Every hair on my body stood at attention. I had to get out of there. And then, like a switch, his smile disappeared, his stance relaxed, his aura returned to that harmless blue, and his eyes focused at a point behind me.
I got to my feet slowly, took a step back so I could keep my eyes on him and include the view of the room, and glanced around. I had a hunch that if Giant was allowed to hurt me he'd have done it already—and enjoyed it immensely.
Keeping the wall on my back, I studied the empty, plush living 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 window 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 however, and I couldn't hear any sound of occupants in any of the other rooms. Regardless of the quiet, my heart began slamming hard against my ribs.
One thing I had learned in the PSS through 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. A cold shiver went down my back, like hundreds of frozen fingers. My stomach fluttered nervously. I concentrated, sending out my senses, and after a few seconds and lots of hard focus, I began feeling some kind of buzzing energy, like static, like high voltage cables, filling—no, surrounding the room. I caught myself holding my breath, waiting for the next bad thing in my life to present itself. The energy grew, became almost tangible, and the hairs on my neck stood on end. I didn't hear any footsteps, but I suddenly knew that 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 to the dreadful monster image in my mind that I had the most hysterical need to start laughing maniacally. But somehow, through herculean strength of will, I managed to restrain myself. I guess it was the result of how odd and surreal everything felt lately that kept me sober. I tried hard though not to notice the man much. I knew if I paid attention to details, which my mind was doing furiously without my consent, I'd 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 foot nothing, with thick white hair, ears too big for his small head, and an albino complexion that looked very odd with his dark—I think black—eyes, behind oval, white, plastic-rimmed glasses. I had a feeling that he had dressed like the furniture to look less conspicuous. My mind doubled over with laughter, but my poker face was excellent. I thanked God for all the years of training I'd gotten in the PSS. My lack of ability to keep hold of his gaze had my mind sobering, though not as swiftly as I'd 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 shortcuts. I knew for a fact that 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 blasting off. 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 I had been gone from the PSS, I had assumed the name of Eliza Daniels and, before that, I was called Subject UX 01-484.
And here this man was, using my full name though I had never met him before.
Rooted in place with shock and wonder, I watched as he came forward—his steps small, measured ones, making no sound at all as he closed the distance and took my hand in his cold ones and guided me to the sofa.
His hands, despite feeling human and dry to the touch, gave me the impression of something scaly and slimy.
I wanted nothing but to yank my hand back, but found myself incapable to do so, instead following him like an obedient collared dog.
Note to myself: never let this man touch me again. My wild moment of desired hysteria had long deserted me – to be replaced by dread. Who was this man? This something?
“Who are you?” I asked, my voice breathy.
He paused, as if the words were something he needed to take time to process. “Pardon me for my rudeness,” he said with that nasal rumble as he helped me to 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 more sure that if someone had ever described him to me, I'd have never forgotten it.
“Can I get you something to drink?” he asked, ever politely. I wondered who he really was and what he really wanted. Could Silvery Blue downstairs have anything to do with him?
He watched me, his face blank, either unable or unfamiliar with human expressions to be able to fake them. I watched him back, noting that he was so short, even standing, he was eye level with me. He must be shorter than five feet tall.
He inclined his head, the gesture minuscule, as if involuntary. “You remind me of someone I met 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, “and 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 a sight to behold.” He waited expectantly, though I had no clue for what.
“Why am I here?” I asked.
His finger 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 couch, 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—this something, I'd gone too long wondering about myself to beat around the bushes or feign ignorance when presented with a chance to find out.
“No, not at all. There are none like me, though there used to be two once.” He cocked his head to the side, studying me with his flat expression. “Can't you feel it? This impression, this sense of awareness that tickles the back of your brain. Once there, then gone? Has it not called to you?”
The foreboding intensified, along with a dash of excitement, and breathlessly I asked, “What is it?” because I've felt it, on and off for years now, even in the PSS.
Remo Drammen tilted his head in acknowledgement, his eyes fixing and capturing mine with a sharp intensity that felt almost physical. I could no longer look away, and the black of his eyes felt like they could swallow me whole. “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. “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.”
Flares? Did he mean that sense of foreboding?
He glanced once at his watch, “But I'm afraid I'm wanted somewhere else. Suffice it to say I have a business proposition to make 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 was roaring in my ears, things were beginning to blend together.
