Heir of Ashes (The Roxanne Fosch Files #1)

Chapter 11

Stunned, I barely registered when Logan’s body crashed into mine, even as the airbag pushed me back into him. I screamed, my shoulder dislocating again, and something sharp slashed my forehead.

Logan jerked when a tranquilizer dart hit him and suddenly, his body relaxed against mine, even as I pushed him back to give myself breathing room. Running footsteps closed in on us, and my mind cleared.

“Don’t shoot!” I shouted, giving myself enough room to move my head but not much else as I opened both my empty hands on the steering wheel. “I’m unarmed. Please don’t shoot.”

Someone opened the driver’s door at the same time the passenger door was yanked open. I tilted my head to look.

“Out,” the beady-eyed guard barked at me, the barrel of his tranquilizer gun pointed at my side.

Slowly, aware that he’d shoot me if I made any sudden movement, I struggled to pull myself free from Logan’s prone body.

From the driver side, Kincaid reached in, undid Logan’s seat belt, and pulled him out of the car with efficient, economic tugs. I climbed out with deliberate slowness, my fingers splayed, then waited for Beady Eye’s next command. One of the SUVs parked some twenty yards away. No sooner had it stopped, than two guards jumped out and rushed over. Beady Eyes clamped a blocking bracelet over my left wrist, then shackled me with the reinforced steel manacles.

“Move,” he ordered, jerking his head to the SUV.

I made my way towards it, my posture stiff despite the pain radiating from my head and shoulder. Warm blood trickled down my face from the gash on my forehead, metallic and sticky. Never show weakness. Never show weakness. Never show weakness. My motto back when I was in the PSS came back with alarming familiarity. Never show weakness . The words echoed in my mind like a prayer.

Kincaid stepped in front of me, halting my progress. He reached for my chin with his thumb and forefinger, tipped my face up, and examined my wound. He gestured to someone behind me and a moment later, he was given a small first-aid kit.

“Sit down,” he said in a gravelly voice.

I sat on the rapidly warming desert ground. No protests, no questions asked. Kincaid crouched in front of me and opened the kit. Without a word, he took out a needle and thread. My stomach churned, but my face remained impassive.

“Don’t move,” he ordered and began cleaning the gash on my forehead before stitching it. I felt every prick, every pull of the thread, but I didn’t flinch, didn’t show the pain.

Once done, he covered his handiwork with a strip of gauze, fixing it in place with medical tape, then danced his fingers over it once, his blue aura flashing white. A tingle of magic rippled through the wound, dulling the sharp edge of pain. Without warning, he took hold of my twice-dislocated shoulder and jerked it back into place. I bit down on my lip to stifle a gasp, the taste of blood flooding my mouth. His hand probed the area around my swollen shoulder, his aura flashing white once, twice, four times. The tingle of magic pulsated with his touch, each time dulling the pain further.

I gave him a thankful look, knowing what voiced gratitude could do to either of us. He gave me a hand up, stayed long enough to ensure I’d stay vertical, then stepped away. I was then ushered toward the closest SUV by Beady Eyes. With grim satisfaction, I noted two guards changing the tires of the other SUV. My satisfaction, however, was short-lived. When the door of the van slid open, my heart sank at the sight of Logan slumped unconscious in the backseat, his hands bound, his lips bleeding, blood covering the lower part of his shirt.

I paused abruptly and was shoved from behind, and—not able to help myself—I turned around to glare at Beady Eyes, only to find myself staring down the barrel of his tranquilizer gun.

“In,” barked the guard.

So, in I went.

I examined Logan as best as I could but, like him, I was shackled and couldn’t do much. His lower lip oozed sluggishly, but I didn’t think the tiny cut was the source of all the blood on him. As it was, I couldn’t find any bullet holes either.

Kincaid and Beady Eyes climbed in and took the seats opposite us. Both wore the golden, starry button of The Elite on their lapels. Both were armed with shotguns, aside from the tranquilizer guns.

The door slid shut with an ominous electric whir. Another guard—also from The Elite Team—climbed behind the wheel and started the engine.

So that was it, I thought, as we began moving. I was going back to the PSS.

Kincaid’s blue-gray eyes met my accusatory ones for the briefest second before shifting to a point between Logan and me.

“Let him go,” I said and waited until his eyes met mine again before adding, “You’re not here for him.”

