The Burn (27 page)

From the shadows around them, others watched more cautiously. She could feel their purpose just as clearly, law enforcement officers watching for any sign of Cecilia's tormentors, eager to find something that would give shape to their suspicions about the camp.

A light switched on above the DJ stage, casting a white glow over the turntables. The DJ herself appeared a moment later, her hair knotted into long brown dreadlocks, a set of headphones hanging around her neck. She grimaced, absorbed in the task of operating the equipment.

A dark flood of synthesizer music rose from the speakers flanking the stage, followed by the thrumming heartbeat of electronic percussion. Miranda frowned, hearing the whooping calls of excitement from the entrance, a trickle of people now appearing from an opening in the barriers.

The party had started.

An echo of pain sounded from the Gate, a faint ringing in its thick song. It shivered through her soul, cold and familiar. It was Pete. His pain, his torture, inflicted now so that she would hear it and come charging in to save him.

Narrowing her gaze on the Byzantine tent rising from the darkness ahead, she drew her dagger from its sheath, planning on doing exactly that.

* * *

Miranda took shape in one of the outer corridors of the Gate, the voices of the Rathvam swirling in the dense air around her. Power thickened in the walls. Energy passed through the metal on silken threads of light, snapping as they made contact with each other. Pete was close.

Slipping into the streams of power, she traced his pain through the walls, the floors, finding him on the lower level. He was locked alone in a small compartment, holding himself rigid along the floor as he attempted to endure a moment longer.

The wound in his side bled wet through his clothes, streaking crimson across the warm grate at his feet. One of his palms had been cut. A deep and purpling gash appeared above his eye. He drew a thin, rasping breath.

Miranda appeared before him, the golden chain of her Rathvam armor clinking as she moved. He looked up at the sound, his eyes narrowed to see her in the darkness. A hint of shock lit his features.

"Miranda?" he asked in disbelief.

"It's me."

"You can't be here," he said, the grizzled sound of his voice having lost all its strength. "They're waiting for you."

She dropped down close to him, ducking under his arm and pulling him to his feet. He caught his breath and leaned heavily on her, his blood trickling warm between them.

"I thought they killed you," she whispered.

"They were working on it. Listen, the detonator got lost somewhere, maybe in that last chamber, I dunno—"

"Doesn't matter now," she said, placing her hand on the door of the compartment. It unlocked and swung open. The whispering outside was sharp with alarm.
The Khagan is coming.

"I need you to stay right here," she said.

"What?"

"Collapse when I release you and act like you can't move."

"
Act?
I need to act for that?"

"Just stay down, whatever happens, okay?"

"Miranda—"

The Khagan materialized from the wall, energy crackling from the metal plates of his armor. He held his massive sword high, the dark slits of eyes finding her in the corridor.

She clenched her teeth and released Pete.

The FBI agent dropped to floor grate, catching himself with his arms but unable to rise. He surrendered to the pain and rolled onto his back.

"Goddess," the Khagan addressed her roughly.

"Catch me if you can."

Taking a step back, she slipped though the wall, passing through streams of light to appear along the open playa outside. The thump of music pulsed around her. She immediately sensed the Khagan, the weight of his soul creating a warping distortion as he moved.

C'mon! Come and get me.

He emerged from the metal, the sword blade singing in his hand. She tripped backward then turned, sprinting toward the arena. She heard him move in pursuit, gaining ground, the lethal rattle of his armor close behind her.

The arena blazed with light. The crowd formed a writhing tide beneath the stages, its currents churning with movement and swirling streaks of neon, hundreds of bodies twisting to a liquid trance rhythm.

Miranda leapt up onto one of the stages, passing under a flood of blue and green lighting. Poi spinners appeared at the edge of the platform, circling bands of fire around themselves as they danced.

She ducked under the first dancer then cut around the second, but the swing of their chains was unavoidable. She made herself light in the air, the spin of fire passing through her as she ran to the edge of the stage and leapt from it.