“Imagine, Miss Fosch, power with no limit.”
He gestured grandly. “Riches with no end. For an entire eternity.” He took a step forward and paused to add, “Think about it, for when I come back we'll talk about this extensively and set the rules.”
Whoa! Set the rules? “And if I decline?” Was that the reason whoever I reminded him of died?
“What I can offer you are things you won't be able to decline.” He made a dismissive gesture with a tiny hand and focused his dark eyes on me. My eyes averted, of their own free will. “Imagine yourself free of those who seek you. Doling out revenge to all injustices they have caused you. Knowledge no one has ever yet possessed. Power with no limits where you can have anything you wish for. You'll never need to be alone. You'll have anyone you choose to follow you like eager puppets. You will never, ever long for anything ever again.”
I considered him, my eyes never able to focus. “And what if I decline?” I repeated. The possibility of rushing the PSS and laying waste to the whole facility was very appealing. Living my life with no fear and not having to hide and keep watch over my shoulder was the best thing ever, and, admittedly, I could feel that tickle now, stronger in his presence.
But… At what cost? My sanity, my soul? Unlimited servitude?
If he was willing to offer me something like that, along with power, knowledge and slaves to follow me, what was he getting in return?
I didn't believe, not even for an instant, that to get all of the above, all that would be required of me would be manning the phone and taking messages. Not that having eager puppets as followers or power beyond limit was tempting to me, not at all. Like I said before, I'd give up all my abilities to take back my life where I had left it ten years ago. The only tempting thing he actually offered me was the revenge, the freedom.
And… the freedom—the freedom carried weight enough to have tempted me on its own. But would it be worth just living my life with no concerns about anyone coming after me, no matter the price? I eyed him, still unable to hold his stare. The man just oozed menace, treachery, and danger like heat from an open furnace. Yet, he looked like something a soft breeze could blow away.
How deceiving!
And no matter how much I longed for freedom, if I accepted this man's offer, I'd regret it so badly—I just knew I would.
No, no matter how tempting, I'd never be able to live with myself. If I wanted my freedom, I'd have to get it by other means, even if they were impossible ones.
God, I shouldn't even be debating it. What kind of person was I becoming?
Remo gave me a sinister smile that caused cold shivers to dance on my spine and said, “I can and will make you do my bidding whether you do it willingly or not.” He paused. “Of course, I'd rather prefer our dealings stay amiable. I'd hate to have to resort to… let's say, some unsavory methods to achieve my goals.”
And at that moment, his name jarred my memory.
Remo Drammen, the infamous black sorcerer. I'd heard his name mentioned in hushed conversations among the scientists in the PSS, along with stories of demon summoning, plague attacks, and the worst kind of black sorcery.
And there I was, sitting in his living room.
Come into my den, said the spider…
The energy crackling around us gained a new meaning. I was almost sure that it was residual energy of his power level, as if he couldn't contain the whole quantity and keep it from brimming over. If I could feel it when I couldn't with other preternatural beings who I had presumed much stronger than I, how strong could this fragile looking man be?
I had this hunch that made my stomach cramp with anxiety.
“If you want me to work for you, why send the Bad Boy Team to kill me?” I asked.
Remo cocked his head to the side and asked, “The Bad Boy Team? You mean the Edmond brothers?” He waved a small hand and continued, “Consider them a trial you passed.”
But I wouldn't have if it weren't for Logan. And Logan wouldn't be there the next time. And something told me the next time would be worse than the Edmond brothers.
My predicament just went from grim to grimmer and worse.
There was a knock at the door behind me, and I turned my head enough to see Giant step in and nod respectively to Remo. When did he leave? Perhaps after Remo left, I could take my chances with the human, or whatever the hell he was, and the bulk underneath his jacket. Remo Drammen nodded at the security with something akin to annoyance—the first expression he showed since my arrival. He stared at Giant for a few intense seconds, and I noticed Giant couldn't hold his gaze either. When he turned his attention back to me, his face was again empty of any expression.
