Roxanne Fosch Files Collection

Chapter 7

The little jolt of fear that zinged through me was skillfully hidden under a blank façade.

“Get in,” he snapped tightly. His shoulders were tense, and his eyes held annoyance and irritation, but no anger or hints of crazed triumph. Two things I gathered in that instance. One, if he was going to shoot me he would have done it the moment the door opened. Two, that meant he didn"t want me dead.

I eyed him and was proud my gaze didn"t waver. My hesitation only seemed to irritate him more, although I guessed his crankiness stemmed from following me around for the past few days. I weighed my options. I had this curious hunch and was tired and aching enough to not think better of it, so I turned my back on him and walked—shuffled—away, despite my body begging for the warm comfort the Range Rover could provide for a few hours.

He cursed and muttered something under his breath that sounded a lot like “stubborn twit” before the engine shut off and his door opened and slammed shut.

“Don"t force me to shoot,” he growled.

I ignored him until I heard the safety of the g*n click off. Slowly, heart hammering with belated adrenaline, I turned.

He no longer looked annoyed. Instead he looked angry and… resigned? Resigned to shoot? Maybe I had misjudged him. Maybe the bounty was more substantial if I was caught alive. Why was he using a g*n? Why wasn"t he trying to overpower me?

I studied his aura and wondered if perhaps I had misread it.

“In,” he barked. There was a dark bruise under his left eye that hadn"t been there when I met him in the food court.

“I don"t think you want me dead or else you"d have killed me already,” I pointed out—perhaps too boldly.

“You"re right. I don"t want you dead,” he conceded. “However, I won"t hesitate to disable you. In fact, if you"re not able to walk or run…” He shrugged a shoulder, lowered the g*n and aimed at my leg. “Now, get inside.”

I looked at him, at the car, and wondered if I could strike him while he drove. Then I could perhaps push him out and h****k it.

As if reading my mind, he c****d his head aside and said in a much softer tone, “you take the wheel.”

I narrowed my eyes at him. “What makes you think I"m not going to ditch us at the first sinkhole?”

His eyes flashed with a dangerous light, reminding me I was dealing with a predator as well as a mercenary. He motioned with his g*n for me to move, said nothing.

I did.

I crossed passed him with an indifferent air, shoulders back—though the posturing cost me. With clenched teeth, I pushed my duffle on the back seat, then stiffly climbed inside. I was already regretting not climbing into the passenger seat by the time he opened the door.

Adjusting the seat to accommodate my shorter legs increased the throbbing of my ribs. I bit my lip to keep myself from gasping out loud. I didn"t want him to realize how badly I hurt. Weak prey don"t live long. It"s the law of the jungle.

I remembered when I was still young and was just “plain human” and couldn"t defend myself against the PSS"s brutal experimentation methods. I remembered that first time when they carried me kicking and screaming down to the lab. I remembered feeling my first betrayal, the shocking realization they had been soft on me during the previous tests. I had considered Dr. Maxwell an ally, the only one in the entire facility I had made in the eight months since I"d arrived. I"d known his goodwill—chocolate, ice cream, gossip magazines—had been nothing but bribes to ensure good behavior, but I was a creature of the people, a person who lived for the crowd, who enjoyed socializing as much as I needed it for survival. Dr. Maxwell had known that, understood that holding me in the PSS and forcefully conducting the experiments was killing me both mentally and physically, and it wasn"t improving the quality of the research done.

As the head of the scientist"s team assigned to me, Dr. Maxwell took it upon himself to bring me all the nice things an ex-popular thirteen-year-old deemed necessary.

By then I"d been so exhausted of fighting and rebelling—though in no way broken yet—I"d stopped fighting against the tests, in exchange for a nice suite with a king-sized bed, a laptop—without wireless connection—books to fill up my time, and a bathroom with a large tub. It had been my weakness, letting them know how much I needed those material things, and Dr. Maxwell"s company in the evening, a sympathetic ear to listen to my complaints.

I remembered the shock that horrible day when I was locked inside a three-by-three metal cage like a feral animal; with Dr. Maxwell standing nearby in the lab ignoring my protests, taking notes as if locking me in the cage after all the nice things he had done for me was the most natural thing. Here"s a rose, let me stab you with the thorn.

