Heir Of Doom

by Jina S Bazzar

  My eyes closed and I felt the darkness closing in.

  “Fuck me. It's not working, man. Move!” Diggy snapped.

  I felt a pressure above my chest, just beneath my collar bone, a prickling sensation that spread, before everything just vanished. The warm hand over my abdomen, the constant frisson of energy coursing through, the soothing sensation, all vanished away. But darkness didn't take me to oblivion and let me rest. No, I was still aware.

  I could feel myself slipping away. For the first time, my need to just let go, to stop fighting was stronger than my need to survive.

  “Look at me, damn it. Shift,” Diggy snapped from my other side, his voice urgent – angry.

  I began to let go. It was better being numb, where I couldn't feel.

  Diggy cursed from above and it reminded me of Logan, the colorful ways he liked to curse.

  That frisson of energy streamed through me again, soothing and familiar, but Zantry's command changed: he was telling me to breathe.

  Wasn't I? No, I didn't want to die. With great effort, my eyes fluttered open.

  “Breathe,” he murmured again. “Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.” Hypnotically, I watched his eyes, electric-blue now, draw nearer and nearer.

  “Breathe for me,” he kept urging over and over, his face blotting out the darkness from above.

  Diggy said something I couldn't make out.

  “Breathe, Roxanne. You have to breathe,” Zantry whispered against my lips.

  I closed my eyes, felt him breathing into me, forcing my lungs to expand. I swear, I felt the air he forced into my lungs swell throughout my body and entwine with that thing that was killing me. It was a quieting, calming sensation and I sighed, or thought I did, before that prickling sensation in my chest increased, a pressure that intensified so much I wanted to cry out from the pain.

  Breathe! I heard Zantry's command inside my head. And although I wanted to, it was too much effort. There was too much pain.

  With a kind of dreadful relief, I let myself go.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  I awoke in fits and bursts, lying on my stomach, aching all over and unable to remember what, or where, I was. The pain of waking this way, disoriented and cold, had me going back to the past, to the PSS, waking inside a cage. Because I was chilled and very uncomfortable, I had the impression of lying on a cold metal slab, the way I had sometimes after particularly stressful testing.

  But the sensation wasn't right. A little confusing.

  Opening my eyes, I noticed the familiar dark-hued wood of my nightstand. A glass filled with water sat beside my clock. The green numbers read 9:17. I was in bed, in my apartment. The PSS faded into the background, like the memory of the bad taste that they were.

  Something shifted at the foot of the bed, and seeing Diggy there, sitting in the high- chair from the kitchen, legs stretched and crossed at the ankles, still dressed in the gray V-neck and black jeans, brought back all that had happened, crashing into my thoughts with startling clarity.

  I was still alive, I realized with wonder.

  I shouldn't be, was the thought that followed.

  With one arm dangling to the side and the other lying across his stomach, Diggy's posture suggested relaxed, but tension rolled from him in angry waves. His eyes were guarded, wary.

  “How do you feel?” he asked, his voice gravelly.

  “Like shit,” I croaked.

  “You look like it.”

  I shifted and regretted the movement when every muscle in my body protested. Gritting my teeth against the pain, I slowly began turning, dropping my legs to the floor – ouch ouch ouch – trying to look more dignified.

  Diggy helped me into a seated position. Not able to help myself, I hissed long and hard when still open wounds pulled and stretched, while the world turned around once before righting itself.

  Diggy picked up the glass of water and passed it without a word. Suddenly parched, I accepted it, surprised at how heavy it felt. I took a few sips and, with trembling hands, returned the glass back to the stand.

  Diggy sat back down, placing one booted foot atop his knee, and I could tell he struggled, impatient, yet didn't rush me.

  “What day is it?” I asked.

  “Thursday. We've been back for about two hours.”

  Thursday! Three days. We lost three days in the Low Lands.

  “What happened?” Diggy asked in the silence that followed.

  You never came, I thought, covering my legs with the duvet, before I glanced up. You left me there to die. “I'm not really sure,” I said.