She heard a curse from one of the poi spinners, shocked cries from the crowd as she dropped into their midst. There was no impact, no crash of limbs. She landed on the sand as a ghost, the movement of the humans around her shielding her from view.

There were screams as the Khagan followed her. The dancers on the stage moved quickly out of his way, the gathering beneath him parting in a wave of panic. His armor glowed blue in the flood of lights, his long sword flashing as he dropped into the sand.

Miranda moved with the crowd as best she could, watching him from the crush of their bodies as he searched for her. She could feel their awe, most thinking this was an elaborate show, another surreal delight.

The Khagan turned, finding her presence and she vaulted, sprinting for the opposite side of the arena. He chased after her, his gait long and powerful, catching up with her easily. Miranda dropped to the sand.

He overshot the distance and turned too late.

Dagger in hand, she charged him, ducking close so that he couldn't use his sword. He caught her in his arms instead. Tightening his hold, he squeezed the breath out of her, wringing the strength from her soul with a brutal stranglehold.

Gritting her teeth, she stabbed him in the side with the Rathvam dagger, sinking the blade in deep. He cursed and tossed her away.

Miranda tumbled back, her body ripping through a cloud of red veils to land on one of the mattresses. The Khagan came down on top of her, pinning her easily beneath his weight, his chest protected by thick leather armor.

He pressed the blade of his sword against her neck, digging its sharpened edge into her skin. "Enough," he growled.

"That's it, slit my throat," she dared him through her teeth. "Or cast one of your spells so I can bleed to death right here, in front of all these people. Go on. Show them who you really are, what your master has planned for this world. That'll make a good show, won't it?"

He considered her from behind the golden expression of his mask. The sword blade stayed at her throat.

"I saw him," she said tightly. "He was your advisor. You were trying to protect him. That's what damned your soul."

The sword blade wedged deeper into her skin, burning a line of pain along its point of contact. His fingers clenched tightly around the weapon's handle, the hard set of his shoulders suggesting that he remained unmoved.

She drew a shallow breath, her throat constricted with the weight of the sword against it. "I saw him torture you. You called him Asmud."

"Asmud," he repeated darkly.

"He called you 'Swava'."

"Swiatislaw."

"That's your name?"

He seemed to struggle with that, drawing a strained breath from under the mask. "You don't know what you're doing," he said harshly. "Goddess."

"Take off the helmet," she said.

"I will kill you."

"And then what? Suffer the Necromancer's wrath,
Asmud's
wrath, when all of these people flee the camp in terror? What punishment do you think he'll give you for ruining his plans?"

He offered no reply, but glanced at the crowd around them, their faces bright with interest.

"Take off the helmet," she said again.

The Khagan didn't move.

She reached for his mask and he made no effort to stop her, the blade at her neck easing slightly as she pressed against it. Slipping her fingers along the metal mask, she found their intricate hinging and released the locks.

The mask fell into her hands.

The Khagan glared into the mix of colored light, his Nordic features awash in their strange glow. His blonde hair fell loose, an ancient pendant glinting from his ear. He stared down at her. His expression hardened, a reluctant acceptance forming in the Arctic blue of his eyes.

"He calls for your soul," he said evenly.

"You can resist it."

"No."

"You'd make the same mistake? Listen to him when he's the reason you were damned in the first place?"

"I have no choice."

"He's going to destroy our world!"

He glowered down at her. "My world is already gone."

Sliding the blade back against her neck, he clenched his teeth, as if forcing himself to obey the order he had been given, or simply finding that he was unable to resist the call of it in his blood any longer.

"Sir, I'm going to need you to put that thing down." One of the Sheriff's deputies called from behind the drape of red silk veils. "I don't know what game the two of you are playing in there, but let's just move on to another one, okay?"

Miranda pulled a relieved breath.

The Khagan glanced up at the man, the threat of violence caught in the twist of his expression.

"You can't," Miranda whispered. "You can't do anything to him. They'll clear this place out."

