Heir of Ashes (The Roxanne Fosch Files #1)

Chapter 23

I found both Logan and Rafael in the hallway arguing. Their voices were only a decibel above a whisper, but I heard Rafael’s comment loud and clear. He wanted me to hear him.

“ … Doug won’t be coming for a few days. She can stay that long.”

His eyes shifted to me, took in my bare legs, and he smiled shark-like, his brown eyes cold. “You shouldn’t come with us. As a matter of fact,” he added in a decisive tone, “you aren’t. You will stay here, safe and sound, until we come back with Archer.”

“But Mom, I don’t want to stay,” I whined.

“Honey, if you insist, I can tie you up inside a cage with nothing but a bowl for water and another for shit.” His smile grew at the narrowing of my eyes, and before I could slash his face and make that smug smile permanent from ear to ear, Logan stepped in front of me and raised his hands up to Rafael.

“I told you, man, if she wants to come, then she will. Remember Rob and the swamps? Same goes here.”

Incredibly, Rafael backed off. With a hiss and tightening of lips, but he backed off. He turned his back on us, storming down the narrow hallway before slamming a door shut behind him.

I was curious about the story behind Rob and the swamps, but smart enough not to ask. You didn’t pry into other people’s businesses unless you wanted to return the favor. So I gave Logan a tentative smile and headed for the bathroom.

When I emerged, freshly showered but wearing the same sweaty t-shirt, the hallway was empty. For that matter, I couldn’t hear or sense anyone nearby.

I went back to the room I woke up in, drying my hair with the towel I found in the bathroom closet. My hair was all tangled; there was no conditioner, and I couldn’t find a brush. All the nightstand drawers were empty. At the sound of soft footsteps, I raised my head and found Logan just outside the room, my duffel bag slung over his arm.

“May I come in?”

“Sure, it’s your house,” I said, meeting him halfway through and relieving him of my bag. After setting it on the bed, I dug out my purse and hairbrush from inside.

“Let me,” he offered, plucking the brush from my hand without waiting for an answer. He sat on the edge of the bed, across from the straight-back chair, and waited.

I hesitated a second, but he didn’t notice. Or chose not to. I turned the back of the chair to him before sitting. There was no way that I was going to straddle it wearing nothing but an oversized t-shirt.

When his fingers grazed the nape of my neck, I stifled an involuntary shiver. He draped my hair over the back of the chair and began brushing it gently, untangling each lock with care. The motion was soothing, a tender caress.

It was comfort he offered.

I couldn’t recall my mother—or Elizabeth—ever brushing my hair. From a young age, she taught me to rely only on myself and, now that I could look back from a different angle, I understood it was her way of ensuring that I didn’t find myself in a position where I needed help from others.

Maybe she’d thought I’d have a life in the PSS, thinking it was more like a boarding school instead of the torture institution it was.

“… For we were also a disciplinary school , ” Dr. Dean had said . Now that I could stand and look back at it objectively, I could see the holes, the way Elizabeth had kept herself detached. She’d brought me gifts, toys and dolls, the best food and clothes her salary as a lab technician could buy. But was there ever love? Had she ever brushed my hair with such tenderness? Sat me on her lap or hugged me just to comfort, just to touch? Did she ever show concern at an injury, ask what had upset me? I tried, but at that moment, I couldn’t think of even one occasion.

Had she seen me when I was growing up, really seen me? And here this man I hardly knew … this man, whose only emotions toward me were pity and a dollop of lust, showing me more comfort in a handful of days than I had ever seen before.

I was mortified when my throat constricted with tears. Uncomfortable and confused with the direction of my thoughts and feelings, I took the brush from Logan and exchanged it with some clothes from my duffel, conscious of his eyes on me. I extricated the first item of clothing I found, a yellow and green jogging suit I didn’t like and couldn’t fathom why I’d bought.

Logan cleared his throat. “There’s something I want you to have before we leave.” He waited for me to turn to face him before he pulled out a dark, thin rectangular wooden box from his pocket and offered it to me.

I reached for it, pausing as my fingers hovered above the intricately carved surface. I searched Logan’s eyes for a clue, any hint of what it was or what it meant but found nothing but encouragement.

“What is it?” I asked.

In response, Logan slid the side open like a miniature drawer, revealing a thin bracelet with an oblong, vibrant blue stone in the middle. I felt it then, the slow hum of power emanating from it. Something inside me felt it too. The ripple that ran down my spine wasn’t fear or anxiety. It was something akin to a thrill, excitement—recognition.

