Page 7 of Heir of Ashes

Mmm, that was actually an appealing idea.

As if reading my mind, he cocked his head to the side and said in a much softer tone, “You take the wheel.”

I narrowed my eyes at him. “What makes you think I’m not going to ditch us at the first sinkhole?”

His eyes flashed with a dangerous glint, reminding me I was dealing with a predator as well as a mercenary. He motioned with his gun for me to move, saying nothing.

I complied, passing him with an indifferent air, shoulders back—though the posturing cost me. With clenched teeth, I pushed my duffel onto the back seat, then stiffly climbed inside. I was already regretting not taking the passenger seat by the time he opened the door. Adjusting the seat to accommodate my shorter legs increased the throbbing in my ribs. I bit my lip to keep myself from gasping out loud. I didn’t want him to realize how badly I was hurt. Weak prey didn’t live long. It was the law of the jungle.

I remembered when I was still young and just “plain human”, unable to defend myself against the PSS’s brutal experiments. The first time when they dragged me kicking and screaming down to the lab, I remembered feeling my first betrayal, the shocking realization that they had been going easy on me during earlier tests. I had considered Dr. Maxwell an ally back then, the only friend I had made in the eight months since I’d arrived. I’d understood his gesture of goodwill—chocolate, ice cream, gossip magazines—had been nothing but bribes to ensure good behavior. But I was a social creature, dependenton interactions for survival. Dr. Maxwell had known that, understanding that my confinement and forceful experiments were mentally killing me, deteriorating the quality of his research.

As the head of the Scientists’ team assigned to me, Dr. Maxwell had taken it upon himself to bring me all the comforts an ex-popular thirteen-year-old had deemed necessary. By then, I’d been so sick of fighting and rebelling—though in no way broken—that I’d stopped resisting the tests in exchange for a nice suite with a king-sized bed, a laptop—without wireless connection—books to fill my time, and a bathroom with a large tub. It had been my weakness, letting them know how much I needed those material comforts and Dr. Maxwell’s company in the evening, a sympathetic ear to listen to my complaints.

I remembered the shock that horrible day when I was locked inside a metal cage like a feral animal, with Dr. Maxwell standing nearby in the lab ignoring my protests, taking notes as if locking me in the cage after all the nice things he had done for me was the most natural thing. It was only after I’d escaped that I learned from Dr. Maxwell’s stolen journal that the vaccine he had given me the night before had been an amplifying spell, given to uncooperative subjects. I remembered the dreadful buzzing sound the lock mechanism made when engaged, the vibrations through the bars when I grabbed them to scream louder at Dr. Maxwell. After the events of that night, I was no longer able to touch the bars without being severely burned. Three sides of the cage were made of thick, reinforced metal bars, but the fourth—the back side—was just a metal sheet, which I also learned that day served as a door, a partition wall to the next cage.

When the wall of the cage behind me had opened with a sliding whoosh, I’d given it no thought. But when I’d heard the guttural growl behind me, my voice had stuck in my throat. Dr.Maxwell had turned to watch, and only then did I notice I had an audience.

I remembered the sensation of rubbery muscles, how my stomach had fluttered and plunged, the tremors that ran down my spine all the way to my toenails—the horror of the second growl, closer, the way the hairs on the back of my neck had stood at attention. Frightened, scared shitless, I’d been too terrified to turn and find the monster inside with me, and my knees had buckled, sending me onto the cold bottom of the cage. I remembered registering in a humiliated part of my brain the acrid stench of urine. My heart had beat too fast, too erratically, and I remembered wondering if I was having a heart attack. I remembered wondering that first time if they were serving me for dinner to a hideous monster for failing to meet their expectations. The terror, the humiliation of begging deaf ears. I remembered it all, every second, every heartbeat.