He held her gaze, a strange intensity burning in his eyes.

"Throw the weapon down," the deputy said, irritated. "Now."

The Khagan complied, raising the sword to drop it over the side of the mattress. He stared down at Miranda, waiting.

"My name is Miranda Gray," she said loudly. "Special Agent Miranda Gray, working with Special Agent Pete Grunnier."

"Beautiful," the deputy quipped.

"You need to get these people out of here."

The Khagan shook his head, clamping onto her wrist as he rose from the mattress. He dragged her up, trapping her in his arms and forcing her to stand in front of him. The deputy looked alarmed. "Hey, wait!"

"Forgive me, goddess," the Khagan whispered in her ear, slipping the dagger from her hand.

In a sharp jab of his hand, he drove the Rathvam blade into her back, sheltering the sight of it with his own body. She cried out in pain, arching against him. The dagger lodged deep in her stomach, blood warming her skin.

The Khagan was still speaking, murmuring lines of a divine spell, the world around them becoming less distinct, the music ringing in hollow echoes.

She became light in his arms, the two of them dissolving before the astonished crowd. She heard the deputy curse, the onlookers stumbling back and whispering in shock, all of them fading to nothing before her eyes.

M
iranda collapsed, her body materializing in the central chamber of the Gate. She fell to the floor. The Khagan stood above her, as solid as a statue, unmoved by her pain. The walls glittered around them, the songs of the goddesses lilting in the air, spinning patterns of energy in the thick glow, forming pastel auroras of light that changed and faded and reappeared.

Miranda cried under her breath, the pain of the dagger radiating through her being. It was too much. She huddled, drawing her body into a sheltering hold.

In the center of the room, she could make out the dark shape of Seth's corpse lying on the floor. It was now a dead thing without resonance, laid out on the altar of his name.

"Time to return to your place," the Necromancer's voice threaded from the light, his outline appearing from the thick air. "There will be no more pain there, nothing to hurt you in that divine sanctuary, I promise you."

She clenched her teeth. "They're going to break up your party out there. The Sheriff's are going to shut it all down."

"It's already forgotten," he smiled. "Denial is the failsafe of the human mind, so many things it cannot understand, so much it must protect itself from. You tried your best to save them, but it is pointless. They are out there right now, lost in their own simplistic lust, dreaming that they are in Heaven. An arrogant race, to think that they should be so welcome, that the presence of their masters should be so gentle and painless. They will learn the difference between what they imagine, and what exists, soon enough."

"It won't work," she insisted.

"Ah, but it will. Look at her," he said, gesturing to the dark goddess symbol on the wall, the Goddess of Excess.

It didn't shimmer the way the others did, but it was not completely inanimate either. A soft play of light flickered along its golden curves.

"She can hear them in the arena," he said softly. "She can feel them as they appease themselves with further acts of self-destruction, more drama, more drugs, more sex. She is listening very carefully now."

Miranda watched the curving lines of the goddess symbol begin to illuminate themselves, a faint whisper of her song added to the choir.

"No," she said weakly.

"You could never have stopped it. You're no match for the Khagan. He is damned, his soul a creation of the Gate itself. He is one with it, an expression of it. The era of goddesses and their guardians will be over after his."

Miranda shut her eyes, feeling her soul weaken.

"Bring the other one," the Necromancer snapped an order to his warrior servant. "Bring the FBI agent and kill him here."

"Impossible," the Khagan answered.

The Necromancer turned, his gaze narrowing. "What?"

"The other agent is not in the Gate."

"He has to be."

"He was removed."

"Removed?" the Necromancer snapped. "By who?"

The warrior cut his Arctic gaze to Seth's corpse.

The Necromancer turned, only to face the guardian himself, his soul materializing from the light. Seth hit him hard, sending him reeling back against the wall. The Necromancer staggered from the blow, his face contorting with rage. He drew his dagger and charged forward. Seth caught him, the two locked together in surreal combat.