Heir of Ashes (The Roxanne Fosch Files #1)

Chapter 12

Kincaid and I hauled the bodies into a small ditch beside what looked like an abandoned warehouse. Luckily, we had been on one of those deserted back roads when the fight happened, and so far, we were the only ones on it. Logan was still unconscious, the result of a double shot of tranquilizers. He was slumped in the front passenger seat, looking as if he were asleep.

Kincaid undid both our shackles, but the blocking bracelets remained, something only the Scientists could undo without backlash. That was fine by me, but we had to find a way to undo Logan’s. After retrieving Dr. Maxwell’s journal from one of the guards, I climbed into the driver seat, aware of the blood coating the cushion. I covered it with a blanket I found in the back, then folded my sweater on top to shield my pants from the gore. Kincaid closed the door and came to stand at the window, uncertainty flickering in his otherwise flat expression.

For letting a killer go? For aiding a monster? The smell of blood, gore, and released bowels permeated the air inside the SUV, stronger where I sat, but the source of my nausea was the knowledge of what I had done and the lives I had no right to take. Three guards were dead; the blood of two stained the broken edges of my fingernails.

“This won’t look good on my résumé,” Kincaid said, I guess in a skewed attempt at a joke.

I nodded once, then forced myself to mutter, “Thank you.”

He exhaled and looked away before returning his attention to me. “Ditch the vehicle as soon as you get to a crowd.”

Again, I nodded. When he tapped the door and took a step back, I started the SUV. Like Logan’s Range Rover, the engine purred smoothly to life.

“They won’t send me next time,” he warned, and it sounded ominous, like a threat.

Had he intended to help all along, or was he angry his own team had darted him? Did they target him because he wasn’t “vanilla human” or plain ordinary? Discrimination and prejudice were practically a requirement in the PSS.

“How did you get to come in the first place?” I asked. Kincaid was stationed in Seattle, back at headquarters, and his presence wasn’t coincidental.

“Dr. Maxwell pulled some strings. He doesn’t want you hurt.”

Of course. Dr. Maxwell knew Kincaid wouldn’t hurt me. Without another word, I pressed down on the gas pedal, easing the SUV forward as I made my way back to Sacramento.

***

Logan stirred just as I was parking outside a 7-Eleven. I was thankful I didn’t have to carry him somewhere to wait for his recovery. The rain had let up some, but it was still falling in sheets.

Could he smell the blood with the blocking bracelet on? It took a few minutes for him to focus, and I waited patiently for the haze to clear from his eyes. When it did, he noticed first that I was in the driver’s seat. He swept the back with one glance, his gaze sharp. I needn’t have worried about his wolf nose scenting the blood around us; his human eyes took in everything, even the stains beneath my nails. He leveled me a look I couldn’t decipher, full of confusing emotions. No doubt he’d want an account of what happened and how I’d come to hijack the SUV. Would he believe me if I told him Kincaid turned on his colleagues?

“How did this happen?” he finally asked, his voice still heavy with sleep.

My mouth flattened, and I refused to follow his gaze behind me, where I knew evidence of the violence stained the seats and the floor.

His gaze locked with mine. When no response came, an eyebrow arched in question.

I shrugged, my shoulder protesting fiercely. “We should get out of here first.”

He kept his gaze level, then conceded and turned to scan the parking lot. Aware of time ticking away, I climbed out of the car, having no desire to linger near what was no doubt traceable PSS property, and Logan followed suit. Since I had taken off my sweater to keep blood and other messes from staining the rest of my clothes, all I had on was the thin, oversized t-shirt I had slept in and pink flannel pants, both of which were soaked instantly. Logan wore dark jogging pants and, when he zipped up the matching jacket, it covered all the blood on his undershirt from view.

It was cold, but getting away from the SUV was my only concern. We moved through Midtown, taking random corners, and sometimes crossing alleyways to the next street over. Despite the heavy rain, Midtown Sacramento was alive with activity. People were everywhere, spilling out of shops, shouting and laughing. Some streets were jammed with vehicles, while others had steady traffic. Most restaurants and storefronts were packed, a typical refuge from the weather. My heart ached with regret for the ten years I’d lost, hatred for those who had stolen it from me, and longing for a life of ordinary moments that would never be mine.

