Then he took hold of my shoulders, his hand like hot iron on an open wound when it touched my left side, and when he shook me the world went bright yellow, then tunneled down to a pinprick.
I hissed through clenched teeth and he let go, noticing the unnatural angle of my shoulder.
“Take a deep breath and hold it,” he instructed, or at least that's what I think I read from his blurry lips, since I could hardly hear a thing.
He grabbed my forearm and shoulder, his eyes searching mine.
“What?” I managed to ask before he jerked my shoulder back into place.
Chapter Twenty-One
After Logan immobilized my arm with a make-shift sling, we peeled away from the motel in a hurry. My vision was still a little blurry and I was still partially deaf from the sensory explosion. Logan was talking on his cell phone, in a much better functioning state than I.
Morning was starting to break and the sky, yet again, had that beautiful orange and pink tinge mixed to the grey and blue. I could hear snatches of Logan's conversation, but the pieces I grasped made little sense to me, except for the fact that he was talking about the attack.
“…two of them no… I don't know… to check and… Douglas… this kind of activity… focused on us both… Yeah.” He took a glance at me, then said hurriedly “see you later” and hung up.
“Who was that?” I asked, bending down to put on my boots. The worst of the numbness was gone from my right arm, and although pinpricks still stabbed at my fingertips, I managed to ignore most of them, wincing only twice. My voice still sounded tiny and distant to my ears.
“Someone who'll make sure a damage control team gets to the scene.”
“Huh?” Did I hear that right? “What're they going to tell all those people?”
Logan shrugged. “I don't know. Whatever it takes. I presume they'll make some calls, get some people to come check, make sure these people get a logical explanation.”
“What can they possibly tell them?” I asked.
“Whatever they see fit. That's their job and they have experience dealing with these occurrences. Besides, even if someone doesn't believe them and goes around blathering about it, few will listen.”
“So what, someone will come and tell everyone they didn't really see that and expect everyone to believe them?” I was incredulous.
“Sure.” He paused a moment before adding, “You know, it's people like those who stick to what they saw that are actually the instigators of alien sightings, strange bursts of light in the sky, and so on… not that they're all false rumors anyway.” He glanced at me once. “It's strange what a couple of words can do. Besides, people see whatever they want to see, believe whatever they want to believe. If you tell them they witnessed the set of a horror movie, they'll believe it. It's better—easier—than the alternative.”
“Which is?”
“The truth,” he said simply, and Jack Nicholson came to mind. “Look, no ordinary human wants to believe that there are stronger things, more powerful beings than themselves out there.”
“What were they?” I asked after a moment.
Logan glanced at me again, this time a bit thoughtfully, then turned back to the road. His fingers flexed on the steering before relaxing again. “Guardians.”
“Of what?”
“The Leeway. For the paths to the worlds.”
I had read mention of the worlds in Dr. Maxwell's journal. The summoning of other beings and the travels to them, but it had never mentioned anything about guardians.
“Have you ever given blood willingly?”
The question was so out of context, it took me a moment to process the words. I was about to answer on the negative when he said, “Think about it before you answer.”
I thought about it, trying to remember. “Well, the PSS took plenty over the years.” I finally said.
Logan hesitated a moment. “Other than them?”
“No. But I've bled plenty around.” My brows drew together at the stirrings of a thought. “Why?”
“Anyone with even a faint ability of magic could summon guardians to attack a specific target, if they're gifted with blood samples to provide, let's say, a beacon for the guardians to follow.”
“So what you're saying is if I ever consent someone to take a drop of my blood, they could use it to summon guardians of the worlds to hunt me?”
“Yeah, among other things.”
“The PSS—”
“Not them, no.”
“Then I don't think I've ever gifted anyone with blood samples.” I paused, then asked, “Is there any other way?”
Logan's face was very grim when he announced, “Mr. Drammen.”
Remo Drammen, the most feared black sorcerer, the person I had managed to escape from, even with a building full of his men. I could imagine him angry enough to do so. He probably considered my escape a personal insult to his power and superiority.
My thoughts shifted back to the guardians of the paths. They had moved slowly at first, no faster than an ordinary human, but gained speed every time one of us struck and connected, and when we managed to dodge and run, they just materialized in front of us and resumed where they had left. Efficient, strong, capable, hard to kill. Remo Drammen had been very angry to send two of those after me. I shuddered at the thought of what he'd do next.
“What was that you threw on the guardian?” I finally asked.
“Salt.”
“To bind them.” I nodded. I've read that before in Dr. Maxwell's journal.
“Yes. They weren't physically there. They were only projecting the killing blow.”
“The glowing limb.” That's why they looked dull and made no sound in the beginning, I thought.
“Exactly. Salt binds. I used it to bind them physically. Once they were bound, they were nothing but moving piles of bones.”
“So they killed each other when they connected,” I concluded.
“No. I don't think they can die. Not in this world anyway. They were freed from the summoning and went back to guard whatever path they came from.”
