Burn With Me (4 page)

Aziza was floating above them as they spoke. Why would she touch the bodies? What kind of sick person would do that? And then it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. She couldn’t even see them as she rose higher and higher into the night sky.

Almost flying.

Chapter Two

“So you think one of those nice old geezers spiked your ale?” Greg snorted. “We weren’t at a rave, Aziza, it was Penn’s favorite pub.”

They were walking hand in hand, taking a break from visiting the next site on her list of must-see attractions. She knew he was keeping her close because she’d scared him last night. Her reactions had worried him. Hell, they’d worried
her
. It was why she’d limited today’s “must sees” to all things harmless and innocent. Old author haunts and royal towers and the like. Last night had been too much, even for her.

“Maybe they did. You don’t know.” She couldn’t really blame him for sounding incredulous, but she wasn’t sure how else to explain it. The only other reality-based option was frightening. She lifted her free hand to her ear, fiddling absently with an earring. “There’s always door number two. I could be turning into my mother.”

He squeezed her hand tightly. “That is
not
what this is, Aziza Jane Stewart. Don’t you dare open that door. In fact, we’re disproving door number two’s existence as we speak. You’re here. You’re not housebound under lock and key. We’re in England, walking down the infamous Eastcheap, and we’re still alive. Alive and reveling in the vulgar art of tourism.” His tone was adamant. Was he trying to convince her, or himself? “Her fears belonged to her. No one else in your family has them.
Penn
doesn’t have them. They’re not hereditary.”

Weren’t they? Her mother hadn’t always been the way she was when Aziza was growing up. In fact, according to Penn, Emma Stewart had been a bit of a wild child herself when she was younger. She’d had adventures and taken risks.

“I may not be agoraphobic or think every shadow holds a demon—yet—but my crazy is just as…well…crazy.”

Aziza tugged on his hand until he slowed his long stride and glanced over at her. “I get you not mentioning my ‘curse’ issue because it’s weird and you don’t want to think about your best friend going all psycho on you, but it’s still there. It still feels real to me. And I
do
think what happened last night—the man following us, and the couple I saw earlier dying right in front of the pub—all have some connection. Some meaning. That can’t be a coincidence, Greg. You’re good at math. Think about those odds and you decide. Either it has
some
validity or the next stop after our world tour should be the loony bin. When you visit, don’t bring the hard candy. It hurts my teeth.”

“Are those my only choices?” Greg’s lips quirked, but she could see the concern in his gaze, even through the shadow of his tinted sunglasses. “What do I know? Maybe a few randy old men
did
spike your drink and make you think you saw things that weren’t there. As for the curse…” He sighed. “We all deal with grief in our own way. I’m not saying it doesn’t have validity, but after the last five and a half years… after all you’ve lost…how could you
not
think a curse or something equally heinous was following you around, whether it’s grounded in reality or not? Frankly, I’m amazed you’re still standing.”

He lowered his voice. “You’ve always amazed me, Aziza. You’re stronger than you think you are. And you have me. That’s why I know you’ll get through this.
We’ll
get through this.”

“The two-year mark is coming up, Greg. Not to mention our birthday.”

His sigh was heavier this time. Frustrated. “I know it. But nothing is going to happen. And the day after we turn twenty-seven together, we’ll spend the next week celebrating how right I was about everything. You should start practicing the best way to address me during that celebration. I prefer, King Greg the Awesome. I’m planning on it being our best dueling birthday event ever.”

He always made her smile. Made her feel loved. She wanted to believe she did the same for him, but she doubted it more and more. “I don’t know why you’re so good to me, but just for that I’ll give you a break. I won’t talk about the giant, sexy harbinger of doom who keeps stalking me. I won’t mention my curse or the burn I saw on my hand last night that you claim wasn’t there when you looked. And I definitely won’t tell you about my dream because you’re far too young and impressionable to ever get over it. In return, I saw a little sandwich shop a few blocks back that would be perfect for our Saturday picnic break in the secret garden. Oh, and you should get a few of those cookies with the jelly centers if you can find them. Remember. No hard candy.”

