheek, pulling me back to the present. His eyes, still simmering with anger, now held a new layer of emotion: compassion.

Although my mother had never been in that room, the horror of that day still haunted me, a nightmare that refused to fade.

“Yeah,” I said softly, looking away to the endless desert visible outside. I took in slow, deliberate breaths, blinking back tears, trying to compose myself. It was harder when there was someone who understood. Would my mother react the same way if she knew what I’d been through? Did she even care? Did she know what I was? Did she give me up because she was disgusted with what I would become? Did she fear me? So many questions … never any answers.

I latched on to Logan’s anger, using it to take my mind off my disparaging thoughts. His anger wasn’t the hot fury of the impulsive, of the reckless, but the cold of calculation, the banked fire left to simmer. He was a man in control of his actions, the kind who examined his opportunities, who overcame obstacles with intelligence and calculation instead of brutal force.

Closing my eyes, I dissected the layers of Logan’s emotions, trying to calm my raging heart. I could almost see the cold film fogging the windows, like mist on a winter morning. I imagined parting that mist, letting the sun’s rays break through and transform it into droplets of water, cool and refreshing against my skin. I licked one drop, then another, savoring the taste.

“Stop it,” Logan choked.

I licked another cool drop. Like a cat, I basked in contentment.

“Eliza … stop it,” he croaked.

It wasn’t my name that made me open my eyes, but the urgent tone of his hoarse voice. He was slumped forward on the steering wheel, his tanned face pale, his eyes narrowed, his breathing shallow and uneven.

I frowned, taking him in. What the hell was wrong with him? Among the stirrings of confusion, deep within the blurring edges, understanding dawned. I quickly shoved it away. I didn’t want to know. Still, some perverse part of me didn’t let me hide from myself, pushing the knowledge back to the surface, not letting me run from it.

I reached out to Logan, and he flinched away. He was still breathing hard, his narrowed gaze sharp and intense despite the obvious strain around them. I dropped my hand and looked away, belatedly noticing his gun was out and clutched in one hand.

Once I’d composed my expression back to a blank facade, I looked at him again. His face had gained some color, and his breathing had evened out. He was leaning back against the door, putting as much distance between us as possible within the confined space. This time, the hurt stayed hidden inside. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to …” I broke off, realizing it didn’t matter what I said. I had done what I had done. Thinking about it, I’d probably been absorbing from the swirl of emotions in the casino, too. Or maybe I’d blocked them. I didn’t know, and it only frustrated me more. There was no guidebook for what I could or couldn’t do, and how to avoid disasters. It wasn’t even like I felt stronger or glowed as a result. There was no difference at all.

I didn’t know what Logan interpreted from my blank expression, but he snarled, baring his teeth. “Do that again, and I’ll kill you.”

I nodded, acknowledging the threat and the truth of his words. He certainly wasn’t the first to threaten me, but somehow, coming from him, it hurt like a betrayal. I wasn’t expecting his pledge of loyalty and friendship, but—damn it! He’d saved my life three times already. I thought he had considered me someone. I had talked to him, told him things I had never told anyone or never had anyone to tell before. He’d cared for my injured hand; he’d shown me concern.

He had made me feel human. Somewhere during our brief acquaintance, I had begun to pretend we were friends. Me and my false sense of belonging.

“Can we go?” I asked, eager to get to Sacramento, to give him the details for the PSS headquarters, and to move on.

I could feel his gaze on me and for the second time that day, wondered if he was debating letting me off in the middle of nowhere, questioning if I was worth the trouble. But then he turned to face the road and drove off.

I stared out my window, doing my best not to look at Logan at all, not even from the corner of my eye. It felt constricting, although if I wasn’t trying hard to keep averted, I would have probably done just fine. I took Dr. Maxwell’s journal from my jacket pocket to check about Silvery Blue. Vaguely, I wondered if the dangerous information Logan had mentioned wasn’t a rumor, and the journal was actually it.

My night vision was good, and I didn’t need the overhead light to read the notes, so I settled in, angling myself slightly, just in case Logan’s night vision was better than mine.

I leafed straight to the part where Dr. Maxwell mentioned the auras, where he noted the information was shaky and that they had no proof of its accuracy. The previous page talked about a spell enabling a person to see auras and the results of what happened when they tried it a few times, sometimes injecting ordinary humans, sometimes on willing preternaturals. Dr. Maxwell had documented the findings despite doubts about the honesty of the preternaturals, considering most preferred to remain anonymous.

The side effects of the spell to see auras were unpleasant, and authenticating the preternaturals’ claims by testing the spell on each other had been banned after one of the injected scientists fell into a coma. The project had stalled and remained incomplete, insofar as the journal went.

As far as I knew, I was the only person who could see auras on a permanent basis, a secret—one of many—the PSS had never gleaned. Except for my own aura, I could see everyone else’s, given they were within the required proximity.

