Page 32 of Heir of Ashes
Each guard had at least a hundred pounds on me and a few years of combat training. If I hesitated for a fraction of a second, I was done. So, I didn’t. Without a shred of remorse, my talons unsheathed and struck the throat of the guard whose gun I held. All this happened in a few seconds of jostling. That’s when the driver noticed something was wrong. He yelled something and braked hard—sending the passenger guard as far forward as the seatbelt allowed him to go. Before I could gain my balance and react, the driver’s tranquilizer gun was aimed at me, and he was squeezing the trigger.
But the dart never came. From my peripheral vision, I saw Kincaid’s aura flash and hold white. He was doing something to the gun. The guard pulled the trigger twice more in quick succession, his eyes narrowing at it before I had enough sense to get moving. Like I did with the guard in the back, I went for the throat, talons slashing. I struck so hard that my talons went as deep as his vertebrae. My conscience screamed in protest, and I yanked my gory, bloodied talons away, mystomach heaving with revulsion. My horror and brief hesitation cost me.
The passenger guard grabbed my bloodied wrist—gore and all—and twisted hard. I bent forward awkwardly with my hands linked, realizing too late that I had exposed my back to an enemy. It was either that or let him break my wrist. I should have let him break it. Because I had given him my back, I didn’t see the blow to the back of my head coming. Just an explosion of light before the darkness took me.
***
When I came to, I had a mother of a headache playing football with my brain, and a cheerleading squad dancing and applauding.
Half of my upper body was slumped over the dead driver, the other half draped over someone’s head. The passenger side was empty, the door left ajar. An egg-sized lump on the back of my head was sticky with blood. There was a commotion behind me, and I forced myself to move despite the nauseating dizziness, to find Kincaid fighting off the passenger guard. He must have gone to check on his fellow guards and found Kincaid waiting for him. Logan lay motionless on the floor, no doubt where he’d fallen when the driver had braked. The passenger guard brushed my leg, and I seized the opportunity, hooking the chain of my shackles around his neck and pulling tightly. Despite the roiling of my stomach and the bile rising in my throat, I held firm, strangling him until his legs spasmed and his hands fell limp.
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.