Page 23 of Heir of Ashes

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 outthere, 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 hadescaped 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?

---