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
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
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