  My poker face must not have worked because he dropped to one knee in front of me and surprised me by taking my hand in his warm one. His eyes were earnest, searching mine. “Roxanne, you were gone exactly forty-three seconds. Not a second more.”

  I gaped, then shook my head – regretting the motion when the world shook with it. “I was gone for a long time.” At least half an hour.

  “No. Not where I stood. I would have broken the ward if you stayed more than a minute. I was counting the seconds when your shadow brought you out.”

  I looked down, trying to make sense of what he was saying, noticed the bracelet still on my wrist, touched it with a finger. Diggy picked up my hand, examined the band, a match to the one still around his wrist.

  “I didn't sense anything alarming from your side until you were out of the cave. I've never seen a ward tampering with the bond before tonight. It's never failed before, not even with worlds between the bearers.”

  I nodded and gazed around the room. “Zantry?”

  Diggy's lips pursed, his eyes chilled. He raked a hand through his hair, tousling it more. “He's gone.” He hesitated, leaned back on his haunches before he added, albeit grudgingly, “He saved your life. He told me to tell you his life debt was paid.” He waited for an explanation, but when I said nothing, his brows furrowed. “Why does Akinzo owe you a life debt?”

  I didn't answer.

  Expelling a long breath, Diggy returned to the chair. He looked puzzled, baffled even. “Was the charity ball the first time the two of you met?”

  “Yes.”

  He paused, head tilting to the side. “Never saw him before that night?”

  I didn't answer.

  Frustrated, Diggy hissed through his teeth. “He wasn't on vacation, and you know where he'd been, don't you?”

  I met his eyes and said, “Ask him.”

  Diggy nodded, but I could tell he was far from satisfied. “Why didn't you shift?”

  Again, I didn't answer.

  He took a long breath, exhaled slowly. “Alright, what happened in there? Can you tell me that? Do you remember?”

  “I do, though I wish I didn't,” I said quietly. Then I told him all, from the moment I entered the slash in the rock wall, the layout, the way it sloped and branched, how I was coming back when I heard the cry, how I moved back, wanting to be sure, counting on him to break the ward and come after me.

  I told him all I saw – or didn't. The way I followed the child's cries, the way it kept getting cut off, as if someone had placed a palm over the child's mouth to muffle the sound. The feel of the open space on the other side. The attack, how swift it had been, how it happened, the acidic bitterness of the creatures blood.

  Diggy listened to it all, his gaze intent, not showing one bit of emotion, going distant the second I finished talking.

  “Poison. Akinzo said you were full of poison. Maybe that's why you weren't able to shift. Because of that poison.”

  I recalled the bitter taste of the creature's blood, the way I had bit more than a few. I murmured my agreement. It could have been poison, the way I felt myself dying from within, but I didn't shift simply because my talons were as far as my shifting went.

  Vincent had said that because the alternative form was a dominant trait, that being able to shift hands to talons meant I was supposed to be able to shift fully, that one day I'd be able to do it. He truly believed that but, over the years
, Elizabeth had run countless tests and had concluded I'd never be able to shift, that my talons were as far as an alternative form went.

  There was nothing more to say, and soon Diggy left, promising he'd be back to check up on me, advising me to shift and accelerate the healing.

  The moment he closed the front door, I got up, swaying as I made my way to the bathroom, dressed in nothing but an oversized T-shirt. After I relieved a very full bladder, I headed to the kitchen. I found leftover lasagna Vicky had made sometime in the past three days, and I shuffled to the microwave, saliva pooling at the scent of home-cooked food and the prospect of filling an empty, growling belly.

  The doorbell rang just as I pressed start. There was a boom of a small explosion, followed by the microwave door blowing open and lasagna flying everywhere. Thick smoke spiraled from small ventilation gaps behind the appliance. Ding-dong. Startled into motion, I rushed forward, pulling out the plug, swearing when a few wounds on my back opened and started bleeding anew. I felt my blood, warm and metallic, soaking the bandages, plastering my T-shirt to my back.