“I apologize for having to leave you so soon,” Remo began, producing a thin pair of white gloves from his suit pocket and putting them on. This man had a serious fixation with light colors. “My presence is needed downstairs. Please feel free to ask for any services you need.” He turned to leave—through one of the remaining three closed doors, not the elevator. “Ah, and one more thing, Miss Fosch,”—biz Fosch—“There is a ward at the door that will prevent anyone I haven't cleared from leaving this room. That includes you.” He paused for a second, studying me with a flat look, his dark eyes abnormally big behind his glasses. “Should you be foolish enough to attempt leaving, you'll burn to cinders in mere seconds.” With that threat delivered in a flat tone, Remo Drammen left with the security like a giant shadow behind him, his black suit and height contrasting dramatically with Remo's.
No one was left behind to guard me. Just that buzzing static-like feeling.
God, what could someone as powerful as Remo Drammen possibly want from someone like me? Who the hell was I?
Chapter Twelve
I tried to sit and strategize a plan out of there, but every time I'd find myself up and pacing again. My mind whirled and whirled and not a single thought resembled the next. What now? What to do? What could the most powerful black sorcerer want from me?
Where are the missing pieces?
I paced to the door and examined it carefully. I wanted to try Remo's theory, but was afraid to. Still… what if he was wrong?
I walked back to the elevator shaft and examined the door. Again, there was nothing there but a keyhole. The only difference between this one and the one downstairs was that this one was white instead of metallic grey. I tried sliding the door open, and… it gave a crack! I renewed my attempt, excitement pumping me with adrenaline.
I pushed and pushed, the beige, thick carpet helping with excellent traction. And then I was staring at a yawning, dark hole.
The car wasn't there.
I looked down, but as far as I could see there was nothing but a normal-looking cable going down. There weren't even doors that opened on the other floors below. Just smooth, grey cement walls all the way.
It was a one-way elevator. But, how far down? I looked around for something to throw down and decided on a whiskey bottle.
I threw it and waited. An eternity later, I heard a tiny, very far away tinkling noise of breaking glass.
Very far down, then. After giving it one more considering look, I returned back to the supposedly-warded door and examined it.
I passed my hand over the door knob and felt the same energy that had been buzzing off Remo, vibrating off the door. I carefully touched it, and nothing happened. I felt no heat from it either. I closed my hand firmly over the knob and concentrated. After a moment or two, that buzzing energy became a soft vibration, beginning where knob touched skin and moving up, like a slimy, icy creature. It moved from limb to limb until my whole body vibrated with it.
But that was all.
Thrilled—hopeful now, my heart still kicking with unspent adrenaline, I pulled open the door a crack. Still nothing, just the buzzing energy. Inch by inch I moved until the door gaped wide, my concentration tight on the vibrating energy.
I waited a full minute, aware of the time ticking away. Beyond the door, about twenty feet stood a bank of elevators.
My freedom.
“Hello?” I ca
lled tentatively.
No one answered.
“Hello!” I shouted.
Still no answer.
“Help me!”
I let go of the door, severing the connection with the vibrating sensation, though it left behind a faint buzzing residual. I inched my right hand closer, again concentrating on the buzzing level. I recalled all the spells and stuff the PSS had used that worked on every other preternatural but had no effect whatsoever on me. Like the blocking bracelet.
Could this ward be the same?
I inched closer and… reached the frame and… the threshold… and the buzzing… stopped.
Nothing happened. There were no infernal flames, no intense heat, no nothing.
I felt triumph and a spark of pride I hadn't taken Remo's bullshit for what it was and was about to take a triumphant step out the door and get the hell out of there when the world exploded.
There was a phantom tug before I was flung back. It felt like I had been hit by a giant fist, so potent was the shove that I skidded a few inches off the floor. I hit the compact glass bar with a bone-jarring thud, teeth clacking painfully, before I slid to the floor in a shower of glass, liquid, and noise. A lot of noise.
Stars danced in my vision, threatening to close in. Everything hurt. My back, my head, my legs, my ribs, my arms. But, worst of all was the intense heat on my right hand.
When I managed to focus my watering eyes on it, my stomach contents curdled. Blisters covered the whole surface, and, oh God, some parts were charred black.
I am not a crier. The PSS had certainly taught me how futile the sentiment was, but on that horrible night in the penthouse of the MGM, I bawled like a baby. But I didn't let myself wallow in self pity.
After some deserved tears, I dried my face on the sleeve of my jacket and examined the damage closely. The whole hand, palm and back was covered in blisters and charred. There wasn't an inch, or a fraction of one, on the entire hand of healthy skin.
Heir of Ashes Page 7
