Heir of Fury

Chapter Eleven

Chapter ElevenIt was already half-past nine when we arrived at the Hunter's base on 79th And 5th, a prewar, ten-story building facing Central Park and the Metropolitan Museum of Art. We were late thirty-five minutes, not because I lived far, or because traffic was congested–we walked. Or even because we left the apartment late; it wasn't even eight when we left. I just hadn't anticipated the nostalgia, the need to take in all the things that hadn't changed but looked new to me. Kids strolled or stomped to school, some in packs, others accompanied by a guardian or a nanny. You could tell the locals from the tourists by the way they carried their purse and briefcase, in a manner that discouraged nimble fingers from doing a grab and run. Or just by the cameras and flurry of photos being taken. Some people tried to hail a cab, or talked on a cell phone, or just listened to whatever it was they listened through earplugs as they went about their morning. Most shops had already been doing business for a few hours, others were just opening. A clerk from the corner bodega carried out the trash, nodding his head along with some Spanish song blaring from inside. A couple blocks away we passed another clerk cleaning the glass window from one of the sleek street boutiques. By tomorrow, someone would need to polish that glass again. On the street, cars honked, buses burped their way, others blared with loud music. A police car turned on the lights and did an illegal bypass, coming within a layer of paint with a cab. Insults could be heard above the cacophony, along with some shouting vendors, boinking horns and snatches of conversations. Above it all was the stink of New York, a comforting stench I had missed during these past few years. The sound, the smell, the people, the color, everything was as expected, yet new, a break from the monotonous silence and colorless chambers of Remo's underbelly world.

We made through the lobby and to Roland's office on the first floor without bumping onto another member, save for Diclen, a member from the cyber team. He gave me a wave and a smile, nodded at Zantry and continued on to the second floor as if we'd always been friends instead of mere members working for the same agency.

Then, to my shock and puzzlement, Roland's secretary and assistant told us to go right in. She didn't ignore me, or act like Roland was too busy to see me, or even look down her nose as she spoke. No, she nodded, said a polite “good morning” and sent us right in.

I glanced sideways at Zantry, sure Valerie's sudden bolt of politeness was due to his presence, but he shrugged and kept on moving forward. At the opened double-door of Roland's office, I stopped, surprised to find Roland had invited a few outsiders. I recognized Cora, the woman with the brown aura who'd sat on the same table I did the night of the charity ball, and the guy with the brown aura who'd accompanied her. Diggy had said then they were Enclave members–a group of twelve preternaturals who governed the entire preternatural population on Earth. In addition to the two Enclave members, there was a petite blonde I've never met, and none other than Logan Graham. I hesitated before going in, Zantry's warm and supportive presence beside me, then squared my shoulders. Roland was the first to see me. He was leaning against the edge of his massive chrome and glass executive desk, arms folded across his chest, listening to the petite blonde and Logan arguing, while everyone–Diggy, Vincent, Cora and the other guy watched on with pursed lips. I took a step forward and all eyes turned to me. There was the brief pause of awkward silence before Logan stepped forward, his eyes concerned, his posture tense.

“Roxanne,” he said, coming to take my hand in his. “You alright? Did he hurt you?” His approach and concern took me aback. And made me uncomfortable. The way we parted in the Stone Circle hadn't left room for friendliness. I had abjured from the clan, ridiculed his leader in front of his people and the enemy, and let Zantry claim me. None of which would have happened if they hadn't given me that last ultimatum.

I shrugged. “I'm here and alive. I suppose that's what counts.” I was unable to mask some of the cool resentment from my voice.

Logan dropped his hand and took a step back. “Look, I'm sorry things spun out of control last month. I realize I didn't handle the situation right and you paid the price because of that.” He glanced over at Zantry, his gray eyes cooling a few degrees. “I'd like if we could go somewhere and talk privately after this meeting.”

“There's nothing to talk. What happened then happened. That's done and over with.”

“Roxanne,” he began.

“I'm Remo Drammen's familiar, Logan. I'm no longer a member of your clan. I'm no longer the same person you met on a rainy day in a deserted food court. There's nothing for us to talk about anymore.” There had never really been.

Logan's jaw clenched. “Whether you are Mr. Drammen's familiar or a member of the clan is not the issue. As long as you don't allow anyone or anything to change you, you're still the same.”

I studied the sincerity in his eyes, shifted to the others present. I'd intended to do this at the end of the meeting but now was as good as half an hour later. I wanted Roland–the Hunters–to understand they had no say in my actions, that Remo's orders had top priority. I wanted them wary of me, of the information I was about to impart. Truth or lie, Remo wanted them to know, and that meant they couldn't, shouldn't, take my word at face value. My stomach churned nervously, but I knew I had to do this.

“I've already changed, Logan,” I said and let go the glamour from my aura. Logan blanched and took a step back before making a visible effort to stand still.

“I'm Remo's to be called upon, for him to use as he sees fit.” I almost choked on the words, but they needed to understand.

There was a glowing black sheen on my aura, the result of siphoning Remo's energy. Zantry told me last night once the familiar bond was broken, my aura would return to normal. I didn't know if that was true, the only person who could prove that was Mwara, and I wasn't going to call her any time soon.

Logan surprised me by taking a step forward, his eyes gleaming with determination. “Mr. Drammen may have the power to force you to his will, but he can't change who you are unless you allow him to. As long as you keep fighting for yourself, he will never truly own you.”

I looked away first, pulled in the charge from my aura. As long as I kept fighting… it was so easy to say, so hard to do.

Logan exhaled, either in relief my corrupted aura was no longer in display, or frustrated I wasn't arguing. He half-turned to Cora and demanded, “Can you fix this?”

Cora's lips pursed, and the guy beside her took a protective step forward. “She's not the fairy godmother. She works with nature and natural elements. She doesn't dabble with the dark.”

“I know that. That's not what I meant. Anything that could cut off Mr. Drammen's power over her. Or maybe something, anything, that would tamper with his control for some time.”

I shifted to Cora, interested to know her answer, found her eyeing me with a speculative gleam. Did she know something? The man beside her narrowed his brown eyes at Logan, and before he could hurl whatever comeback at him, Roland said, “Until she finds a way to do that, we should go on with the meeting as planned.” He inclined his head to the conference room adjacent. “Let's get this meeting started. I'm sure Roxanne has many things planned to do and see after being away for more than three years. Let's not waste her time arguing among ourselves.”