The Burn (8 page)

Seth watched him drink from the goblet. The Necromancer swallowed calmly, seeming to savor the taste of the wine. Then he waited for moment, cup in hand, saying nothing further.

Seth clenched his teeth. Raising his own goblet, he sipped a rich coppery mouthful, prepared to play along if it meant the man might incriminate himself as a kidnapper and torturer.

Satisfaction played in the Necromancer's gaze. He put down the wine, his pale gaze fixing on Miranda. "She came here as a soldier, trained by other soldiers. She understood nothing about herself, nothing about her desires or her fears, her power or her beauty. She had an empty life that she filled with endless missions to faraway places, the pursuit of justice at any cost. Like you, she knew nothing of her true destiny. She approached the Gate believing that it was a human contrivance, a ridiculous misconception given its complexity, but…"

He shrugged, as if it didn't matter. "It was not difficult to draw her away from her protection. It was considerably more difficult to rip away the lies and reveal the fire and truth of the woman, to expose her soul from behind the meaningless societal programming. Her passage was painful, but she merged with the Gate successfully, as I knew she would. She became a goddess."

"Jesus," Seth muttered, working hard to hide his reaction to the veiled description of torture.

"She has immense power, the kind that rarely manifests itself in human form. That is the problem, a problem that only you can help her with."

Seth shook his head, unable to reply to that. He rubbed his hand once across his forehead, frowning as his fingers came away moist. He was sweating, his pulse racing.

"You are no ordinary sculptor, Seth," the Necromancer said, a sinister tone in his voice. "The highest dimension reaches for you, sings to you. That is why you can hear the metal, because you are far older than this world, and far older than the gossamer threads of time and matter that define it. You can form and create things that should not exist here."

Seth winced, trying to focus through a sudden onset of dizziness. "Thought we were talking about Miranda."

"I am referring to Miranda. She does not belong in this world either. She has shed her human mortality and become an elite class among the Rathvam."

"Elite class…"

"Only seven of them exist at a time," the Necromancer said, his eyes pale and glowing. "Goddesses, souls that resonate with a certain kind of energy, each one representative of mankind's attributes as seen from higher places. The Gate requires all of them to achieve its full power here."

Seth shook his head, the air too thick, the colored glare of stage lights too bright. He glanced at his wine goblet, the dark surface of the liquid shining back at him.

"Do not look away from her now," the Necromancer urged. "She cannot maintain this illusion of the flesh for much longer. Only an agent of higher creation can help her. There is no ritual to it, not for a being like you. Simply give her the same care you would any of your elegant sculptures. Give her your strength, your warmth, your touch. Make her real."

"Stop," Seth hissed.

"Go to her. Wake her. Save her, Seth. Quickly. You do not have much time. She fades before us already."

Seth glanced at Miranda, seeing her image shimmer across the distance, as if she were seated in the rising heat of the full summer sun.

"Miranda," he murmured, pushing up from his seat and leaving the Necromancer behind.

Colors seemed to brighten as he left the VIP stage, a strange slowness blurring the world around him. The masks worn by the dancers leered at him, their laughter echoing, blending with music. He felt light, unbalanced as he crossed the sand, his attention focused in desperation on the woman seated on the throne before him. She glittered, her face painted in Chinese pinks and charcoals, her green eyes vacant.

He climbed the steps to her, immediately forced to place one hand the throne to steady himself on the stage. It occurred to him that his condition was worsening, his thoughts breaking down into disconnected fragments, his senses reeling.

Drugged. In the wine. So obvious, but he no longer cared. The only thing he cared about was Miranda, reaching her, ending this nightmare. She seemed to stare right through him, perfect in her stillness.

"Miranda," he whispered, raising his hand to her cheek. "Come back to me, baby girl. Look at me."

* * *

Miranda blinked, drawing a pained breath. She opened her eyes and the world seemed to explode around her, awash with riotous color and noise. A clattering tribal rhythm played through huge speakers set on the opposite end of an enclosed area, a wild horde of costumed dancers jumping and spinning in the open dust in front of her.