Deep at the core of my being, where I once pulled that invisible shield against the fire mage, that slumbering otherness inside me stretched and opened an eye, beginning to awaken. The stirrings of alarm that surfaced whenever the rage inside me clawed free never came. No, if that rage was a malevolence I tried to suppress, this thing now awakening inside me was its opposite. It was something different, more ancient, more primal. Though there were no alarm bells ringing, I recoiled at the strangeness of it. Throughout the years, I was the one to seek that slumbering otherness in the depth of my soul, never the other way around.

“You can sense it?” Logan asked with awe, picking up the bracelet with thumb and forefinger, dangling it by the clasp. Inside the electric blue stone, mist swirled, clearing every other second to show a simple rock as clear as a warm sky in midsummer before misting over again. Logan touched the other end, reverence showing in the brightness of his eyes and in the excited tone of his voice. “I’ve never seen anyone react to it before.” He glanced at me, his lips lifting in a gentle smile.

“What is it?” I murmured, mesmerized.

“We call it Arianna’s bracelet. It’s a boost of energy. Kinetic, to be specific. One push only, crafted by a person from another world, another era.” His eyes returned to it, his smile fading. “It was designed specifically for Archer, a gift from an ally in case …” He shook his head once, clearing it from whatever thoughts clouded it. “I was going to take it to him in case Rafael didn’t show up, but now that he did …” He extended both hands to me.

I took a step back and shook my head. Because I wanted it.

“Take it. In case something goes wrong, and you need a way out.”

“No, no. I don’t think Archer would like that you gave me something that belongs to him. The fact that he hasn’t used it tells me he’s saving it for whatever occasion, or maybe that it’s something he values.”

“Then we’ll call it even. If you use it at all, it means things have gone down badly and this was your ticket out, your get-out-of-jail-free card. Since you’re going there to help us rescue him, it’s only fair this one chance goes to you.”

For a moment, I did nothing. Then I reached for it, that thing inside me still watching curiously, drowsily. When I took the bracelet, its weight heavier than I expected, that otherness inside me lost interest, as if the bracelet with the quiet hum wasn’t worth its notice.

The stone was set inside a band of five braided cords, forming the bracelet without any visible joints or breaks. The hum was soft, a gentle lull against the palm of my hand. It reminded me a bit of the ward on the door of Remo Drammen’s Vegas penthouse, though this one was pleasant and relaxing.

“How do I use it?” I asked, noticing it was too big for my wrist.

Logan took it back and fastened it high on my bicep. “You will it to.”

“But what does it do?”

“It’s a kinetic boost. It propels.”

When he saw the confusion still in my eyes, he added, “You think about something you need to happen and will it to work. It will obey your wish. Point it downward and you can leap over a high fence fast enough that you’ll look like a blur. Or it can help you cover a vast distance faster than the eye can track. It acts like a tank of nitrogen, only faster, stronger.”

I looked down at it, the hem of my sleeve brushing against it. The mist swirled and covered the vibrant blue stone, making it seem dull, a quiet, harmless beauty trinket, but the gentle hum remained steady, like docile lapping waves. Calming.

“It’s beautiful,” I said and glanced up, finding Logan watching me.

“A pretty bauble for a pretty lady,” he said, his eyes crinkling with a smile.

“I’d need a lot of sessions with a beauty surgeon to be as pretty as this,” I said with feeling, looking down in time to see the rock clear, the blue so electric I thought I felt a little zap.

Logan traced the band of the bracelet with the tip of a finger. “You don’t need pretty baubles and fancy clothes to look pretty. You’re just beautiful the way you are.”

I startled, meeting his eyes, suddenly self-conscious. Unable to come up with a suitable reply—was one even needed?—I awkwardly smiled, turning away and reaching for the jogging suit I’d left on top of my open bag. A squeak of surprised escaped my lips when I straightened and found myself enveloped in his warm embrace from behind. I stiffened like a brick wall, but all he did was hold me close. After a moment, he lowered his head to my shoulder, breathing in and out, our cheeks touching. I gradually relaxed back and for a long time basked in the comfort of his warm body behind me, the coarseness of his cheek against mine, the sweet smell of his soap.

When he tugged me around, I went willingly, wrapping my arms around his solid frame, resting my head on his shoulder and taking the comfort he offered. He lowered his chin to the top of my head and sighed, not taking advantage of the moment. How could he know so perfectly what I needed? How could someone I barely knew understand me so much?

We stood like that for a long moment. When his hands began roaming up and down and he started kissing a path from my ear down to my neck, I pulled back and met his stormy gaze. My heart thundered in my throat. Did I want this?

