Page 5 of Heir of Ashes

I locked the bathroom and advanced to the third stall where the ventilation window was positioned. Standing on top of the closed toilet, I peered inside. It would be a tight fit and the dust would stick all over my wet clothes, but desperate times and all that shit.

I reached for the shutter, jerking my hand as it transformed into talons, fur, and a pinkish padded palm/paw. I inserted my talons into the narrow slats and pried the cover off, sending screws flying across the bathroom, some clattering as far as the sinks. I was confident the racket would be muffled by the pounding rain. My deepest concern was that Logan would come knocking if I took too long.

I peered inside the airway, jerking my hand back to normal. The inside dead-ended about ten feet ahead and opened both to the right and left. I shoved my purse inside, a last thought going for the Prada jacket I’d gotten for a song and a whistle. Then I followed behind my monstrosity of a purse. I took the left and kept going, taking random turns, dust sticking to my wet pants. I finally found an exit through the ventilation panel in the changing room of a department store.

Outside, the storm raged on, and I was soaked to the bone in mere seconds. I cursed the foolhardy decision of leaving Thunder by the laundromat to give my legs some much-needed stretching. I sprinted all the way, teeth chattering. As I reached the laundromat, I was freezing cold and probably turning a light shade of blue. I stuffed my warm, dry clothes into my duffel, knowing they were going to wrinkle something fierce, and dashed to the truck. I tossed the duffel in the back and clambered inside. At least the rain had washed away the worst of the coffee and dust.

There was a flash of light, instantly followed by the clap of thunder. I looked around and … nothing. There was nothing. No cars, no people, nothing but thunder and rain. Rain and rain and more rain. A downpour like this one would eventually be discussed in history books. Followed by a religious title and the talk of doom.

Bad omen.I shivered and reached for the ignition key. Fortunately, the engine roared to life on the first try, and Islammed the gas pedal and sped away from that forgettable small town. Maybe it was time to give big cities a shot, seeing that the PSS was surely in on my small-town strategy.

Chapter 3

I crossed into Nevada around sunset the next day and took the first exit I found, heading for one of those no-name motels. Driving for more than twenty-seven hours had made my leg throb anew, even if there was nothing but ugly scars where the vampire had bitten me. A low-grade headache had settled in some long miles back, and a persistent grinding noise from Thunder’s worn-out engine had only added to my worries.

I parked in front of the office and took out a brown wig and contact lenses from my purse. I didn’t want to be recognized if Logan—on the off chance he managed to follow me this far—happened to describe me to anyone. Inside, a paunchy middle-aged man sat behind a dingy desk, too engrossed in a bag of sunflower seeds and a game on the TV to give me more than a passing glance. He didn’t even bother with any niceties. He motioned to the soap and travel-sized shampoo for sale with a grunt and a flick of his hand in case I needed them. I paid cash for a room and toiletries and made my way to number thirteen.

The motel was an L-shaped, two-story brick structure, and room thirteen was the last one on the shorter leg, on the ground floor. The lights outside had burned out, giving the place a deserted, eerie feel. Only three vehicles, including mine, dotted the parking lot. I wasn’t usually a superstitious person; on the contrary, I liked to believe myself very sensible. Still, something about number thirteen, that doorway shrouded in darkness, that feel of abandonment combined with that still-present sense of foreboding—well, let’s just say that number thirteen gave me the heebie-jeebies.

For a long time, I just sat in the darkened car. I wasn’t sure what I was expecting to happen, but there I was, hands gripping the steering wheel, waiting. Finally, commonsense prevailed, and I shook off the unease. I climbed out, marched to the room and without hesitation unlocked the door, determined to get a good night’s sleep. As far as those kinds of establishments went, the room was unremarkable, maybe a bit threadbare. The important part was that it was semi-clean. Before going inside, I gave one last look back at Thunder, then closed and locked the door with a flimsy chain that wouldn’t deter a determined child, let alone anything preternatural.

***

I woke up a couple of hours later and knew I was not alone. Years in the PSS taught me not to react and give myself away. My mind, fully awake, assessed the situation.

If I could just see what he was … oh, but he was good. I could hardly hear anything. And he was close. Very, very close. He shouldn’t have been able to get this close without waking me. It was probably Logan, but I learned long ago never to rule out different dangers. My instinct screamed at me to open my eyes, but I resisted, afraid the intruder was watching for any signs that I was awake. So I played possum and waited, muscles coiled, ready to spring. He was so good; I could barely hear the rustling of clothes and his low, even breathing.

One more step. Come on. Not having the advantage of knowing what I was up against, all I had was the second I’d get if I could surprise him. He took a step, and I rolled, catching a glimpse of something long and metal hitting the pillow where my head had been just a second before. Stuffing from the pillow exploded from the sides, and—I swear—I felt the iron frame of the bed bend and dip a little.

Shocked, I wondered—even as my inner voice screamed for me to run—if he was trying to kill me. Had the PSS given up on capturing me and just wanted me off the grid? Was it because of the vampire incident? I didn’t have time to think. I grabbed the cold metal thing—baseball bat—and pulled with allmy strength. He didn’t let go, stumbling forward instead, and I lashed out with my talons, aiming for his throat. He ducked just in time, and I sliced three shallow gashes across his cheek. Blood, thick and dark, oozed from the wounds, but he didn’t falter.

I sprang from the bed, still clutching the bat, but he yanked it away. He wobbled when the bat slipped from my grasp, but gained his balance easily, then turned to face me. He was definitely not Logan. The man had a blue aura twisted with something very dark—black? Blue was for ordinary humans, while black … black could be many things I couldn’t take the time to ponder. I noted, though, that the blue was very faint and that whatever the black was, it was taking over his humanity.