I had to shake myself mentally and shift gears to keep up with Logan. Belatedly, it dawned on me that Logan seemed to have a destination in mind.

“Where are we going?” I asked.

He didn’t answer. Either he didn’t hear me—the bracelet’s effect—or he chose to ignore me. His strides were long, eating up the distance fast. My legs were long, but I still had to hurry to keep up.

“Hey!” I called loudly, dodging a huge black umbrella that almost blinded me.

Logan glanced my way and gave me a once-over. “A hotel, maybe,” he said, crossing the street.

I followed, jumping over a big puddle by the sidewalk.

“I need somewhere private so I can check you for anything the Society is using to track you.”

That thought sent a chill down my spine. My steps faltered before my mind raced to catch up with the wild thoughts his words caused. I shivered violently at the idea that the PSS could track me. Or it could have been the cold rain pelting my face. Either way, my mind cleared fast.

No way. I shook my head. “I ran away over a year and a half ago. If they could track me, I’d have been back in their clutches a long time ago.”

“How many times have they found you since?”

“Three. We’ve already established the Bad Boy Team was sent by Remo.”

“Four, because I was given your exact location the day I met you. No, that’s not true. It’s five with the ambush today.”

Another shiver crawled down my spine.

“Look, maybe I’m wrong. Maybe they have some clever PI on retainer who they use whenever they have a particular subject they want found,” he conceded. “But it doesn’t hurt to check.”

We turned another corner and Logan pointed ahead to a stucco building. Two sycamore trees stood high before it. “We’ll rent a room there.”

“Alright.” Sensing he had something else to say, I prompted, “What’s on your mind?”

He hesitated for a brief second. “What if, you know, they have been keeping tabs on you all along?”

“What would they do that for?” I wondered warily. “It wouldn’t have furthered any research.” Wasn’t that what Dr. Maxwell kept boasting about? The PSS will be the most recognizable research facility in the entire world … we have the best scientists … our research has improved the living conditions of many … the PSS prevented a war from breaking out in South Africa … stopped a supernatural revolution from overthrowing human authorities in Europe … the development of the strongest weapons in the hands of the U.S …

As if there were no preternaturals anywhere but in the United States. I couldn’t imagine how watching me run and hide would advance any project.

“I don’t know. Maybe they wanted to see how you interacted with other people. I could be wrong.” He shrugged his shoulders, but I could tell he wasn’t convinced.

But I was. There was no way they were watching when I attacked the fire mage and didn’t interrupt. No way … Yet no one from the diner had come out. Hadn’t I seen someone by the diner’s glass door? I stopped, and the woman behind me almost plowed right through me. I barely felt the impact, but the cuss word muttered under her breath came through clearly enough.

My God, if they’d been watching that day when I killed the fire mage … They must have had a field day. It made sense—no wonder no one had come out of the diner to check on the commotion. But they wouldn’t have known what I did to the vampire. We were inside my room; they would have needed cameras to monitor indoors. A sudden thought struck me like a slap, brutal and shocking. The week after I’d rented a room at Marian’s Bed and Breakfast, she had explained how John, the local handyman, had been sick and sent a replacement from the next town over to fix things around the house. She had chastised me for not telling her about my faulty lighting and praised the nice, respectful, handsome man. At the time, I’d dismissed her ramblings as the attempts of an old lady bent on matchmaking. But hadn’t he been fixing the light that had been working perfectly when I’d left for work? I had told myself either John was mistaken or the new handyman misunderstood John’s instructions. If they had been watching that day with the vampire or the fire mage, or even the werewolf I outran with inhuman speed, leaping off a three-story roof without breaking a limb or momentum …

Those bastards! All this time! Rage gripped me like a vise and I doubled over to keep myself from exploding. All along! This whole time ! I thought I was free of them, but I had been nothing more than a freak show, a pawn in a sick game. They had sent me some goons, sat back, and watched how I managed. If I won, I stepped up to the next level, a higher goon. If I lost, game over and back I’d go into the PSS cages.