There was no mention of any species in Dr. Maxwell’s journal—or even in mythical books—about what kind of creature could see auras the way I could. None of the preternatural volunteers admitted into the PSS shared my ability. If they could, they never told, or it had been documented somewhere else. The PSS didn’t punish volunteers who withheld information or refused to undergo certain tests. Those preternaturals were there by choice, participating in specific experiments, collecting their payments, and then leaving to resume their lives. In fact, I was their only permanent resident. Even the Scientists went home every now and then.

I found the page I was looking for and scanned it carefully. Nothing new there. Red for vampires, lighter if their consumption of blood was less than required—an anemic vampire, ha!—darker if they overindulged. Yellow for a born vampire, orange for a newly made one, or a born one that indulged too much in blood … blah-blah-blah.

Blue for humans, green for weres. The black aura had a long list. It could mean the person was a practitioner of black arts, a zombie, a ghoul, the degree of how long that person had been dead, and so on. Of course, those weren’t the only auras out there, but those were the most pronounced, the most common. There was mention of a brown aura that no one could decipher, and I often wondered if that was the color of mine. I read and reread the page, looking for something I could have missed. It did mention the glow of an aura, which meant the person possessed the ability to wield magic, but nothing that reflected a silvery glow. I recalled the events in the casino and tried to think if I had misread the silvery tone of the aura, that maybe the lighting had some weird effect on it.

It was then, as I sat in the darkened car, reading Dr. Maxwell’s stolen journal in the middle of nowhere, that I had a sudden, terrifying realization.

Remo Drammen had no aura. I racked my mind, trying to remember if I had missed it. He’d come within range; I was sure of it. The more I thought about it, the more certain I was that Remo lacked one. But what could possibly lack an aura?

I tucked the journal back into my pocket, more disturbed than I had been half an hour earlier, closed my eyes, leaned my head back, and desperately tried to summon pleasant thoughts. It was hard because I didn’t have many of those in my memories. My previous life at home was a fragmented blur of flashbacks, ones I sometimes doubted belonged to me.

Sometime later, the car slowed to a stop, rousing me from the haze of my thoughts. I opened my eyes. We were parked in front of a brightly lit motel. I gave Logan a questioning glance, sure we weren’t far from Sacramento, but he just opened his door and climbed out, leaving the key in the ignition, his door ajar. I frowned at it, debating if he trusted me enough not to steal the car and just go, or if he wanted me to and didn’t care. I bit my lip and eyed Logan’s disappearing back into the lobby of the hotel, then climbed out after him.

Logan didn’t believe in those no-name motels I so frequently found myself in. The room he rented was clean, bright, and—no doubt—cost more than it was worth for a few hours of rest. There was a king-sized bed in the middle of the room facing a big flat screen TV, propped on top of an ornate wooden chest of drawers, a small round table with two chairs in the far corner by the window, an electric stove beside a mini refrigerator, and a small sink under a cupboard. To my left was the bathroom, to my right another window that overlooked the parking lot. I wondered if they had a room with two single beds but kept the thought to myself.

After placing my duffel bag and purse on the floor by the bed, Logan turned and left without a word. So, he was giving me the silent treatment, I thought, half annoyed, half amused. I picked up some pamphlets left on the stand. We were still in Nevada, in the city of Reno. After a quick glance, I dropped them back—there were no attractions or tourist sites I wanted to see. I looked around the tidy room once. What now?

I showered, dressed for bed, and went in search of a dry cleaner. Yes, I went out in wrinkled PJs. An hour and a half later, my laundry was clean, my hand freshly washed and re-bandaged … and there was no sign of Logan. His black Range Rover was also gone. I told myself if he didn’t show up before morning, I’d leave without him. Decision made, I propped myself on the bed to read Dr. Maxwell’s journal again, starting from the beginning.

I was about a quarter of the way through when Logan returned, carrying some bags and a laptop under one arm. He placed the laptop on the foot of the bed and the bags on the small, round table and turned to face me. “I got us some good food,” he said.

There was no trace of anger or anything suggesting that he was still upset about the incident earlier. I’d thought back on those few minutes in the car while I’d showered and done my laundry and tried to see things from his perspective. If our roles were reversed and I was traveling with someone who had escaped a heavily fortified facility without apparent outside help—someone with preternatural abilities rumored to be dangerous—and then all of a sudden found myself being drained of energy, what would I do? I’d have likely skipped the warning threat and attacked. Or at the very least ditched the person and taken off, no explanations, no excuses accepted.

I had realized months ago that I wasn’t a “friendable” person. I’d accepted that my differences would forever keep me an outsider. I couldn’t relax my guard without exposing myself or hurting someone. And of course, there was the fact that ten years had kept me isolated, way out of practice.

Not just alone, but lonely. And then there was Logan, different and intriguing. Someone who seemed to care—and I’d gone and outright attacked him.