He gave me a wide, deranged smile, something I could see clearly despite the dimness of the room, and took a step forward, swinging the bat at my head. Instead of retreating, I stepped into his swing, catching the bat under my arm and slashing at his neck once more. Again, he dodged, narrowly avoiding the strike. His free hand shot out, grabbing a fistful of my hair and yanking me forward. Awkwardly, I raised my talons and sliced a path from shoulder to shoulder. His face twisted with a ferocious snarl, and he viciously twisted his hand in my hair. I cried out, desperate, and raked my talons across his wrist. He hissed, the pressure on my scalp easing, and I immediately backpedaled … only to fall straight into someone else’s arms. There were two of them! How could I have missed something like that?

I struggled to free my arms, and to my increasing alarm, I couldn’t. The man behind me had me locked into a bear hug, pinning my arms to my sides. The smell of sour sweat and leather wafted off him in acrid waves, and the ease in which he’d immobilized me was terrifying.

Bad Boy One with the bat sauntered closer, his crazed, deranged smile fixed on me. The oozing blood smearing hischeek looked like dark war paint. The predatory way he moved, the look in his eyes, vacant of any signs of humanity, told me that whatever he had in mind, it wasn’t to club and hustle me unconscious to the nearest PSS base.

I didn’t want to die. Fear fueled my adrenaline and I thrashed in earnest. The man holding me responded by squeezing his tree-trunk arms tighter, close to breaking my ribs, making it hard to breathe. Bad Boy One’s smile grew at my struggles, enjoying my helplessness. He swung the bat with both hands to the left, taunting, then to the right, the second time only half an inch away from my nose. If he swung the bat a third time, it was going to shatter my jaw at best, crack my skull at worst—if it didn’t outright kill me.

Bad Boy One took one more step, and I stopped struggling. My heart was drumming a fast rhythm, almost one single inseparable tone. A wild gleam of anticipation entered his eyes before he raised the bat again with a low whistle of air. I shifted, replacing my weight on the balls of my feet. The moment he came into range, I pushed, slamming my feet into his chest with all the strength I could muster. The impact sent Bad Boy One stumbling back a few feet, hitting the nightstand on his way, and falling down to one knee with a thud, while Bad Boy Two staggered but didn’t let go. Panic flared, increasing my desperation. I screamed, hoping someone would come but knowing even if someone did, chances were they would die with me. Then I stabbed the talons of my right hand into Bad Boy Two’s thigh.

He grunted in my ear and staggered, his hold loosening just enough for me to slam my head forcefully back into his jaw. Pain exploded behind my eyes, but I forced myself to struggle and wriggle harder. The instant I twisted free, I threw myself sideways and crawled, pushing with hands and feet andmanaging to gain some distance before Bad Boy Two grabbed my scarred ankle and hauled me back.

I kicked wildly with my other foot and struck his thigh. His only response was a hiss. I stomped twice more in quick succession, and this time I heard a sickening popping sound as his knee gave way. Bad Boy Two fell to his knees, hollering inhumanly, the sound kick-starting my fear to a higher level. Instead of letting me go, his grip on my ankle only tightened. I’d have his hand perfectly printed around my ankle like a henna tattoo.

By then, Bad Boy One had gained his feet and stalked toward me, his face twisted with rage. I jerked my hand into talons and was about to slash Bad Boy Two’s wrist when I realized it would expose my side to Bad Boy One. So, I tried slashing at the latter, but the angle was wrong, and my talons scraped uselessly against the iron bedframe. Whatever that black on their auras was, it gave them speed, strength, and endurance beyond anything normal.

Bad Boy One sidestepped my next attempt, then stomped my hand with brutal force, sending shockwaves of pain up my arm. He followed with a kick to my side, his boot striking hard between my ribs and hip. My vision burst into white hot stars as I curled into a ball, trying to protect myself.

Bad Boy Two let go of my ankle and stood. The popping sound apparently hadn’t been a broken bone because he joined his companion, and they both began kicking and stomping me to death. I had enough sense to cover my head, though after a while, I realized I was just prolonging the inevitable.

The sound of a loud boom and a roar filtered through some eternity later. At first, I thought I had been the one screaming, but after some confusing and painful seconds passed, I realized no one was kicking me. I coughed, tasting blood, my vision dimming at the edges. I might have blackedout for a second or ten. I spat a wad of blood and wondered, vaguely alarmed, about its origin. I heard grunts and curses and the sound of flesh hitting flesh. A voice in my head told me to go, go, go, and I had enough survival instinct left to crawl out of the room and get to my feet slowly, so, so slowly, supporting myself on the doorframe. I was disoriented, unsure of what to do next.

When I looked back, I found Logan, his familiar green and yellow aura wrestling one of the bad boys while the other lay writhing in a heap, blood amassing under his head. A gun lay on the floor, no doubt the weapon responsible for the pooling blood. I turned my attention back to the fight in time to see Bad Boy One scoop up the bat and swing it at Logan, missing his head and glancing off his shoulder with a sickening thwack. And even though the blow must have hurt like a bitch, Logan didn’t miss a step. He closed in and punched Bad Boy One with an uppercut to the jaw, then tackled him to the ground. They rolled around in the confined space, each trying to get the upper hand and strangle the other.

Should I help?I debated picking up the gun. While I hesitated, Bad Boy Two, still writhing on the floor, gave an inhuman howl, and as I watched, his aura flashed once, then turned completely black, deciding for me. I didn’t want to know the outcome of the fight.