  Tears threatened to spill, but I swallowed them, mentally slapped myself for being a ninny. Meanwhile the doorbell rang, ding-dong, ding-dong, ding-dong.

  I ignored it; there was no one I wanted to see. Vicky had a key and Diggy just picked my lock whenever he wanted in. Plus, he hadn't left that long ago.

  “Frizz,” I murmured, knowing I'd need him to help me change the bandages.

  Ding-dong, ding-dong, and a determined hand pounded the door.

  “Roxanne,” Zantry's voice came through the door, low and urgent, “I can smell you. I know you're hurting. If you don't open, I'll assume something is preventing you and I'm going to come in.” He paused. “I'll count to three.”

  I moved to the front door just as he started counting. One, two – I opened the door.

  My eyes zeroed in first on a bag of Chinese takeout he held in one hand, then up to his face. Worry radiated from him in soft waves as he scanned my face, down to my body and bare legs. I knew what he was seeing, knew he was hiding the horror of all the bite marks, all my injuries, from his face as he completed his clinical checkout and met my eyes again.

  “You're bleeding,” he said.

  “I know.”

  “You shouldn't be exercising.” His attempt at humor didn't work, but I was grateful nonetheless. He peered into the house. “Why isn't Vemourly taking care of you?”

  “He had things to do.”

  Zantry nodded. “Can I come in?” He asked, his concern spiking a notch. It was that, along with the takeout bag that had me stepping aside for him to pass.

  I closed and locked the door behind him, only to turn and find his eyes on me.

  “We better take care of that bleeding first. I can help you with that,” he offered.

  “I thought you told Diggy to tell me your debt was paid.”

  Zantry studied me for a moment before nodding. “It is, but my efforts would go to waste if you die of blood loss, or infection, or the consequences of the same wound I should've healed properly.”

  My eyebrows arched. “Should've healed properly?”

  “Well, you were too weak to be moved through the leeway. The drain alone could have killed you, but we didn't know what had attacked you, so we couldn't stay there. The moment you were stable, Vemourly flashed you back.”

  I grunted. “I'm not going to owe you any favors.”

  “No favors owed.” He agreed, motioning at my soaked shirt. “Let me see.”

  I hesitated. The bleeding was already weaker, but any sudden moves from me would only cause the wounds to re-open.

  “Can you stitch?” I asked. Diggy had left to give me privacy to shift, and so assumed I wouldn't need any. But if I didn't want the wounds to open every time I made a sudden move – a fact that would cause the wounds to take longer to heal – then I needed stitches.

  Zantry cocked his head to the side, studying me, and I braced for the next question, knowing he'd ask why I wasn't shifting and hastening the healing process myself, now that the poison was gone. Instead, he said in a somber tone, “As a matter of fact, I can. I once joined a group for sewing-and-needle crafts for elderly women.”

  I started to explain that wasn't what I meant when I caught the gleam of humor in his eyes.

  Zantry's method of stitching consisted of him covering the length of the wounds with his palm and doing something that made my skin itch and tingle like crazy. By the time he was done, my wounds were nothing but angry, puckered scars, and not just the ones on my back, but all those on my arms and legs too. I was grateful for that, but as I watched him cleaning off the lasagna, I had to wonder why he had come. Because if he had intended to come, he wouldn't have given Diggy that message to pass on.

  He turned to me after he was done washing the tea towel with remnants of cheese and tomato sauce.

  “Why did you come?” I asked. “I mean, not that I'm not grateful for the help, but you didn't have to and you didn't know I needed it.”

  His reply didn't come right away, but when it did, it was simple and sincere. “I was walking to my hotel when I realized I wanted to see you, so I turned around.” Our eyes held for a significant moment, and uncomfortable, I looked away first. When I looked back, he was drying his hands on paper towel. “Are you hungry?” He asked, picking up the bag of takeout food he'd placed on the counter earlier.

  “Starving.”