When he lowered his head to mine, I took a step back, and even though his arms were around me, holding me close, he let go. Relief and disappointment tugged and fluttered in my stomach. I had hoped, deep down, that he wouldn’t let go this easily, even as I told myself it was for the best.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he tried to soothe, but I just shook my head and then nodded like a moron.

“You will,” I began, but realized when his eyes darkened with frustration that we were talking about different things. He meant physically; I meant emotionally.

“I promise you I won’t.” He reached for me, but I stepped away.

“I can’t. I’m sorry.” I picked up the discarded jumpsuit and fled to the bathroom. A moment later Logan’s footsteps paused outside the closed door, two inches of wood all that separated us. I held my breath, certain that he could hear the thunderous beat of my heart.

“You okay?” he asked softly, and for some foolish reason, my throat constricted again. After half a minute of heavy silence, he added, “I’m going now …” He hesitated, waiting for a response that I couldn’t give.

Coward! that voice inside me shouted. I thought about feeding him the cliché line about it not being him, but my lips just wouldn’t move. The truth—that I couldn’t handle a casual relationship—felt like a plea for more. And I didn’t even want a relationship with a guy I didn’t even know! Or want a relationship, period.

So there I was, standing in that small bathroom in an apartment I had no idea where, clutching a bunched-up jumpsuit to my chest with my back to the door, afraid to utter a word, much less acknowledge the guy on the other side. Coward! I lowered my head in defeat.

“We leave in two hours,” he said. “Try to get some rest.” Then he was moving away, his footsteps getting fainter, until the thudding of a door closing silenced them entirely.

I took a long breath and exhaled through my mouth in a long hiss. Coward! “So, I didn’t handle that very well,” I muttered under my breath. Coward! “It’s not like I have a wealth of experience to draw from.” I tried to excuse myself, but now that I could breathe, I cringed at the way I’d reacted. Maybe I should just go find him and tell him the truth, that I couldn’t deal with a casual fling, that hopping into bed and walking away the next day wasn’t something I could do. A guy like him should be used to women wanting more from him. How would he handle that? Would he even catch a second meaning there?

“How the hell should I know?” I grumbled. One thing I knew for sure: I didn’t handle that well.

I went out to look for him, apologize or something, but all I found was Rafael in the kitchen sitting in Logan’s previous seat, drinking a can of Coke. The blood had been cleaned from the table, and a quick glance told me so had the plaster debris Logan had made.

I stood by the door, unsure if I should ask, but when Rafael cocked a knowing eyebrow and let his cold gaze linger on my bare legs, I just gave up, feeling twin pangs of relief and disappointment. I returned to my appointed bedroom, the jumpsuit trailing behind me like a sad tail.

I tried to sleep for a while, but I was too wired, too frustrated for that, so I just tossed and turned. When the two hours were over, I heard Logan come back, but it was Rafael who came to fetch me. I didn’t miss the gesture.

***

The hours following our departure from Sacramento to Seattle were hectic on my nerves, though every step was meticulously timed. Every second brought me closer and closer to the torture facility that had been haunting me for over a decade. It was like a dream I knew I wouldn’t be waking up from anytime soon.

The assured and confident way Logan and Rafael carried themselves should have eased the anxiety residing in my chest. Should have, but didn’t. Their equipment emphasized that this was not an amateur operation, but something closer to a routine.

It turned out that Douglas, the owner of the basement apartment, had flown to Seattle ahead of us to do some recon and organize whatever we would need—before, during, and after the raid—but he wouldn’t be joining us. Logan informed me it was in case things went to Hell and we needed someone on the outside to bail us out. It was a reassuring thought, but I had a hunch there was something more about this Douglas guy. He had sent a friend of his, a short guy name Pirate with tattoos in lieu of hair, to collect us from the airport and deliver us to a secluded back road deep in the woods. The path was little more than a rugged, overgrown trail, where thick, moss-covered branches occasionally blocked our way, forcing Pirate, Rafael, or Logan to wrestle them aside so we could continue. The roadside where Pirate dropped us was barely recognizable as such, buried under a wild tangle of towering vegetation.

Pirate was also the person who handed us the “supplies and accessories”—a euphemism for weapons—that Douglas had so kindly provided for us.

“Three each, but not her,” Rafael’s voice pulled my attention from the woods and back to where he and Logan were sorting out the weapons.

Logan reached inside the military duffel and handed Rafael three grenades, then proceeded to strap three more to a loop on his belt. Apparently, he agreed with Rafael because none were passed to me. As if I knew how to throw one without having it bounce back.