Logan said something, but his words were drowned out by the storm raging inside me. My anger surged like a wildfire, fierce and uncontrollable, and I had to press my hands against both sides of my head to keep the fury from taking control. A low, guttural growl rattled inside my chest, primal and raw, reverberating through my entire being. Logan crouched in front of me, his hands wrapping around mine, and said something that was lost to the haze.

A tremor ran down my body—I was teetering on the edge of something dangerous. Something I couldn’t name. It should have terrified me, but all I could think about was storming that PSS base and unleashing chaos. Every thought, every emotion, every fiber of my being was consumed by the thought of the Scientists reveling each time I exposed myself.

The next growl turned into a gasp halfway through, my anger giving way to an agony that was just as intense. Logan’s hand continued squeezing my twice-dislocated shoulder until tears sprang to my eyes.

“Watch the talons,” he murmured, urgency in his voice.

Seeing my confusion amid the haze of pain and dissipating anger, he tapped a finger on my wrist. “The talons.”

I glanced down. My talons were out. Logan’s right hand half-covered them, but a glance around showed we had gathered quite a crowd. I retracted my talons and wiped tears of rage from my face, only for them to be replaced by the pounding rain. Kincaid’s dulling spell had worn off, and now my shoulder and head were throbbing with a vengeance.

“You all right?” Logan asked, still shielding me from prying eyes, concern clear in his searching gaze.

I nodded. A moment later, he straightened and assured the gathered crowd that I was fine, just received some bad news from home.

Home indeed, my inner voice scoffed.

***

Logan waited beside me until I regained some control, deflating any concerned onlooker with a gesture or word. The rain started to let up, and the hotel was just across the street.

Without a word, I made my way toward it, Logan falling in step beside me, his pace matching mine. He invaded my private space, clearly ensuring that if I lost control, he was ready to step in. With his shoulders tense and his steps cautious, it was evident he didn’t trust me not to snap again. Truth be told, I didn’t trust myself either. Clenching my hands into tight fists, I realized that if Logan hadn’t been there, I might have killed someone in a fit of blind rage.

Was I really the monster the PSS always believed me to be?

We entered the lobby of what seemed like a low-star hotel. The reception desk was plain wood, adorned with a phone and a flat-screen computer, and a numbered key holder on the wall behind a scrawny, pimpled boy who looked no older than eighteen. There was a comfortable seating area to the left with soft-cushioned, dark-colored sofas, and some tables arranged in a cozy corner to the right for dining. Both arrangements faced the sycamore trees outside.

We registered under our real names—no need for deception if I could be tracked via transmitters. If not, we were only here to check for the damned thing anyway. Logan handed the reception boy an extra twenty to get us the strongest painkillers available, before accepting the room key and nudging me toward the utilitarian gray elevator.

The room was small, a downgrade from the previous two, but it was clean enough. As was my routine, I headed to the bathroom first, stripping off my soaked clothes and wringing out the excess water in the sink. Then I squeezed my hair. Before Michelle had convinced me to dye it red, it had been as black as my eyes. Now, both colors contrasted starkly against my pale skin. Usually, I kept it pulled back tightly in a bun, but now I left it down, securing it loosely with a rubber band, partly to cover the thick bandage that covered half my forehead and temple, and partly so it would dry faster. Before I finished, Logan knocked on the door and offered me his jacket, which was clean of blood. After wringing out the excess water from it, I shrugged it on, shivering from the cold. It smelled of rain, man, and faintly of blood. The sleeves swallowed my hands, and it reached almost to mid-thigh. After a brief hesitation, I put my pants back on, left the squeaky shoes in the bathroom, and returned barefoot to the room. Logan stood at the door, towering over the reception boy, who held a CVS bag in one hand. Either the twenty had been a good incentive, or there was a CVS nearby. Not that it mattered either way.

Logan took my wrinkled shirt from my hand and passed it to the blushing boy. “Get this dry as fast as possible,” he said, tone firm but not unkind. “The quicker you manage it, the bigger your tip.”

