The image of a string refused to leave Jack’s dreaming mind, and suddenly there was a string between him and Miriam, a rope of luminous golden particles of sand stretching from his chest to hers, each speck brilliant as a miniature sun, shifting like billowing flames and radiating power. The skein of magic was a tangible thing: Jack wrapped his hands around it where it entered his chest, felt its familiar catalytic energy, brushing his soul with shades of Miriam.
The magic was Miriam, and he followed it even when she disappeared out of sight over the surrounding rooftops. His hands were coated with the magic, and before he knew what he was doing, Jack lifted his fingers to his lips and licked the magic from them. He tasted Miriam, saw her face burst into his mind and fill his thoughts, not the fire-carved creature but the real, physical person, the flesh-and-blood woman. She wasn’t looking at him in this vision; she was asleep, her face pressed against a car window, her neck contorted in an uncomfortable position. Jack focused on her image and realized she wasn’t asleep, she was unconscious, a thin trickle of blood weeping from a scabbed gouge at her temple, thick strands of brown hair escaping from her braid and sticking to the blood. Jack reached for her, needing to wipe the blood away, needing to cradle her in his arms. His fingertips neared her skin, and the vision broke.
Jack woke with a start. He was lying down, his face pressed against a cold, hard, gritty surface. He was shivering, the air around him chilled by silence. He rolled over onto his back, his head throbbing, his eyes crusted shut.
He was outside somehow. He pried his eyes open to see the night sky above him, black shadows of clouds illuminated by a crescent moon. Where was he? Jack struggled to a sitting position and looked around, a string of curses tumbling from his mouth. He was on a rooftop, the flat, gravel-strewn surface of an office building of some sort, twisting barrels of air-conditioning fans sprouting from the roof and cable TV satellites angling at the sky.
He stood up and brushed his knees and elbows free of gravel, picking bits of rock from where they were embedded in his face. He stretched his stiff muscles and went to the edge of the roof, looking for landmarks to indicate his position. The obvious question of how he had gotten there was nagging at him, but he refused to answer it yet. He suspected the truth, but wasn’t ready to face that weirdness just yet.
Dozens of stories below him was an empty street, a few parked cars on the side, yellow lines stretching in either direction. Other office buildings rose up around him as far as he could see, except to the east, where he could just make out the Detroit River, sparkling in the moonlight. He was downtown.
He turned in place, examining the skyline, recognizing a few buildings. It was quite a view, actually, way up here. Jack cursed again and sat down with his back against the half-wall at the building’s edge.
The dream hadn’t been entirely a dream, then, it seemed. Miriam had demonstrated more than once that she possessed some rather unique abilities, but they’d always happened when he was with her. He’d dreamed about her before, but those dreams had been…different. He might have wished they were real, but they hadn’t been. Those dreams were nothing more than lovesick wet dreams. Whatever he had experienced after he passed out in his apartment tonight had been far more. But what, and why?
He pushed aside his obviously mistaken ideas of real versus impossible and tried to reason through this conundrum with an open mind. There was something else. Something nagging and familiar, subtle, and just beneath the surface of the obvious. What was it?
Jack’s mind wandered to the dream that had landed him here, thinking of the stream of glowing dust that had connected him to the dream-Miriam, and he realized with a rush of excitement what it was nagging at him: Beneath the flames, subsumed by the heat and the flickering fire and the glimpses he’d gotten of Miriam’s glorious body, beneath all that was that same golden magic-sand, covering his whole body as if he’d bathed in it, a coating of dust that led from him to Miriam. He’d seen it before, too; once when he’d laid his bike down to avoid hitting her, she’d healed him. He’d been unconscious for most of it, but when he first came to consciousness, he’d cracked his eyelids open to see Miriam facing Ben, her body alight, and trailing from her to him, the skein of golden magic.
Maybe there was a connection between them all the time, present but not always visible? Jack’s eyes popped open, and he looked down at himself, disappointed to see just himself, plain old Jack in ratty, paint-splattered, grease-stained jeans and an Irish Football Association T-shirt. He closed his eyes again, and this time visualized himself as he was at that moment, but with a river of glowing gold stretching out from his body, and he pictured that stream of gold reaching out over the city to wherever Miriam was.
Some instinct in Jack told him she was hurting, needing him. Maybe it wasn’t instinct, maybe it was the connection that bound them, the as-yet unspoken love between them. He summoned the image of her magic again, envisioned it floating across the city to plunge into him, showing him Miriam.
He opened his eyes and breathed a sigh of relief: The skein was there at the center of his chest, stretching out across Detroit, skirting some buildings and spearing through others. He lifted a hand and waved it through the amorphous stream of particles, like sunlit dust floating in an afternoon window; his hand came away coated with it again, as in his dream, and he touched his fingers to his tongue and tasted Miriam.