I felt like an extra in an action-horror film. Not because they didn’t trust me with grenades—aside from the Kevlar, all they gave me was a snug black spandex suit—but because I was downright clumsy compared to their agile and instinctive pace. No matter how much I tried to anticipate what they would do next, what their move would be, I couldn’t read them. And I was a pretty good reader of body language. Or so I’d thought. The scene struck me with an inappropriate sense of hysteria—both men looked like mob enforcers gearing up for a hit—straight out of some gritty crime drama. They were both dressed in similar black spandex suits, like the one they gave me, although I sensed a worn-out vibe emanating from theirs, not like an aura exactly, but more like the hum of a faraway vehicle, only fainter. It was barely there, and if mine hadn’t lacked that vibe, I probably wouldn’t have noticed it. My suit was also new, carrying the stiffness only new clothes possessed, where theirs had a broken-in feel, like old leather. Another difference between my suit and theirs was the arsenal tucked in the various pockets. So many weapons … My God. They carried enough arm power to support a small war. So much was strapped into the built-in holes and loops of their suits—around their torsos and waists, on their lower backs and thighs—I wouldn’t be surprised if the weight of the weapons exceeded mine.

As the time of our breach of the fortress grew near, I watched in fascination and trepidation as all sorts of accessories—small cylinder guns, three muzzle submachine guns, grenades, ammunitions, and things I was absolutely sure were illegal in the United States, were strapped on the various loops on their suits. And oh, all the knives. Thin blades seemed to be the preference, although most were different sizes. In fact, Rafael strapped one to his side that was so long, it looked like a short sword. God, who were these people? There were no loops that hadn’t been filled with something round or sharp.

I wouldn’t have minded a few of the throwing knives, though I guess they’d be put to better use with either man. All I had were my talons—and the bracelet, I supposed, still humming softly against the skin of my wrist, where Logan had adjusted it to fit during the flight over.

“The chip?” Rafael asked Logan.

“Here,” he replied, placing a hand over a small pocket over his right breast.

“Ready?”

Logan grunted as he rolled the empty duffel.

I was surprised when Rafael turned to me next. “Ready? You can still back out. No one will think less of you if you do.”

“I’m going,” I replied, the knot in my stomach tightening. Not because I was eager to go back, but because my gut urged me to do this. And regardless of how nervous I was, I’d learned long ago never to ignore my gut instinct.

Rafael studied my face for a moment, searching for a doubt I knew didn’t show. Or maybe it did, because he bared his teeth next, his eyes as cold and unfeeling as a northern winter, and said, “You fuck this up, do anything to jeopardize this mission in any way, and I’ll make it my personal goal to hunt you down. You understand me?”

“I’m in,” I said as calmly as possible, knowing Rafael meant every word and that he wouldn’t stop once he had found me. No, he would make me pay with my blood, drop by slow drop. I could see it in his eyes.

He gave me a short nod and turned to the woods behind him. As if a warning of sorts, a tiny drop of frigid water fell on my neck and slithered to the edge of the spandex suit, making me shiver. I could’ve left my hair down and protected my neck from the chill, but I’d tied it into a bun to keep it from being used as a weapon against me. I’d learned that lesson the hard way.

No birds sang, no small animals scurried through the underbrush. It was all so … eerie. We were surrounded by trees, tall, billowing sentinels, their branches blocking out most of the gray sky, only revealing glimpses when they swayed with the biting wind. Some of the trees were bare, their fallen leaves forming a slippery carpet.

The moss-covered trees, the carpet of fallen leaves, and the steady sound of water dripping from the canopy—leftovers from a recent rain—reminded me of a movie where a headless horseman emerged from the roots of an old tree. It was a perfect set for its replay. Even the whistle of the wind seemed like a cry of doom.

There was still plenty of daylight left, but the hike from here to the stone wall surrounding the PSS would take us about an hour. Douglas had come ahead of us and marked our trail, but I hadn’t seen any signs of it. In fact, the trees were so densely packed, we had to move in single file.

Logan led the way, with me in the middle and Rafael bringing up the rear. Anyone smart enough could tell those two weren’t entirely human just by watching the animalistic way they moved. They dodged and jumped over fallen logs swiftly and sure-footed, navigating the rough terrain with ease.

We would be approaching the facility from the back, not because security was lighter, but because the buildings were closest to the wall from there. Guardhouses were evenly distributed around the wall, along with cameras and heat sensors; it wouldn’t have mattered from which point we penetrated the fortress. But this way, at least, we wouldn’t have to cross a long stretch in the open.