“Just call me Saint Greg.”

“I thought it was
King
Greg.”

“I wear a lot of hats.” He smiled and turned on his heel, letting go of her hand. “Sandwiches and stuff coming right up. You go on ahead and make sure we get a good spot.”

Aziza sent him a sassy salute and continued strolling along the sidewalk, giving herself a moment to soak it all in. She was really here. It struck her suddenly how sheltered she’d been. She’d been born in Bahrain to an English mother and an Egyptian father, yet the only life she’d ever known was an ocean away. In fact, until a few years ago, she hadn’t been across the Texas border since she was a toddler. Not even for a holiday.

The only time she traveled was in her books, which she’d been rabid and possessive about from the moment she learned to read. Library books filled with adventure that her mother would no doubt never have approved of. Fiction underneath her bed and shoved in her locker or left for safekeeping at Greg’s house until she’d been able to absorb them and move on to the next batch. They took her everywhere, anywhere she wanted to go. Gave her freedom to be whatever she wanted. If only in her mind.

She hadn’t sat down to relax with a good book in ages. Instead, she’d lived enough in the past few months alone to write one of her own. And now? She was starting yet another chapter.

Greg was right. She’d come to England and nothing horrible had happened. Lightning hadn’t struck her down in her tracks. Her mother had been wrong to be so afraid.

She’d been terrified of any of her children leaving American soil. Yet according to Penn, Emma Stewart had traveled extensively every summer of her adult life until she married. China. The Middle East. She’d met Aziza’s father in Egypt and, for some reason that might have had to do with his business, they’d decided to move together to the island country of Bahrain, where three of their four children were born. Her mother had been pregnant with the fourth—with Joseph—when she inexplicably left her husband and moved her children to live near a few distant relatives in Dallas, Texas.

Emma had never come back to England. She’d focused on making her children American citizens and putting down roots as fast and as deeply as she could. She hadn’t even come back when her own parents died. No matter how many times Penn had begged her to in the years after they had passed, she never gave in.

Aziza couldn’t understand why, since what
she’d
seen of England so far was perfection. The architecture, the history—old and new merging seamlessly into a city that pulsed with energy and life. The Shard and the Tower of London. The Gherkin and Westminster Abbey. The home of both Dickens and dubstep. London in every way was both disparate yet harmoniously appealing. And the people were different as well. More polite, yet more open at the same time. Free to be themselves without feeling bound to puritanical ideals.

Everything here was different, from the scent of the air to the feel of the sidewalk beneath her feet. Better.

Aziza couldn’t imagine that things had changed that much—other than a building or two—since her mother was young. Which begged the question—what
had
Emma been thinking to not bring them back here after the separation?

How different would their lives have been if they hadn’t been taken away from this? If they hadn’t had to change their last names back to Stewart so her brothers wouldn’t be harassed more than they already were for their darker skin and the stuffy English accents they still had in the beginning? How different would her
mother
have been if she hadn’t been so isolated? If Penn had been there to remind her sister who she was. What was real.

Aziza turned down a smaller road and saw it in the distance, the building that held what she’d been looking for. It wasn’t her usual adrenaline-pumping attraction, but the instant Penn told her about it, she’d known she wanted to come here at some point today. St. Dunstan-in-the-East. A bombed-out ruin of a church that, instead of being demolished, built over and forgotten the way it would have been in the States, had been turned into an enchanted Eden.

Surprisingly, there weren’t many tourists nearby. Good. Maybe that meant she could find a free bench for her and Greg to enjoy their lunch.

No one stopped her when she walked up the steps and through the door to enter…
heaven
.

She gasped and picked up her pace, whirling around as she tried to take in everything at once. Penn had told her, but it was so much better than she’d imagined. It was a moment out of time. A magical place in a world ruled by fairies and daydreams instead of ordinary humans. She could still see modern glass buildings through the old, beautifully arched windows, but inside? It was a wonderland. The garden was alive and vibrant, exotic trees and flowering plants and vines growing up the walls to create a fairytale scene just for her.