He saw her again, in his mind. It was disorienting: He saw the city beyond him, a few streetlights flickering, silent streets like a maze, and over that he saw Miriam, still slumped against the car window, the trickle of blood now dried and crusted. Jack saw a male hand on a gearshift, caught glimpses of a neighborhood passing by through the car window. Something told Jack he was seeing Miriam in real time.
Gramps had always told Jack that he had the second sight, too. Perhaps that was the reason he could see the magic now. Jack never wanted to believe in Gramps’ visions of the future. It was freaky and unnatural, and Jack would rather just deal with what he could see and understand. Now, though, with all that had occurred with Miriam, he simply couldn’t pretend everything was totally normal anymore.
He had to find Miriam and help her, and the only way he’d be able to do that was if he allowed himself to believe in the second sight, and that he had it, and that he could use it.
Jack closed his eyes yet again, and focused on Miriam’s face.
Chapter 16
Miriam
Three days earlier
Miriam woke up slowly. First came the sensation of consciousness, accompanied by a wave of confusion, and then the familiar nausea and pain. Her head was throbbing, and she had no idea where she was. The last thing she remembered was getting in Ben’s car, and then…what? She had a vision of Ben’s hand lashing out, something silver in his hand, then nothing. He’d hit her, apparently, and knocked her unconscious.
Miriam stretched, carefully opening her eyes. She wasn’t at her apartment or his, that much was clear: She was lying on a wide bed, an expensive flat-screen TV hung on the opposite wall, and floor-to-ceiling windows ran the length of the adjacent wall. Thick carpeting, a leather couch and chair in a sitting area near the windows, a fully stocked minibar…she was in a hotel room. Miriam sat up, or tried to; her head swam, and she lay back down. When the dizziness faded, Miriam sat up again, much more gingerly this time.
She stood up just as carefully and realized she wasn’t wearing her own clothes. She had left the house in an old pair of jeans and a hoodie; she was now wearing an expensive silver cocktail dress, scooped low in the front, the hem barely brushing her thighs.
In the forefront of her mind was the question of Ben himself: Where was he? She’d seen the madness return to his eyes just before he knocked her out, a blow worse than anything she’d ever experienced.
He’d appeared to be stone cold sober when he showed up next to her on the side of the road. Seeing her with Jack must have pushed him over the edge. Whatever the case, she knew she had to get awa
y before Ben returned. She was barefoot, and the thought of running away on bare feet again didn’t appeal to her, but it was better than being here when Ben got back. He had something planned, and she had no desire to find out what.
She managed to step away from the bed, but at that moment the door opened and Ben entered, wearing a charcoal three-piece suit with a pale blue tie. Ben was followed by a hotel employee pushing a room service cart. Ben took the cart from him, gave him a folded twenty-dollar bill, and shoved him out the door.
“Miriam, you’re awake!” he said. He sounded cheerful, even excited, as if he hadn’t knocked her out and kidnapped her.
Miriam moved to brush past him, thinking it was worth trying to just walk out, but he grabbed her, pushed her away from the door.
“What do you want, Ben?” she asked.
“What do I want? I want to spend time with you, baby. That’s all.” He pushed the cart over to the sitting area, laid the food out on the table, held a chair out, and gestured to it. There was a bottle of Johnny Walker Black on the cart, opened and already a quarter empty; Ben picked up the bottle and drank directly from it.
“Ben, you knocked me out,” Miriam said. “You kidnapped me. I don’t know what craziness you have planned, but it’s not going to work. We’re done.”
Ben crossed the room in two quick strides, yanked her by the arm, and shoved her down into the chair. “It’s not craziness,” he said. “I just want to talk to you. I’m sorry I hit you. I know I promised I wouldn’t, and I won’t do it anymore. I really have changed, I promise.”
Miriam tried to get up, but he held her down. “Let me go, Ben! I don’t want to talk to you. You haven’t changed! This is kidnapping. Don’t you realize that? I don’t want to be here. I want to go home.”
Ben’s voice hardened, and she caught a glimpse of the rage behind the mask of calm. “You’ll stay here, and you’ll listen to me. We’re going to have a nice dinner together, do you understand?” Ben sat down unsteadily, unbuttoning his suit coat and taking a long swig from the bottle still clutched in his fist. The butt of a handgun peeked above his waistline.
The situation was now suddenly much more precarious.
Ben smirked, realizing she’d seen the gun. “You’ll stay, and we’ll talk,” he repeated. Watching him, Miriam realized he was far beyond being merely drunk; that bottle of Johnny might not have been his first.
“Sure, Ben. That’s fine.” Miriam scooted her chair in, opened the cloth napkin, and spread it on her lap, knowing Ben wanted the ceremony, the process, the trappings of luxury. Ben nodded, approving.