“But if salt can bind them like that, wouldn't that make them vulnerable? I mean, a pile of bones is very easy to disrupt…”
Logan began shaking his head even before I had finished talking. “If one of us tried hitting them with anything that wasn't crafted and forged in any of the worlds connected to their paths, we'd just disrupt the salt binding and make it deadlier to us. Besides, I didn't mean that literally. Didn't you notice their armor?”
I did.
“And if he had had a drop of my blood?” I wondered out loud.
Logan glanced briefly at me, then back at the road. “He did exactly what he had intended to do, with or without the blood. Mr. Drammen has a connection to the Leeway no one else has. He doesn't need the blood sample to send anything after you. Apparently, he doesn't want you dead.”
I raised my eyebrows at him. “He already tried to kill me once, back in the motel. With the Bad Boy Team.”
“No. If he had wanted you dead, he'd have summoned stronger guards, ones that carry weapons like swords and axes and they would have been physically present.”
His certainty gave me the impression that this wasn't his first encounter with a guardian.
“You've fought them before?”
“Sort of,” he said, and I caught an edge to his tone that hadn't been there before. “I was present when two guardians—armed ones—attacked someone I knew.”
“You won?” I prompted.
“I survived. But they were never after me. They had been focused only on their target. They were vicious and fast.”
“I'm sorry.” I said.
“It was a long time ago,” he said, and I caught a trace of grief and guilt underlying his words.
We fell silent after that. From my duffle, I pulled a brown sweater that smelled freshly of soap and slipped it over the oversized t-shirt and, although I looked silly dressed in the brown sweater, pink flannel pants
and black boots, At least I was warm.
Not having much else to do, I marveled at how banged up I was. The bruise on my face was gone, but my back, from shoulder to tailbone, was black and blue, as I had discovered when I had gone for the shower. I think if it hadn't been for Remo's ward and the hard shove at the glass bar, my ribs and back would have probably been healed as well.
In fact, my shoulder and the black burning bruise on my forearm—courtesy of the guardians—were what pained me the most. Even my previously-charred hand wasn't giving me any trouble, though it still looked hideously deformed.
All in all, I looked like I had gone for a cycle in a mild tornado.
“I couldn't find any matches with the descriptions you gave me last night,” Logan said, and there was that edge again. I angled myself to look at him, but I wasn't sure if it was grief I had heard or something else. “But I called in some favors long overdue, and I got three names that weren't listed.
An Elizabeth M. Deninsky, an Elizabeth Whitmore Longlan, and a Liz Beth Anthony Whitmore. Any ring a bell?”
“No.”
Logan's lips thinned in annoyance, or maybe disappointment. “Unfortunately, my source couldn't get any photos of these three, or personal information, except for their mailing addresses.”
He glanced at me when he finished, then back at the road before he went on. “One lives in Hollywood Park, one lives in the Sierra Oak Vista, and one lives in Midtown Sacramento. We'll check them all as soon as we get there.”
I nodded, but my throat had gone dry. I used to live in Hollywood Park. Could that be it? Could she still live in that same house, that same neighborhood—waiting—hoping for me?
Hope, so long dead, flickered inside me, sparking to life. I wanted to squelch it, afraid of a disappointing surprise, but excitement kept the spark alive, eager for a lead after ten years.
The sooner we checked them, the faster I'd know.
Logan must have mistaken my silence for doubt, because he added in a reassuring tone, “We'll find her. I promise you, Roxanne. If she's not any of those three, we'll broaden the search for the entire state. If that doesn't work, we'll broaden the search again. We'll keep searching until we find her, even if we have to search the entire world.”
We drove a straight ten minutes before the silence was broken again. “You know, the Society is bound to be watching her. Even if she's not any of the three, they'll probably keep tabs on them, in case you ever show up on their doorstep. They've probably seen the footage of Las Vegas too, and if they're half as smart as they advertise, they have figured you're heading that way anyway.”
I nodded, ignoring the ball of fear that curled inside me. “Tell me what you know about my father.”
“He was–son of a bitch.”
I blinked at him. “Excuse me?” But he wasn't talking to me. I followed his gaze and saw an SUV, parked sideways, blocking the road far ahead. They had found us.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Logan pressed the brake hard and turned the steering, doing a one-eighty. The Range Rover squealed, barely losing any traction before he flattened the gas pedal and we accelerated once more, going back to where we'd come from. I turned to watch the SUV pursue us—but it remained, parked where it was, blocking the street.
Puzzled, I turned back in time to watch a similar SUV slide sideways and block the road just ahead of us. I jolted with fear and braced my right hand on the dash.
Boxed was the only word playing inside my head. We were boxed in.
There was a popping sound, and the car lurched a little to the right, just as I heard a hissing noise. I could see the long barrel of a gun sticking out of the back window of the SUV ahead, but what made my heart hammer painfully was the PSS emblem embedded on the side door.
Another pop sounded, followed by hissing.