The boy’s eyes lit up. “Yes, sir. I won’t be long,” he promised and hurried away.

I wished modesty hadn’t made me put the wet pants back on, so I could have sent them to be dried too.

Logan shut and locked the door, drawing my attention to him like a magnet. He took up most of the space, not in mass, but in presence. Why hadn’t I noticed it before? No doubt he was an alpha, in and out of a pack. He wore an undershirt that clung to broad shoulders and a flat, well-defined stomach, the contours more prominent with the clingy material. His hair was wet and tousled as if he had just finished a shower. A five o’clock shadow covered his cheeks, giving him a rugged appeal. He stood tall, broad, and military straight, watching me. Despite everything that was happening, I noticed him—a distraction I didn’t need.

“So,” I gestured widely around, “what now?”

He extracted a few painkiller pills from a generic bottle and passed them over. His eyes searched my face, undoubtedly looking for some sign that I’d go psychotic on him.

Under any other circumstances, I would have refused. Pain was a reminder of limits, and I’ve had much worse. I didn’t want to waste time arguing, though, which was what my refusal to take the painkillers would provoke. I dry-swallowed them and raised both eyebrows. “And now?” I asked.

“Sit, please.” He gestured a straight-backed chair.

Without hesitation, I straddled the chair, knowing if there was a transmitter, it would be somewhere hard to reach, like my back. And I wanted it gone.

“Well?” I prompted, turning my head so I could see him. My shoulder protested fiercely, and my head agreed with a pulsing throb.

“All right, we’ll start with your back first,” he said. “Lose the jacket, please.”

So much for modesty, I thought, unzipping it and shrugging it off. I clutched the bundled jacket to my front and waited.

And waited.

And waited.

I’d been examined naked more times than I cared to remember. This time shouldn’t have been any different. But it was. Feeling increasingly self-conscious, I turned my head again, this time ready for the pain that accompanied the motion. Logan was standing behind me, staring at my back with an unreadable expression. His hand reached out, and he traced a random path down my spine with a warm finger. I stifled a shiver.

“When did this happen?” he asked quietly.

Ah, the bruises. Trivial, pesky things. I shrugged and looked away. “Never mind them,” I told him, figuring he was afraid to hurt me by touching my back.

A moment later, after gently brushing my hair aside, the tips of his fingers began circling the base of my skull. Clockwise, then counterclockwise. I frowned down at my pink bra. Was I wearing matching panties? I didn’t think so. I was never the type who tried to match my undergarments; I didn’t even wear matching socks. Accidentally, though, my flannel pants were the same shade as the bra.

Logan’s fingers lowered a fraction, warm against my cold skin. Goosebumps erupted all over my body, and I shivered. It felt good. Really good. I closed my eyes, relaxing at the hypnotizing rhythm. Before long, he was moving to my sore shoulders and down. His fingertips left no inch of skin untouched, and despite the purpose of the exercise, my body enjoyed it very much.

I kept the jacket clutched to my front and, after the barest hesitation—felt only for the faltering rhythm—Logan loosened my arms and placed them on the back of the chair. Before I could protest, he skillfully checked under my arms, then moved back to my shoulder blades, leaving me to lower them again and clutch the jacket. His hands moved methodically, covering my back thoroughly. By the time he reached my waist, I had moved past self-consciousness to ticklish embarrassment. I squirmed a little and opened my eyes, catching sight of him in the bureau mirror across from me.

And … what was that? Disgust. It was disgust. Something in my stomach fluttered once, then fell. Hurt? Disappointment—I couldn’t tell. His lips had a slight sideways grimace, and frown lines creased his forehead.

I stiffened, and he noticed it. His eyes opened and met mine in the mirror. I hadn’t realized it before, but he had probably been watching me all along. Heat suffused my cheeks, and before I could move, he stepped back, motioning for me to put the jacket back on.

Disgust. I’d seen the expression more times than I could count, and all the variations in between. I could never mistake it for anything else.