Her lips parted, remembering the Necromancer's hands on her, forcing her down, holding her against the hum of metal as he whispered his hateful prayers.

Miranda.

Flashes of memory overwhelmed her, pieces of a life restored out of order. Range practice at Quantico, the shots of her weapon echoing in her ears, years of faces, of names and court dates, of investigations leading to arrests or leading nowhere, the work of a lifetime cast against a desert sky.

She made a hollow noise, tears welling in her eyes.

"Miranda—" Seth was at her side. He had touched her, called to her, brought her back somehow.

"I remember," she murmured. "I remember."

"Don't try. Just come with me."

She remembered the blood, so much of it. The cold. The touch of his hands, strange words slipping from his lips.

"He's not human," she whispered.

"What?"

"He's not human. He's something else."

"Miranda—"

"Not alive."

"He's messed with your mind," Seth assured her. "The things you remember, they may or may not have happened."

"You don't know. You weren't there—"

"Miranda. Look at me."

She looked up, meeting the determination in his gaze. His thick hair was coming loose under his hat, his broad shoulders covered by a dark jacket, the toned definition of his chest visible underneath. His pupils were dilated, a sheen of sweat on his brow.

"They did something to you," she said.

"I know. Come with me. I'll keep you safe tonight."

"But you don't understand."

"Focus on me," he insisted, his breathing shallow. "We'll work through it, I promise you that. He's not going to touch you when you're with me. Let me take you out of here."

She glanced out across the crowd, seeing the lust and ferocity of their movements, the flash of drunken curiosity when they looked her, gawked at her. She was out in the open, a nightmare of nonsensical memories flooding through her mind, her insanity exposed for all to see.

Miranda nodded, the tears welling hot under her lashes. "Get me out of here, Seth. Please."

Rising to his feet, he shrugged off his jacket and slid it over her shoulders. She clasped it closed with one hand, feeling the residual warmth of his body wrap around her.

"Come," he said gently, taking her by her free hand. "Come with me."

She allowed him to pull her up from the chair and lead her down the steps to the open playa. He headed away from the dark rhythm of the music, away from the movement, away from the light, guiding her past the bright and violent chaos and into the cold breeze beyond it.

Miranda looked behind them, her breathing ragged as she stumbled after Seth. The Necromancer stood in silhouette against the stage lights, calmly watching them escape across the sand.

M
iranda leaned against Seth as he unlocked the door to his RV with difficulty, his hands unsteady. He scraped the keys into the latch with a whispered curse and pulled the door open for her. She climbed into the darkness inside, staggering toward the welcoming cushions of a couch.

Curling up against its softness, she sat still for a moment, the smell of the old fabric comforting. His jacket was wrapped around her, heavy and warm.

Seth locked the door and sat down beside her, leaning forward and rubbing his hands against his eyes. A drum circle group played from the neighboring camp, the rhythm eerie in the stillness. Red light glowed through the RV's windshield, highlighting the strong angles of Seth's face and the broad cut of his bare shoulders. His bicep tattoo glistened from muscle and moist skin.

He took his hat off and placed it on the table, allowing his dark hair to fall loose to his shoulders.

Miranda shook her head. He was risking his life for her. He was risking far more than he knew.

"They drugged you, didn't they?" she asked, her voice a harsh whisper between them.

"Afraid so," he drawled. "But if it was poison, I'd be dead already, right?"

"They don't want you dead."

"I guessed as much. Whatever it is, it'll wear off. I have the advantage of size. The dose that they use on little girls isn't going to do much to me."

"What is it doing to you now?"

"Ah—" Seth narrowed his eyes. "It's hard to see. I feel hot, restless, excited, anxious maybe."

"Is anything moving?"

He looked at her, laughing under his breath. "Besides you?"

She leaned closer, reaching up to place her fingers on the pulse of his neck. He tilted his head to allow it.

"Rapid," she muttered.

"Yeah, I noticed."