She walked up a few steps and looked around. No one was here. Her aunt said people came here for lunch all the time, but today it seemed abandoned. She wasn’t disappointed, just thankful for her good fortune.

For a moment she let herself imagine this was her spot. Hers alone. The floral scent mixed with—she inhaled—surprising traces of pineapple belonged to her. And the circle of benches perfect for reading or just being? All for her.

Aziza’s garden.

A beam of soft sunlight speared through an arched skeleton of a doorway farther down, framing what might be the perfect spot to sit and wait. It was secluded. A lower window with trees blocking the view just enough that she couldn’t see the outside world and, unless it was really looking, it couldn’t see her.

She lifted her flowing, white eyelet skirt out of the way and pulled herself up onto the window ledge, straddling the sturdy impromptu seat without hesitation. A leg in both worlds. She smiled at the whimsical thought.

Looking down at the bunched fabric in her fists turned her smile rueful.

Talk about flights of fancy. She’d dressed for today with a purpose that was almost too embarrassing to admit to herself.

Because the man in her dreams last night had told her to.

He’d been so forceful, and so damn pretty that she hadn’t been able to resist. She’d seen herself wearing it after he asked her to put it on—her white eyelet skirt and matching off-the-shoulder peasant blouse. It wasn’t her usual style. And snow white certainly wasn’t her color. Not anymore. But he was adamant.

It made her skin look like caramel, he’d whispered. Made her eyes glimmer like jewels. “Wear it for me,” he’d whispered. “And I’ll know you want more of what I’m about to give you. That you’re ready.”

And damn, had he given. Made her beg. Aziza shivered. That had to have been one of the more erotic dreams of her life. And the kinkiest. Imagining more was nearly impossible.

He’d said her eyes were like jewels but his, too, had been unusual. Emerald green, impossibly bright, like the man from the pub. The “pretty” man whose features she couldn’t describe now if her life depended on it, other than his eyes and the tone of his voice.

Her dream had taken those eyes and put them in the body of an Egyptian god. Or was he a Greek god? Wherever he was from, she was fairly certain he was a god there. Nothing like the sexy giant from the Ferris wheel, of course. That would be comparing silk to sandpaper. Though he did cause a similar reaction. Instant attraction. Instant desire.

The man in her dreams had been leaner, more like a panther in his movements. Every feature, everything about him was lush and breathtaking. Meant to be savored and enjoyed.

She opened her fists and the skirt slid down her legs as she studied her palms. Her hand had completely and miraculously healed after last night’s experience. She traced her fingers along the spot that had been marked. Why hadn’t Greg or Penn seen it? How had it disappeared so quickly? It had still been burned into her skin in her dream, and the man had mentioned it, saying it was important. Made her special.

“Burn…”

“What? Who’s there?” Aziza leaned out of the window and looked around for a body to go with that voice. Nothing stirred. Nothing rustled. She could hear the traffic if she focused, but beyond that the garden was eerily quiet.

God, she
really
hoped she wasn’t going crazy. She didn’t have time to go crazy. She had a bucket list to complete and then, if it turned out she wasn’t cursed and she made it beyond twenty-seven, she was fairly certain she could find a million better things to do with her time than lose her shit.

She sighed, continuing to seek out the body that belonged to that voice as she wondered what a future would look like. With no family other than Penn, maybe she would move here. She’d changed her major so many times she hadn’t had enough credits to graduate college, but she had skills. A Jane-of-all-trades, she’d told Greg after he’d won the overachiever award and gotten his master’s degree in record time.

They were exactly the same age, almost to the hour, and he was her best friend, but in many ways they couldn’t be more different. She envied him for being so together. So centered. He’d always known where life would take him. She knew he would defend her and say she’d had an unusual childhood, but she couldn’t blame her lack of ambition on her phobic mother or her overprotective brothers.

They had all known what they wanted too. Just like Greg. Tarik had been headed toward a career in business management from kindergarten, and Adam used to practice reading the six o’clock news in the bathroom every single night. Tarik used to tease him about that, saying his reflection must be incredibly well informed.