Later, after I escaped, I learned from Dr. Maxwell"s stolen journal the vaccine he gave me that awful night had been an amplifying spell, given to uncooperative subjects.

I remembered the awful buzzing sound the lock mechanism made when engaged, the vibrations through the bars when I grabbed them to scream louder at Dr. Maxwell. After the events of that day, I was no longer able to touch the bars without being severely burned. Three sides of the cage were made of thick, enforced metal bars, but the fourth—the back side —was just a metal sheet, which I also learned that day served as a door, a partition wall to the next cage.

When the wall of the cage behind me opened with a sliding whoosh, I didn"t give it any thought. When I heard the guttural growl, I shut up. Dr. Maxwell turned to watch, and only then did I notice I had an audience.

I remembered the sensation of rubbery muscles, how my stomach had fluttered and crashed, the tremor that ran down my spine all the way down to my toe nails. I remembered the horror of the second growl, closer.

Frightened—scared shitless—so terrified to turn and find the monster inside with me, my legs gave way and I sank to the cold bottom of the cage. I remembered registering in a humiliated part of my brain the acrid stench of urine. My heart beat too fast, too erratic, and I remembered wondering if I was having a heart attack. I remembered wondering that first time if they were serving me for dinner to a hideous monster because I hadn"t met their expectations. The terror, the humiliation of begging deaf ears. I remembered it all, every second, every heartbeat.

That day, eight months after they kidn*pped me, I exhibited the first of many signs of abnormality. I had become the monster they had suspected I was all along. My talons manifested first—it had saved my life—and my ability to read auras the next day.

It was only after a handful of similar episodes I learned they were ready to shoot the animal before it could fatally injure me. And it took me over five years of misery, hurt, and resentment to accept the fact no one was coming for me. And over three more years for an opportunity to escape. Now this man, this Logan, was here to take me back. For what? A lousy few thousand? Was that what my life was worth? I felt a tightening in my chest and recognized it for what it was. Fear. Anxiety.

I closed my eyes, forgetting for an instant my aches, agonizing over my predicament instead. I needed a plan—fast.

I couldn"t—wouldn"t go back. I didn"t think I"d survive life as it had once been.

Suddenly, there was a loud sound of a horn, a hoarse curse and a tug at the steering wheel. My eyes snapped open in time to be blinded by the headlights and manage to avoid colliding with another vehicle, with a mere inch to spare. The Range Rover skidded and squealed to the shoulder, and I braked, breathing hard. I dozed off at the wheel. Oh my God, I fell asleep driving. My hands gripped the steering so hard, it gave a faint rubbery squeak. I could hear Logan"s harsh breathing above my thundering heart, but before I could dredge up anything to say, he growled, “Get. Out.” with barely restrained anger.

I looked at him in disbelief. Was he going to just throw me out? Had he decided I wasn"t worth the trouble anymore? The hard set of his jaws told me he was furious.

“I said out,” he repeated through gritted teeth.

I looked around at the dark desert, perhaps we had reached our destination? Found nothing but the unforgiving, endless road and desert ahead. It was better to risk the rattlesnakes than keep trying to hitchhike and risk the Bad Boy Team picking me up next. I opened the door, unbuckled my belt, and gritted my teeth against the pain that assaulted my senses. All the while, I could feel the heavy weight of Logan"s gaze on me.

Logan cursed, opened his door, came around the hood to my side. What, he thought I wasn"t doing the job fast enough? As if I had wanted to come with him in the first place. I was about to get out when he shook his head and closed in, effectively blocking me. “Just… just scoot over.”

I hesitated for a brief moment.

“How bad are you hurt?”

What kind of game was he playing? Whatever it was, I had neither the will nor the power to play it.

“You need help?” he tried again, and there was no sign of mockery or sarcasm in his face or voice. His concern seemed genuine.

Jaws still clenched, I moved sideways. For the second time, Logan reached out to help, only to drop his arm half way. Clever man. A groan almost escaped my lips when I reached for the belt. Again, I felt, rather than saw, Logan watching me. I leaned my head back and closed my eyes, deciding the belt was too much effort. Despite the pain, I fell asleep instantly.