That day, eight months after they had kidnapped me, I exhibited the first of many signs of abnormality. I had become the monster they had suspected I was all along. My talons had manifested first—it had saved my life—and my ability to read auras the very next day. Only after a handful of similar episodes did I learn they’d been ready to shoot the animal before they could fatally injure me. It had taken me over five years of misery, hurt, and resentment to accept the fact that no one was coming for me. And then it took three more years of meticulous planning for the right opportunity to present itself so that I might escape.

Now this man intended to drag me back. For what? A meager few thousand? Was that the sum of my worth? A tightness gripped my chest, a familiar blend of fear and anxiety. I closed my eyes, forgetting my aches and agonizing over my predicament instead. I needed a plan—fast. I couldn’t—wouldn’t—return to that hell. I doubted I’d survive it again.

The piercing screech of a blaring horn and a tug at the steering wheel jolted me back to reality. My eyes snapped open in time to be blinded by the oncoming headlights—just in time to avoid colliding with another vehicle, with mere inches to spare. The Range Rover skidded and squealed to a halt on the shoulder.

I braked, breathing hard. I had dozed off behind the wheel. My God, I’d fallen asleep while driving. My hands clenched the steering wheel so hard, it gave a faint rubbery squeak. I could hear Logan’s harsh breathing above my thundering heart.

“Get. Out,” he growled before I could dredge up anything to say.

I looked at him in disbelief. Was he going to just throw me out? Had he decided I wasn’t worth the trouble anymore? The hard set of his jaw told me he was furious.

“I said out,” he repeated through gritted teeth.

A glance out the window told me there was nothing but the unforgiving, endless road and desert ahead. Not that I had expected to find a PSS base close by. But I’d been wrong before. While I didn’t relish being alone in the cold and dark, I’d rather take my chance with the rattlesnakes than keep trying to hitchhike, and risk the Bad Boy Team picking me up next. I opened the door, unbuckled my belt, and gritted my teeth against the pain that assaulted my senses. All the while, I could feel the heavy weight of Logan’s gaze on me.

Suddenly, he let out a curse, opened his door, and circled the hood to my side. What? Did he think I wasn’t doing the job fast enough? As if I had wanted to come with him in the first place. I was about to get out when he shook his head and closed in, effectively blocking me. “Just … just scoot over.”

“No, no.” I waved for him to move back. “I’m good. I can go on from here.”

“Go?” Logan’s eyebrows lowered, and I realized my mistake. He hadn’t been booting me out; he had meant to switch places.

“How bad are you hurt?” he asked, his tone surprisingly gentle.

What kind of game was he playing? Whatever it was, I had neither the will nor the power to play it.

“Do you need help?” he tried again, and there was no sign of mockery or condescension in his face and tone. His concern sounded genuine, but I didn’t trust it.

Jaws still clenched, I moved sideways. Logan reached out to help, only to drop his arm halfway. Clever man. A groan almost escaped my lips when I reached for the seatbelt. Again, I felt rather than saw Logan watching me. I leaned my head back and closed my eyes, deciding the belt was too much effort. Despite my aches, I fell asleep instantly.

I slept fitfully, waking every now and then with a start. It was still dark, but dawn wasn’t far off. On the horizon where desert met sky, there was a shifting of colors, a deep bruise in the sky, as if sunrise hurt the dark before it gave in to daylight.

I shifted stiffly, stretching as much as my aches allowed. Somewhere along the drive, Logan had fastened my seatbelt. I grimaced at the stabbing pain in my side and wondered if it would ever go away. How long would my ribs take to heal? Were they cracked or broken? I could block the pain, but pain was a good reminder of limits.

“Which base are we going to?” I asked groggily.

Logan didn’t answer and I didn’t ask again. A few minutes later, we pulled up to a lonely stone building with a huge lit sign that read “La Estrada”. Not a PSS base, but a hotel.

Without a word or a glance my way, Logan climbed out, grabbed my duffel bag, and surprised me by opening thepassenger door for me. Mmm. A gentleman or an impatient asshole?

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