"And your breathing is shallow."

"Miranda—"

She clenched her teeth, feeling helpless.

"I'm fine," he assured her. "I went to an art college, for Christ's sake. This isn't the first high I've brought on myself after a moment of impressively bad judgment."

"You don't know what they gave you."

"I know I'm not dead. And you're here with me, right where I can see you, so things aren't as bad as they could be."

"I came here to stop him."

Seth's expression sobered. "I know."

"I have to stop him. I know I do, but now…"

"It doesn't have to be you. This guy is a target. There are people after him. You need to let them find a way. You need to come out, regain your strength."

She looked at him, narrowing her gaze. "How did you know all that? How do you know about me?"

He released a slow breath. "There are people trying to reach you through me. The same people who sent you here."

"The FBI? Pete?" she asked, realizing that she knew.

"Yes."

She wet her lips, confused. "Why you?"

"Just lucky that way."

"You're not an agent?"

"No. I'm an artist."

Miranda grimaced. "And they're using you? Why would they do that? Why would they risk you like that?"

"I'm here because I want to be. I'm here for you, Miranda, not for them. They're not using me. I'm not taking orders from the FBI. It doesn't work that way with me."

She supposed that she knew that, pegging him as one of those individuals who navigated by some deep internal process, unconcerned with what the world might think. It was still foolish of him to risk all that he had.

"You can't help me," she said, her voice raw. "Neither can the FBI."

"What makes you think that?"

"You don't understand what happened." She closed her eyes against the memory of blood. The tears came easily, along with knowledge that was impossible to accept, yet vivid nonetheless.

His lips parted, his eyes registering her pain with difficulty. He made a soft sound, lifting his hand to stroke the errant waves of her hair from her cheek. "I hope you can tell me what happened, sweetheart. I hope you can trust me that much."

"No," she replied, angrily swiping the wetness from her cheeks. "You wouldn't understand."

"Wouldn't understand what?"

She hesitated. "There was so much blood and I could feel… It's like I'm not… I'm not real anymore."

"Real?"

"I remember dying."

He drew in a sharp breath, sympathy forming in his eyes. "That's not what happened. The FBI believes that you've undergone torture and manipulation. You understand? You can't trust your memory, your conclusions, right now. That's why you can't stay here and continue this crusade. You have to come out and get the help you need to recover."

"I can't," she murmured. "I don't exist outside of the Gate."

"How can you not exist? You're here with me. I can see you. I can touch you."

"Can you?"

"Yes."

"Then touch me," she whispered.

He watched her for a moment then slowly lowered his head and kissed her, his mouth careful on hers.

Miranda parted her lips, tasting him with her tongue, drawing him closer. He was strong, the precious life she craved flowing rich in his veins. She couldn't turn away, the hunger for it suddenly bright and all-consuming.

Still alive… Please, Seth, let me feel it…

She shrugged off his jacket and climbed onto his lap, the sparkling black beads of her outfit spilling between them. His muscular arms closed around her, his breath hot on her tongue, the caress of his mouth coaxing.

She broke the kiss and rolled her head back on her shoulders, rubbing herself against his groin through the layers of their clothing. It felt impossibly good, the sensations fevered and electric.

He groaned, sliding a strong hand down her back, forcing her to arch her body gently against him. She could feel him move to trace his fingers over her breasts then pull the beads of her bra down to expose them.

Miranda ran her hands into his hair, drawing a ragged breath as he put his mouth on her, teasing one of her nipples until it puckered to a painful bud.

She felt herself grow wetter, her body warm and pleasured. She half-closed her eyes, lingering in the feel of his hands as he stroked her, his tongue as he caressed her.

"Seth," she whispered. "Please."

His hold on her eased and she reached between them, finding the cool zipper of his jeans with her fingers. She freed him carefully, her hands rubbing the entire length of his erection, the skin of his hard phallus tight.

He looked at her and raised his hands to brush her hair back from her face. His expression darkened with concern. "Miranda, are you sure this is what you want?"