Logan shook his head once—whether in frustration or something else, I didn’t know—then turned away and opened the window. Cold air rushed into the small room, swallowing all the warmth within.

The sounds of traffic, pedestrians, and the relentless rain poured in, an ordinary cacophony that felt alien within the tension-filled space. He couldn’t even look at me. Was I misreading him, or was it simply inexperience on my part? No. I might be clueless about men, social cues, and even friendship, but that specific expression, I could distinguish as clearly as night from day.

It was a painful blow to realize that the first man I ever noticed felt disgusted touching me. Men watched me wherever I went while I rarely noticed them. Now that I wanted a man to look, to admire … oh, how it smarted. I mentally slapped myself, dislodging the self-pity. This was not the time or place.

I didn’t even know him. And the little he knew about me was enough to provoke such a reaction. What would he do if he met the real monster within? I berated myself and pushed down the sting of rejection.

“Tell me what to look for. I’ll search for it myself,” I said to his back, my voice flat and my face blank. I zipped the jacket all the way, wishing modesty had a stronger hold on me and I had kept the shirt, wet or not.

“I’ll do it,” he said, still looking out the window. And what a fucker, his disgust rang loud in his tone. He wasn’t even trying to hide it. If I thought I was mistaken before—and I wasn’t—that was a dead giveaway.

“I don’t want you to touch me,” I said stiffly.

He turned then, disgust and frustration evident. “This is not the time for modesty—”

I barked a sarcastic laugh, interrupting him, my eyes cold. It would have chilled lesser men, sent others scurrying far, far away, but he only looked perplexed, shaking his head in confusion, as if I made no sense to him.

“The Society might be assembling guards to come after you right now.” He ran a hand through his hair and motioned to the bed. “Please, sit down on the bed,” he said, leaving his post at the window.

I crossed my arms over my breasts and gave him a cold stare. “I can do it myself.”

He stared back, the disgust replaced by vacant eyes and a flicker of something else. He was the first to break eye contact, showing signs of weariness as he rubbed his face with both hands.

“Look, time is crucial here. I know what I’m looking for. If I do it, it’ll be done faster.” He gestured toward the bed again. “Please.”

He was right. My stubborn pride was only wasting precious time. If I had an active tracker signaling my enemies, the first step to freedom was removing it as quickly as possible. The faster, the higher my chances for success.

I let pride get in the way. I’ve done worse for the sake of freedom, worse than letting a man or scientist examine me. Gritting my teeth, I sat on the bed and waited.

Logan took the chair I had vacated and motioned for my leg. I rolled up my pants, then raised my leg above his thigh, keeping it suspended, not touching him. He let out a long sigh, pressed my leg down on his thigh, and placed his broad hands around my knee, beginning to move his thumb in the same circular motion he’d used on my neck and back. Clockwise, counterclockwise, and then down. His eyes tightened when he found the scars from the vampire’s teeth, but otherwise he didn’t react.

I wasn’t conceited. Not anymore. I knew I was once, back in the days when my biggest worry was my next outfit, but the confidence I’d once held had died somewhere along the earliest years I spent in the PSS. Because I wasn’t yet thirteen when the PSS took me, I never in my entire life tried to seduce a guy or used any feminine wiles to entice one. I’d never encouraged a man to look at me twice; in fact, I’d rather have been invisible. But I’d turned heads wherever I’d gone, regardless of gender and age. Even back in the PSS, I turned heads, gaining appreciative looks from new staff, guards, or guests, sometimes even from the veterans. Until one noticed the bracelet on my wrist or realized what I wore wasn’t a jumpsuit, but a uniform. Then the appreciative looks turned to disgust. There were those who tried to spare my feelings by giving me embarrassed smiles instead, but those had been rare and far between.

Some of the staff had tried taking advantage of my status, me being a prisoner and them my captors, but once Kincaid realized this, he slipped me a letter opener, which I had later used to stab my assaulter. I had paid for it, but no one had ever tried to molest me afterward.

But that was then, and this was now, and foolish as I was, I had noticed Logan, and had wanted him to notice me too.