He stared at me for a moment, then turned to look out the window.

“Come on, Kincaid, you got me. Let him go.”

He didn’t acknowledge my words, staring at the endless desert, looking bored. If it were anyone else, I’d say he wasn’t listening.

“You heard about what happened in 1872,” I pressed on. “You don’t want there to be a repetition. Let him go.”

That got a reaction. Kincaid turned and looked at Logan, his gaze piercing.

“Shut up,” Beady Eyes sneered. “You’re nothing but a freak, and we’re returning you to your cage. If he was stupid enough to aid a monster, then he’s as bad as you.”

Kincaid gave him a hard look, and Beady Eyes clamped his mouth shut. Kincaid had arrived at the PSS when I was sixteen—at least he was first assigned to me when I was sixteen—and I suspected he’d prevented many unpleasant things from happening to me since. Even Dr. Maxwell had been able to “sneak more goodies” to me with more frequency. Other staff and guards didn’t sneer or give me disdainful looks when Kincaid was around. I had a hunch he’d vouched for me when I began taking driving lessons. He had been one of the twelve Elite that formed my escort team, one who’d been missing—along with the best seven Elites—that last fortunate day, called to an emergency on a sub-level.

I ignored the glowering guard and turned back to Kincaid. “His friend knows he’s with me. If he disappears, his friend will call his clan for reinforcements and come looking for him. It won’t be long before they connect the dots and find him.” I knew I was giving away Logan’s other nature, but if they thought he was an ordinary human, they’d consider him expendable. This way I was giving him a chance.

I didn’t know if Kincaid was listening to me or if he just didn’t want a repeat of the slaughter that had happened when the PSS was still a fledgling government research facility dabbling in the preternatural. Back then, they had no reservations about kidnapping anyone they deemed abnormal, subjecting them to brutal experiments without any regard for their lives or emotions. They justified their cruelty by convincing themselves it was all for the greater good of the nation, believing they were making the world a better and safer place. Until they captured the wrong were. His clan managed to track him to the facility, somewhere on the wild side of Montana, and they descended upon the place like hungry, rabid wolves on a nest of rabbits. They killed and destroyed everything in their wake, and when they found their kin just on this side of the grave, the clan went berserk and buried the entire facility under tumultuous amounts of debris, dust, and blood. Following that incident, laws were erected for the safety of both the scientists and the preternatural community.

***

By the time Logan gained consciousness, we had reached Forebay, about an hour’s drive from Sacramento, and I was still pleading his case.

He woke up alert, his eyes furious, a stark contrast to Kincaid’s indifferent gaze. I assumed he’d be able to pull off the stoic act if he wasn’t so angry. It told me my earlier assessment was wrong and that Logan was capable of hot, furious, impulsive anger.

“You alright?” I asked.

He gave a curt nod, his eyes scanning me. “You?”

I shrugged, grimacing with the sudden spike of pain. Although it subsided quickly, I made a mental note not to shrug again. My gaze skipped back to his blood-soaked clothes.

“It’s not mine,” he said before I could ask. He looked at my bandaged forehead, jaw clenching.

Someone cleared their throat and I glanced at Kincaid, who was watching the exchange with interest.

“I have orders to bring him in,” Kincaid said.

I stared at him, thinking furiously. His orders came from the head of security, a man named Marc Johnson, a former navy SEAL. Johnson’s orders came directly from Dr. Dean. If Kincaid had orders to bring Logan in, then Dr. Dean had issued the command. Damn. They knew what he was. But then again, hadn’t the PSS offered Logan the lucrative job to capture me? They already knew who he was even before he’d gotten involved.

We were getting closer to Sacramento, but my mind was too preoccupied to really take in any of the familiar scenery.

“Why? What could they want from him?” I asked.

“It’s none of your business,” Beady Eyes retorted.

I ignored him, looking at Kincaid, who was in turn giving Logan a pointed look. My heart skipped a beat. I had put Logan in this situation. It was my fault because he had helped me, attacking The Elite back in the hotel, and giving the PSS the right to demand his capture. I looked down at my fidgeting hands and tried to think, eyes snagging on the familiar runes carved around the blocking bracelet. Dr. Maxwell’s journal mentioned that the left hand gathered magic, to be released by the right. In my case, the thin band was supposed to prevent me from accessing my other nature, like my talons. Except that it had never worked on me. It was a fact I’d managed to keep a secret throughout the years I spent in the PSS. I looked at Logan’s left wrist and found he had one as well. Did it work on him?

