“What's in Sacramento?” Logan asked with a curious look.
“My mother.”
Chapter Fifteen
We drove in silence after that. There was nothing to see but cacti and the endless desert. Combined with the engine's purr and the hum of the AC, I was lulled to sleep, only to wake up again when another vehicle passed us by.
I was still aching somewhat, was hungry, and needed to pee. To add insult to injury, the only articles of clothing I owned were stained and rumpled. I promised myself to be decently dressed when I went to see my mother. How would she react when she saw me? How had she been all these years? Was she still a lab researcher? Did she still live in the same house, or that same neighborhood? When I checked more than a year ago, that address belonged to someone else. Had she moved on because my absence brought her so much sorrow and grief that she couldn't bear to stay in the same house without being overwhelmed by her loss and memories? But someone would remember her, would at least know which state she had moved to, right? Or maybe… maybe she was no longer among the living. Often throughout the years, I had contemplated that possibility.
And just like every time I thought about it, I felt like a fist squeezed my heart. Until I had proof otherwise, I refused to believe it. Until then, my mother was alive and well.
My disturbing thoughts were interrupted when we stopped in front of a restaurant called El Nino. My stomach rumbled at the thought of food. When was the last time I had eaten? Logan climbed out and I glanced around. Where were we? A truck passed by, pressing the horn twice at a guy crossing the street. The guy shouted something at the driver, waved his hand then nodded politely at Logan, took off his baseball cap and pushed the door of the restaurant open. Across the street was a hotel, a boutique, a beauty parlor, and a bakery. I could see myself visiting all those establishments. First to the restaurant, then to the hotel for a shower, do some shopping, dye my hair back to its normal color, get some baked goods before we leave…
“You're drooling,” Logan teased.
“Am not,” I said, following him inside the restaurant, wondering what kind of food El Nino served. We were greeted by a lot of noise and the wonderful smell of greasy food. Ignoring the few stares my blood-stained clothes drew, I made a beeline to the small but tidy bathroom at the very back and relieved myself. When I returned, Logan still waited for me at the entrance, making finding him amidst the crowd an easier task.
El Nino, as it turned out, was a very popular and busy restaurant. Of course, it was also lunch hour. Aside from the solitary men eating fast food along the long stainless bar counter, there were families with shrieking and laughing kids occupying some of the booths. There were couples talking, some teenagers holding hands. Some of the people occupying the tables were arguing, still waiting for their food, others were laughing and eating. Logan led me to the back-most empty booth. I suspected he'd have chosen it even if it hadn't been one of the only empty ones available. He waited until I was settled before he sat himself. We sat across from each other, Logan facing the entrance while I faced a wall. I didn't like leaving my back vulnerable, so I got up and switched seats, my back now to the bar, the crowded room to the left, Logan to my right. I trusted that as long as Logan wanted something from me he'd try his best to keep me safe, but I wouldn't want to depend on him.
I picked up the laminated menu, but my mind kept wondering about his friend and the reason why he'd merited the PSS's attention, enough so that they had kidnapped him… he must be something of a commodity. I wondered what he could possibly be. Not that the PSS wouldn't be glad to put their greedy hands on anything preternatural, just that I learned that the PSS did everything for a reason. And if the subject belonged to a clan, or had someone to claim him, the PSS left them alone. Or risked being shut down and facing serious lawsuits for torture, kidnapping, emotional and physical abuse, among many other things in between.
“So, your friend have any family?” I asked Logan after the waiter took our order of chili and cheeseburgers.
“Some. Why?”
“Curiosity. What about a clan? Does he belong to one?”
Logan's eyes shuttered, and I regretted the intrusion right away. I hurriedly explained, afraid I'd just broken some unknown protocol by asking. “If he belongs to a clan, then they can demand he be released. The PSS would have no option but to oblige or risk the whole facility being shut down.” Unless they deny having him and are clever enough to hide the subject well enough that no amount of investigation turns him up. Maybe if Logan had proof; he certainly seemed sure enough.
“They didn't believe me. Thought my friend decided to take off, get some time away from everyone and everything.” The disgust and frustration came out loud and clear.
“Do you know why the PSS took your friend?”
Logan looked straight at me and lied. “No.” His expression didn't change, it was still serious, his grey eyes as intense and sharp as they had been a moment before, but something instinctive in me recognized the lie for what it was.
“Do they need a reason?”
“Well, yes. You see, PSS's staff and guard members are constituted mostly of ordinary humans. Some of them, like those three back in the hotel have an extra oomph, but that's all. Sometimes, when the situation calls for, they hire a consultant or mercenary that possesses the ability to wield magic, but mostly the bulk of their security team are ordinary humans: Navy SEALs, Marines, veteran soldiers.” I paused, drawing imaginary patterns on the tabletop with my index finger.
“Go on.”
“What I'm trying to say,” I explained, “is that they lack the capability and man power to just go targeting preternatural beings just for the hell of it. It's just not their way.”
Logan angled his head and studied me. “You don't think the society is capable of foul play?”