“They're shooting the tires!” Logan snarled angrily. He braked and stopped, glanced back and forth between the two SUVs, his brows furrowed in concentration. They were far, but not far enough. He hesitated, obviously going through an inner debate, then he grunted and seemed to reach a conclusion. He dug inside his pockets, came out with his gun and two clips. He placed the clips and the gun on his lap, took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. When he looked at me, goosebumps formed all over my body.
Because, his eyes, they were empty. There was no one there, no traces of humanity.
They were the eyes of a killer. Of an unfeeling shark.
His composure became calm, but not relaxed.
He was prepared to kill and not feel.
God, what was I doing here with someone like him?
“When I tell you,” he said with no inflection, no hint of a tone, “take control of the wheel. Keep going, no matter what you see or hear. Can you do that?”
I stared at him for a moment, unsure. His expression flickered, softening a bit, and I finally nodded and unhooked the sling from around my neck.
Whatever his past, his profession, today, now, he was here to help.
He lowered his window all the way, letting in the warm breath of desert, inhaled deeply, exhaled slowly, then made a U-turn, this time with some difficulty.
We gained speed gradually, but in no way what we should have if two of the tires weren't flat. They were making loud flopping noises and I could see Logan's visible effort on the steering.
Approximately a hundred yards away from the SUV, we veered right off the road. When the SUV started to follow, Logan shouted for me to take the steering while he took aim, propping the hand with the gun with his other before shooting a few times in quick succession.
The SUV stopped abruptly—the two front tires deflating with Logan's bullets—and I caught the image of a hawk's head and its wings bracketing a sword on the door, the PSS's emblem, before it slid open and two men got out, carrying long barreled guns in their hands.
As the two men raised their rifles, or shotguns—I really couldn't tell the difference—Logan shouted, “Down! Keep your head down!” and he took aim again. I lowered my head as much as possible and still see ahead. I had the steering gripped in both hands and still struggled to keep it going.
Flop flop flop flop, the tires grumbled loudly, mocking my efforts.
Logan's foot still had the gas pedal flat on the floor. “Make a beeline and go back to the road as soon as we pass them!” Logan shouted. I nodded; my throat was too dry to form any words. A monster I might be, with all these extraordinary abilities, super strength and speed, but at heart I was just as ordinary as the next person.
I heard the “bam bam” of the gun Logan fired, but heard no return fire from the other two men. Had he killed them? We were close enough to them that it would be hard to miss. Not able to help myself, I took a quick peak and they were still standing, apparently unharmed. Logan fired again, and the bullets just stopped mid-trajectory and fell to the ground. That's when I recognized one of the two men standing.
Kincaid. He was the PSS's only preternatural full-time employee. He was also an air mage.
Shit.
Logan cursed colorfully and with a variation that would have made a gangsta proud, and two more bams sounded from above me.
Still, no one shot at us. Their weapons were raised and at the ready though. I presumed that if Kincaid was shielding bullets from getting to them, then they couldn't shoot us either. That wasn't good though.
But we passed by the SUV and… nothing.
That, on its own, should have warned me.
Above me, Logan changed the clip and went on firing.
We'd hardly moved a few yards past the SUV when we hit something solid. There was a blinding flash of light, accompanied by the loud sound of metal bending and shattering glass.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Stunned, I felt Logan's body crash into mine, felt my shoulder dislocate again, felt the acute pain when a piece of broken glass opened a gash on my forehead. I heard when a tranquilizer dart hit Logan, felt his body relaxing against mine. I also heard the running foots
teps of The Elite as they closed in on us, and my mind cleared.
“Don't shoot!” I shouted, opening both my hands for them to see. “Please don't shoot.”
Someone opened the driver's door the same time the passenger door was yanked open.
“Out,” a guard barked at me, the barrel of his tranquilizer gun pointed at my middle.
Slowly, aware that he'd shoot me if I made any sudden move, I began pulling myself free from Logan's prone body.
Kincaid reached in, undid Logan's seat belt, and pulled him out of the car. I stood slowly in front of the other guard and waited for his next command. The second SUV parked some fifty yards away and, no sooner had it stopped, two guards jumped out and ran to us.
The guard beside me took my hands in his and clipped the blocking bracelet over my left wrist, then shackled me with the enforced steel manacles.
“Move,” he barked next, motioning with his head to the newly-arrived SUV.
I began moving towards it, posture stiff despite the pain radiating from my head and shoulder. Never show weakness. Never show weakness. My motto back when I was in the PSS came back with alarming familiarity. Never show weakness.
Kincaid stepped in front of me, halting my progress.
He reached for my face with thumb and forefinger, then tipped my head up and examined my face. He gestured to someone behind me, and a moment later he was given a small first-aid kit.
“Sit down,” he said in a gravelly voice.
I sat down on the rapidly warming desert ground. No protests, no questions asked.
Kincaid crouched in front of me and opened the kit. Without a word, he took out a needle, a small thread. My stomach churned, but my face remained impassive.
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