Of course it did. It would stop him from shifting and cut down his strength to less than a quarter. I’ve read this mentioned in Dr. Maxwell’s journal too, the experiment done on a were-fox. I looked up at him, and he was looking out the window as if none of my conversation with Kincaid mattered. He seemed bored and unaffected by the situation, but the tension in his shoulders gave him away. Besides, I’d seen the hot anger in his eyes.

“Where are we headed?” I asked, though I already had a hunch. There was a base on the outskirts of Sacramento, a military camp in a place called Elk Grove; I was taken there before they shipped me to the headquarters in Seattle.

“That’s none of your business. Shut up already or I’ll make you,” Beady Eyes snapped.

I bared my teeth at him, annoyed and emboldened by Kincaid’s presence. “Yeah? What are you going to do? Huff and puff and blow my head off? I’m the monster, remember? So, fuck off. If you haven’t noticed, no one is talking to you.”

Several things happened at once then. The driver, who up until then had ignored us, began wheezing and laughing. Beady Eyes’ face grew crimson, either with rage or embarrassment or both, and he raised the butt of the shotgun to club my skull with it.

Logan’s hand shot up, swiftly taking hold of the stock, his finger encircling the trigger as if it was a part of the weapon—and aligned his aim straight at the guard’s throat. Kincaid batted the barrel aside just as Logan squeezed the trigger, shattering a webbed hole in the window of the passenger side. If Kincaid had been even a millisecond late, the asshole guard would be dead.

The driver, who had been laughing just a second ago, slammed the brakes with such force that Logan and I went flying forward—Logan at Kincaid, and me at Beady Eyes. Ignoring the twinge of pain from my head and shoulder the jolt caused, I seized advantage of the situation. My shackled arms lashed out, fists smashing into Beady Eyes’ face before he could block.

His eyes rolled back, and he crumpled like a puppet with its strings cut. Meanwhile, the driver grabbed a tranquilizer gun and twisted in his seat to aim it at Logan, who was wrestling Kincaid for the shotgun. The space was tight, Kincaid on top, and the driver didn’t have a clear shot. Logan pointed the shotgun at Kincaid’s chest, and even though it wasn’t aimed at anything vital, at point-blank range, a shotgun blast was fatal. I wasn’t an expert, but I knew that much.

“Don’t shoot him!” I shouted at Logan and threw myself across the seat, pushing the driver’s tranquilizer gun away with my right hand and jabbing my left elbow into his face. He grunted, trying to get leverage, and I hit him again and again until the grip on the tranquilizer gun slackened. Another shot went off, and with dread, I turned to look. The metallic smell of blood was everywhere, old and new. My elbow was covered with it.

Logan was still pinned under Kincaid, and Kincaid’s hands were around Logan’s throat, his knuckles white. In turn, Logan was trying to choke Kincaid with the link of the shackles, his eyes bulging from lack of air. There was no shotgun in sight, probably pushed under a seat.

Before I could do anything, or think about doing anything, the side door of the SUV opened, and a snip-snip-snip sound cut through the air, followed by a familiar cold sting in my arm. I glanced down to find a red dart protruding from my forearm. Logan had one in his thigh, and even Kincaid had one in his shoulder. I had forgotten all about the other van. The last thing I saw before drowning in darkness was Kincaid collapsing over Logan.

The bitter taste in my mouth made me dread opening my eyes. Nothing good ever came after that bitter taste coated my tongue. My brain screamed at my body to brace for the worst. My heart skipped erratically, my muscles coiling tight, my breaths coming fast and shallow.

There are no experiments, I told myself. No one is going to hurt me. I repeated the mantra until the panic receded. There will be no experiments … I made myself this last vow before opening my eyes.

Four guards sat opposite me, with two more in the front. They had tightened the watch. Two of the guards had tranquilizer guns trained on me. I knew from experience that they’d shoot if I so much as twitched in a suspicious way. To their left, Kincaid sat slumped, still unconscious. To the right, Beady Eyes glared at me, sporting a shiner. I winked and blew him a raspberry. Beside me, Logan mirrored Kincaid’s limp posture.