“Oh, but they are.” I picked one of the napkins and began rolling it in a nervous gesture. There was something wrong here, something about this situation that didn't click. I could feel Logan's heavy gaze on me, waiting for me to say something else.
The PSS was certainly capable of anything illegal as long as they were sure they could get away with it. They sure had with me. Even if they had taken me by force, Mother had been present, standing there, doing nothing but watching me kick and scream. I'd often wondered about that, and when year after year passed, learned to resent it.
I looked up, straight into his grey eyes and wondered again, about his friend. “It's just weird, you know?”
Logan leaned forward on his seat, his attention focused on me. I found his intense stare, along with his close proximity, very disconcerting. I stifled the urge to bolt for the nearest exit and focused on the problem at hand.
“How so?” he asked.
“I don't know,” I replied, frustration making me sound sharper than I intended. I tried to explain. “Why your friend? Why not you, or someone else's friend? What's so special about him? Something just isn't right. For one, the PSS have resources everywhere. Let's say they have a new test they want to conduct on a specific creature, a were, a mage, or whatever,” I waved my hand, “they start using resources. Some of which are volunteers for free, others in exchange for money, protection, whatever.” I frowned before adding, “I think, that maybe, someone pointed out your friend, named a specific place and a time where he would be, promised the PSS no one would be coming after him…” I trailed off, considering for a moment, then began tapping a chipped nail on the plastic tabletop. “What about enemies? Would an enemy have enough information about your friend to get the PSS interested enough to risk their guards,” I raised a finger to make a point and added, “their human guards, to go after a preternatural being? And I mean something the PSS couldn't gain from a much cooperative source instead.”
“Hmmm,” Logan replied noncommittally. I think I struck a cord there.
“Maybe you're wrong. Maybe the PSS doesn't have your friend and you're looking at it from a wrong angle,” I said after a moment. So
mething nagged at me, but I couldn't place my finger on it.
His lips thinned and his expression became annoyed. “They have him,” he said in the tone of one who have been repeating himself over and over.
“How can you be so sure? Did your friend leave a note behind or call you telling you where he was?” I insisted.
“They have him.” His note of final determination brooked no argument, and I didn't give him any. Perhaps he was right. Perhaps he knew something and he just didn't want to share it. I could respect that.
“Alright, then. The PSS carry on a retrieval op by two means—” I raised one finger, “one, someone tipped off the PSS about a time and place your friend would be, and The Elite Team ambushed him with plenty of their tranquilizers, got him easy and docile before approaching him,” I raised another finger, “and two, they hired someone equally strong or even stronger to do the dirty work.” For my entire stay in the PSS, retrieval operations only happened twice—not counting myself, though at the time I was taken I hadn't known there were different guard levels, with different sets of skills and strengths, dispatched according to how dangerous a specific creature could be.
From the look that crossed Logan's face, interest, worry, anger, and the hard set of his jaw, I could tell he had someone in mind for both scenarios. He leaned back on his chair and eyed me intently. I don't know what it was about Logan, but every time his intense gaze fixed on me, I found myself disconcerted, perhaps a little alarmed. Maybe it was because I wasn't accustomed to having a predator's gaze fixed on me without it triggering my fight or flight instinct, and here I was, having lunch with one.
“You seem to be very familiar with their system,” Logan commented, studying me.
I shrugged. “That's because I am.”
As I watched him mulling over my words, a thought came to mind, startling me into a new light. What kind of a man would risk his life for someone else's? I caught myself studying his profile. His black eye was completely healed, maybe because he had shifted to his alternative form—probably to heal the knife injury to his stomach—and, despite not having shaved, he looked good. He had dark, thick long lashes surrounding his black-ringed grey eyes, giving them a more definite shape. His hair was a little long, carelessly mussed and a little curled on the edges, with reddish streaks here and there, depending on the angle of the light. His jaw was square and strong, but it didn't detract the soft look and shape of his lips, which even as I watched, twitched. My eyes flew to his, catching the suppressed humor in them.
I averted my gaze, blushing furiously.
Ugh, he just caught me ogling him.
I almost kissed the waiter when he arrived with our food and I had something to focus on besides the man sitting to my right. I attacked the fries first, but before my hand could leave the basket, Logan caught my wrist.
Startled, I looked at him, wondering if he mistook my scrutiny for a romantic interest, and found him looking down at my hand.
My blistered, awkwardly-bandaged hand. Which up until then, I had kept on my lap and out of sight.
I hadn't forgotten about it, not at all, but I had finally given into temptation and boxed the pain into a tolerable background throb.
Just for a few hours, I had promised myself. It wasn't a preternatural skill to do that. At least, I didn't think it was. When one faced pain on a daily basis, one either learned to live with it or let it consume her. I learned to live with it, teaching myself how to push the pain to a back corner of my mind, compartmentalizing it, then closing it shut so I could focus and concentrate on whatever the scientists were doing to me at that particular time.
Depending on the intensity of the pain, I could almost block it completely. Of course, it could be dangerous sometimes, making the body shut down and collapse before even realizing one had pushed too hard. It actually happened once to me. Of course, once I was reminded about the pain, that compartment exploded open—and it was like the injury had just happened, and all the pain came bombarding back with vengeance. Now that Logan reminded me about my burning hand, the grip on that background meditation broke, and the pain came back so intense, so fierce, I almost passed out from its suddenness.
