Page 11 of Heir of Ashes

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 enjoyedit 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 withoutmy 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.

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