We’d reached Sacramento a while ago. With no idea what I could possibly do in this situation, I turned to watch the city where I grew up and had loved so much but hadn’t seen in a decade. It was raining outside. It had been raining the day the PSS came knocking ten years ago. People skipped puddles, others hurried about, some strolled as if the sun was out and shining. There were new buildings everywhere, but much remained unchanged. I remembered that cracked sidewalk that was still cracked, and Luigi’s Italian restaurant was still in the same place. Nostalgia gripped me so hard, my heart ached.

Why? Why me? What gave those people the right to cage me like this? Where were my rights?

Something must have shown on my face because the two guards tensed, ready to shoot. Kincaid’s aura flashed, catching my attention, but he didn’t shift from his slumped position, even when we hit a pothole. I returned to the familiar scenery outside, noting that I’d been right and we were probably heading toward the military base in Elk Grove. We were really close, no more than half an hour away depending on traffic, and considering we zigzagged back and forth onto back roads to avoid it, it was about nil.

How dare they treat me like my life meant nothing more than that of a lab rat? I glanced back at the guards about to destroy the rest of my life, because I knew if I went back to the PSS, there was no way in hell I’d get a second chance to escape. Kincaid’s aura flashed again, and a jostle and pothole later, I noticed his eyes were slightly open. Another flash, another jostle, and his eyes closed. No one noticed. He remained slumped, his breathing even, seemingly unconscious.

When his aura flashed again, the SUV hit another pothole, jostling everyone. The driver cursed, gripping the steering wheel with both hands. The two guards with the tranquilizer guns regained their balance quickly enough, their aims firm and true.

“Watch it, man,” the guard in the passenger seat—the previous driver—complained, pressing a broad hand to his head.

“I know. It’s like these holes are popping out of nowhere,” the driver replied in frustration. “This damned rain. Cuts my visibility short.”

I fixed my gaze ahead, bracing for the next pothole. When Kincaid’s aura flashed, I tensed. The next pothole was a big one, and I didn’t wait for anyone to regain their balance. I launched myself to the right, out of the tranquilizer gun’s range, hitting Beady Eyes with my elbow as I went. I seized the gun from the nearest guard and shot the other one point-blank.

Each guard had at least a hundred pounds on me and a few years of combat training. If I hesitated for a fraction of a second, I was done. So, I didn’t. Without a shred of remorse, my talons unsheathed and struck the throat of the guard whose gun I held. All this happened in a few seconds of jostling. That’s when the driver noticed something was wrong. He yelled something and braked hard—sending the passenger guard as far forward as the seatbelt allowed him to go. Before I could gain my balance and react, the driver’s tranquilizer gun was aimed at me, and he was squeezing the trigger.

But the dart never came. From my peripheral vision, I saw Kincaid’s aura flash and hold white. He was doing something to the gun. The guard pulled the trigger twice more in quick succession, his eyes narrowing at it before I had enough sense to get moving. Like I did with the guard in the back, I went for the throat, talons slashing. I struck so hard that my talons went as deep as his vertebrae. My conscience screamed in protest, and I yanked my gory, bloodied talons away, my stomach heaving with revulsion. My horror and brief hesitation cost me.

The passenger guard grabbed my bloodied wrist—gore and all—and twisted hard. I bent forward awkwardly with my hands linked, realizing too late that I had exposed my back to an enemy. It was either that or let him break my wrist. I should have let him break it. Because I had given him my back, I didn’t see the blow to the back of my head coming. Just an explosion of light before the darkness took me.

***

When I came to, I had a mother of a headache playing football with my brain, and a cheerleading squad dancing and applauding.

Half of my upper body was slumped over the dead driver, the other half draped over someone’s head. The passenger side was empty, the door left ajar. An egg-sized lump on the back of my head was sticky with blood. There was a commotion behind me, and I forced myself to move despite the nauseating dizziness, to find Kincaid fighting off the passenger guard. He must have gone to check on his fellow guards and found Kincaid waiting for him. Logan lay motionless on the floor, no doubt where he’d fallen when the driver had braked. The passenger guard brushed my leg, and I seized the opportunity, hooking the chain of my shackles around his neck and pulling tightly. Despite the roiling of my stomach and the bile rising in my throat, I held firm, strangling him until his legs spasmed and his hands fell limp.