He looked at me once before he began untying the ribbons one by one, having sometimes to unstick some of the cloth from the blisters. By the time he was done, he was swearing in such variety, it actually broke through the haze the pain had bubbled me inside.
“How did this happen?” he asked, his voice tight.
I had to swallow bile twice before answering breathlessly, “Back in the penthouse, I opened a door.” I caught his frown of confusion before understanding smoothed it away.
Without caring about appearances, I grabbed my ice water, fumbled with the plastic top and stuck my hand inside it, exhaling with the relief it brought me. Water sloshed over the top of the cup, but the relief was too great for any shame. Logan motioned to the waiter, ordered another drink and resumed eating as if nothing had happened.
“Guess the door was warded, huh?” he asked, popping a French fry in his mouth and chewing it slowly, contemplating me.
I eyed him suspiciously. “Yeah.”
“Couldn't you, you know,” he rotated a fry in the air, “like, feel it?”
I shrugged. Liquid sloshed. “I wanted to make sure Mr. Drammen wasn't bluffing.”
Logan's look became incredulous. I found myself blushing for the second time in less than five minutes. He must think me a dolt, but I had never in my life seen—or felt—a ward before.
Needless to say, it seemed like Logan had. And hadn't he known whose penthouse I had been in? Hadn't he mentioned something about it? At the time, I had been preoccupied with PJ Tyler and the media and hadn't really been listening.
I eyed Logan suspiciously. “You know him.”
“Yes.”
“Personally.”
“Yes. We've crossed paths before.”
“Old friends? Casual acquaintances?” I prompted, and Logan scowled at me.
“Guess that's a no, huh?” But if they'd crossed paths, and he knew Remo's defensive methods… I told myself that his life and enemies were none of my business and restrained my curiosity.
He popped another fry in his mouth and eyed me. “What did he want from you?”
Again, I shrugged my answer—sloshing more liquid—and he didn't press for details.
The waiter brought another cold drink, politely refraining himself from staring at my hand inside the cup.
“Is your friend a woman?” I blurted before I could stop myself. This was so none of my business. But, again, what kind of man risked his life for someone else's?
He looked at me with a blank expression, then understanding flashed in his eyes, and he smiled. God, did he think I was coming on to him?
But his misassumption aside, whoa! What a killer smile. It just transformed him. I could see women throwing themselves in his path left and right, and by the way he held himself, his arrogance and confidence, he was well aware of the effect he had on them.
Not me though. Sure, I admit he was good looking and all, but I had priorities, and they didn't include any distractions like daydreaming about men and such nonsense. I hadn't remained under the radar for so long by relaxing my guard and I wasn't going to do it now.
“I know it's none of my business, but it's just coz you know, you seem kind of possessive the way you're worried and angry, so sure about things.” I realized I was on the verge of babbling, so I looked away casually—spilling more liquid on the table top—and tried not to seem too eager or look like a fool. Almost as an afterthought I added, “Seems like an intimate relationship to me.”
He shook his head, took a bite of his cheeseburger, then chewed a couple of times with deliberate slowness before swallowing and saying, “No, he's my friend, but he used to be my mentor.”
An alpha werewolf? Maybe a very old one to warrant the PSS's attention.
After that, we finished our meal in silence, both of us lost to
our thoughts.
Chapter Sixteen
“So what kind of experiments does the Society run on their subjects?” Logan asked a while later with interest.
I shrugged and looked down at the checkered red and white table top. I had taken my hand out of the cold water, dried it with a couple of napkins – currently littering the table along with the wet cloth strips. It made me look like a pig that never learned table manners, but I couldn't dredge-up any discomfiture. The pain was still there, though I managed to push it back to a tolerable level. I was aware I shouldn't push my limits, but I needed a few more hours until I healed some.
“It depends,” I evaded.
“On what?”
“Many things.”
“Like?”
“Like what he is, how strong, how many like him they've had a chance to experiment on before, his cooperation, the environment, the scientists present, etc.”
Logan was thoughtful for a moment, eyeing me with curiosity. “What did they do to you?” he asked in a gentle tone.
I looked up at his face, then back down to the table. I wished I was the one facing the door. I didn't want to talk about my past, and yet, his simple question made me want to share with someone some of the misery and horrors I had been through. Michelle had been a good friend, but I couldn't tell her anything without sounding demented. The journals I had written back in my early days in the PSS had brought me some relief, but, after they confiscated the second one, I stopped bothering with them.
Logan was offering me a chance to talk to someone, someone who could understand what I went through. However, as much as I longed to do that, he was just not that person. At least not yet. Maybe he was offering to be a friend, and it was tempting, but I just didn't know him enough to start talking about my deepest secrets, my deepest fears.
“It's in the past now. It doesn't matter anymore,” I answered, but the long silence told him otherwise.
“Suppose my friend is really strong, to the degree they have never seen before and he's very uncooperative; then what would they do to him?”
Heir of Ashes Page 9