The smell of warm food wafted out of the bags, and my stomach growled. I watched him take out some cartons, french-fry bags, two Cokes, and small sauce containers, dividing 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.

My eyes snapped to his. I wasn’t sure what I had expected from him, but it certainly was not compassion. Here he was, acting as if nothing had happened—as if all were forgiven. He was a better person. Or was he a better actor? I feigned confusion.

“You didn’t mean to do that,” he said gently. “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, even confused when you realized what you were doing …” He trailed off and narrowed his eyes. “You didn’t know, did you? You had no idea you could do that.”

How could he know? Or did he, really? Was he just giving me a way out, or was he fishing for information about someone he wanted to take precautions against in the future? It didn’t seem likely, but 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 well 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, once 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, devoid of the discrimination I so often faced in the PSS.

“No, Eliza, you’re not as good a liar as you think. I don’t believe you knew. I think you were shaken, afraid of it. I think even you don’t know your limits.”

“You think too much,” I scoffed coldly. “Don’t fool yourself into thinking I’m the poor, mistreated escapee from a nightmare. You won’t be doing me or yourself any favors.” I paused for a second, my eyes hardening. “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, fighting the urge to press it against the quivering flesh.

I held his gaze, my mask in place while my insides churned with disappointment and fear. How could he read me so well?

Without blinking, Logan inclined his head and shifted his attention to the food. He took one of the chairs, opened a carton, and began eating rice with a plastic fork.

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

I stared at him—a little dumbfounded. Was he doing this on purpose, trying to catch me off guard? For what? My stomach growled, reminding me that off-kilter or not, I was still hungry. I snapped the journal shut, placed it on the nightstand, 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 of 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 had applied the same miracle treatment that he had earlier, using first one type of ointment, then the other 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 went out again.

“Bedtime story?” he asked when he returned, peering down at the journal.

I snapped it shut before he could read enough to make sense of it. He gave me a questioning look. I supposed I was being rude, but I wasn’t about to let him see the journal.

Without a word, he moved to the other side of the bed and extracted his laptop from its case.

“What’s your mother’s name?” he asked as he typed in a password.

“Elizabeth Deninsky Whitmore.”

“Her last known location was Sacramento?”

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

“What about your father?” he asked.

“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 had never met my father, and there was only some sense of regret for never getting the chance.

“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 caught my attention.

“Yoncey Fosch,” I said and straightened.

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 … daughter?”

I licked my lips. “You knew him?” I had estimated Logan to be in his late twenties, but with a preternatural, it was hard to tell. He could be anywhere over twenty, even over a century.

Or that’s what I had read in the journal. Preternaturals, especially weres, tended to pretty much heal any infection, diseases, and injuries when they shifted to their animal form, which allowed them to live a long life—provided they 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 new intensity. “What’s your name?”

I was about to tell him Eliza Daniels when I gave it a second thought. If he knew about my father, then maybe 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, fuck me. Why didn’t you tell me that before?” He shook his head once, as if lamenting the fact he hadn’t known who I was. “How old are you? No, no …” He waved a hand as if to erase the question. “How old were you when the Society took you?”

“Twelve.”

The fierce glint in his eyes made me want to squirm. “For how long?” he demanded tightly.

“About nine years.”

Something flickered in his eyes but was masked before I could decipher it. He returned his gaze to his screen, staring blankly at it. “Tell me her last known address.”

“Tell me what you know first,” I countered.

His expression shuttered. “I don’t know … I’m not sure …” He shook his head. “There’s something—”

“Please. I need to know. Tell me.”

He opened his mouth, then closed it again. “Alright. But let me double-check. I don’t want to give you false information, which is apparently what I have.”

I wanted to insist—beg if necessary—he tell me what he knew, what he 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 the address from memory. “She doesn’t live there anymore. Last I checked, that address was under someone else’s name.”

He typed, clicked, verified, and 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. Let me pull some strings, see what I can dig up.” He grabbed a small notebook and began browsing the internet, jotting down notes as he went. An hour later, I found myself nodding off, so I burrowed under the sheets.

“Hey, do you know what an aura is?” I asked.

“Ah, trivia? Do I get a free trip to Hawaii if I answer right?”

“Maybe,” I replied with a faint smile.

“Hmmm … I think my mentor described auras as the theme of one’s true nature, a reflection of what they are.” He frowned as if pondering what else to say, but left it at that.

I mulled over his words. It made more sense than the abstract soul theory, but it didn’t tell me anything about Remo.

“Can you see them?” I asked next.

Logan studied me for a beat. “Very few species can naturally see them, and even fewer can interpret them right.” He pressed a fist over his stomach. “Trust your instincts. Listen to what your gut tells you.”

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

“Did I answer your question?” he asked.

He knew he hadn’t. But he gave me good advice. I held his gaze for a moment more before covering my head with the covers.