  “Me too.” His smile was beautiful, the kind that lit up a room, as he took out cartons and sauce containers from the bag. He'd brought some for Diggy too, so I supposed he hadn't expected to find me alone.

  * * *

  Zantry Akinzo was a pleasant surprise. He answered my questions without evasion, without any hesitation, telling me things about himself other people would have tried to hide. He explained the process of energy manipulation, something I found fascinating, going as far as talking about how some of the processes worked – something that I could understand, but not explain. For one, his immortality came from the fact that energy couldn't be destroyed, a fact humans had discovered a few centuries ago, and that was taught in high schools now-a-days. When he realized this was a topic I hadn't studied, he tried to explain the process to me, but when he started adding the preternatural angle to it, my eyes glazed and he changed the subject.

  When I asked him about what the PSS had been doing to him, he didn't falter, he just went on and explained. The contraptions he'd been hooked to drained him of energy and gathered it into a spelled box that they later used to power their concoctions and to boost the abilities of their elite guards.

  It was then I recalled that every spell I'd been given had a bluish tinge, similar to the blue laser light emitted by the machines he'd been hooked to. The stronger the spell, the darker the concoction. The obedience spell, the hallucinogenic, the amplifying spell, all came in a shade of blue, all powered by Zantry's energy. What must it have been like for him, being constantly drained of power for twenty- six years?

  Seeing the horror in my eyes, Zantry clasped my hand and squeezed gently, that buzzing static warm and pleasant. He didn't reassure me that it was alright, or that it was all over now, or give any bull to make me feel better. Instead, he changed the topic altogether.

  He did most of the talking, and although I could read curiosity in his gaze, not once did he push me to talk about myself, though I would have answered his questions if he'd asked any. Maybe it was foolish to feel comfortable with someone I just met, but that was exactly how I felt. There was a certain connection between us I hadn't felt with anyone else, a feeling of kinship, a level of understanding I shared with no one.

  Here was a guy who talked to me as an equal, someone who didn't see me as inferior, or balk at my mixed-breed status.

  When my eyes began to droop, Zantry stood and cleaned up the empty cartons and containers, stuffing them back into the takeout bag.

  I stood also, and he motioned me back on the couch. “Stay. I c
an see myself out. You need to rest so your body can finish healing.”

  I walked him to the door.

  “Can I come back again?” he asked at the entrance, his eyes searching mine.

  “Why?”

  He smiled, those eyes such a beautiful shade of deep blue. “Has anyone ever told you that you have a suspicious mind?” He flicked a finger across my nose. “I just want to get to know you better.”

  “We'll see.”

  “Can I kiss you goodbye then?”

  My eyebrows arched high on my forehead. It was very polite of him to ask, but did people really do that? It was kind of embarrassing too. I could feel myself blush, and the amused glint in his eyes didn't help. “Umm, I-I'm not sure.”

  “It's a simple question. Yes or no?”

  “Yes?” I asked and he chuckled, and brushed his lips against my cheek, a warm frisson of static accompanying the touch before he walked away, hands tucked inside his pockets.

  PART II – The Setup

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  I stayed home recovering for three days, but on the fourth I felt strong enough to return to base. Surprisingly, my training with Diggy was over; Vincent had returned the day after Diggy and I had left for the Low Lands. Although we were gone for three days standard, we'd spent less than four hours there, including our hike and the time I spent inside the cave.

  During my short convalescence, Diggy – because he was feeling obliged – dropped by every day. When he saw the closed wounds, he'd assumed I'd shifted, and he urged me to keep shifting until I was completely healed. Still, despite the fact that Zantry had closed the wounds, what was left was taking longer to heal than injuries caused by ordinary means. They looked grotesque, puckered and angry marks that crisscrossed my entire body, with my back being the worst. But at least I could move normally, despite my stiff muscles and the skin pulling and stretching when I raised my arms or bent double, or tried anything besides walking. I wondered if those scars were here to stay, like the vampire bite marks at the crook of my neck, courtesy of Angelina Hawthorn, and the ones on my left leg, courtesy of her scion, Jacob.