He pulled off the plate warmers with a flourish. “I got you a salad, see? You don’t like steak, so I got you a salad instead.” He said this in a tone that almost begged her to see how much he’d changed, that he was paying attention to her, listening to her.
Miriam nodded, picked at the salad with a trembling fork. “Thank you, Ben. That was very considerate of you.” She was too terrified to be able to eat, but she had to pretend— she had to keep Ben happy until she could escape.
“I’m really sorry I brought you here under these circumstances, Miri,” Ben said between bites. “It wasn’t how I wanted to do this. When that…thing with Rachel happened, and when you had to go to the hospital, it made me realize how special you are. I haven’t been treating you very well. I know I haven’t. I’ve been an asshole, and I’m sorry. You deserve better, and I’ll give you better, I promise. This is a new start.”
“Why are you doing this? This isn’t you, Ben. You don’t need to do this. Just let me go.”
Ben froze, hands in the process of cutting steak. He didn’t look up. Miriam watched his fingers tighten around the steak knife, watched his veins throb as the rage boiled to the surface. “You’re mine! That’s why! Because you can’t just walk away from me like that. You’re mine, Miriam.”
“I’m not an object, Ben. I don’t belong to you,” Miriam heard the words rolling off her lips, but she couldn’t stop them. Reckless honesty was flooding through her. “You can get help, Ben. There are therapists—”
“I don’t need help! I don’t need therapy!” he shouted. But then he subsided, and said more quietly, “I’m not crazy. I don’t need a damned psychiatrist.”
Miriam chose her next words with care, knowing she was treading on dangerous ground. “A therapist is different from a psychiatrist, Ben. A therapist would just talk to you, and listen to you. It’s just a way of learning to deal with what’s inside you, I think. Beth from work, she goes to one, and she was telling me about how much it helped—”
“I’m not going to a therapist, Miriam. I don’t want to, and I don’t need to.” He took a drink from the now nearly empty bottle, slid his chair back, and tossed his napkin on his plate, clearly dismissing the subject. He came around the table and knelt next to Miriam, taking her hands in his. “Listen, I—I’m really, really sorry about the way I’ve acted recently. I really do love you, and only you. You belong to me. We belong together.” He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small black box.
Miriam’s heart seized, realizing what he was about to do. “Ben, no, please don’t—” She could barely choke the words past the coiled, throbbing knot of vomit in her throat.
Ben squeezed her hand with sudden, savage strength, and she went silent as he continued. “Just listen. I love you. I really do. I know I haven’t been the easiest guy to be around, but I’ll change that, I promise. I want to be with you forever.” He opened the box, revealing a diamond ring gleaming against the black velvet. “Miriam, will you marry me?”
He said this with a pistol in his waistband, the butt poking out of his jacket, just inches away from her. Miriam was frozen, her breath coming in panting, ragged gasps of panic. She couldn’t speak, couldn’t even blink her eyelids.
He was completely serious, kneeling in the classic proposal position, waiting for her answer.
The bubble of fear trapping her in place popped, and she rose to her feet, calming her breath and steadying her trembling hands. “Ben….” She met his eyes, let the fires blaze up hot in her belly as she spoke. “No. I won’t. I can’t. I don’t love you, and I don’t think I ever have. I may have wanted to, and tried to, and convinced myself that I did, but…I don’t. I needed you to protect me from Nick, but I never loved you. And you don’t love me. Don’t you see how crazy this is?”
Ben was shaking his head in denial. “What? What are you saying Miriam? I thought….”
Miriam backed away, edging slowly toward the door behind her. “No, Ben, I don’t think you did think. Or you thought wrong. What I’m saying is that I will not marry you, not now, not ever.” A few more feet…just keep him shocked a bit longer…. “I don’t know what had you convinced that this was a good idea, Ben, but it wasn’t. For one thing, you’ve had Rachel on the side for how long? And then you kidnap me…and you propose? Can you see how that might be just a bit…I don’t know…contradictory?”
Ben closed the ring box and slipped it into his jacket. His hand didn’t quite reach for his gun, but almost. “Miriam, I didn’t kidnap you—”
“You knocked me out and brought me here against my will! That’s kidnapping, Ben!” Miriam was breathless with panic, with the baking heat of her anger, with reckless, mad fury. He had a gun and an unhealthy dose of instability, yet Miriam chose this moment to tell him the deepest truths inside her. “I don’t want to ever see you again. We’re done! I broke up with you that day on the road, when I told you I’d kill you if I saw you again. Apparently that didn’t sink in. I can’t stand you, Ben. You’re selfish and abusive and arrogant. You only care about you, and you always have—you just disguised it when we first met. I’m done, Ben. Done.” The door bumped against her back, and she grasped the handle in trembling fingers, turned it, gave Ben one last glance, and ran out. She heard him bellow a curse and fumble with the doorknob, heard the door slam open, and he was behind her, running after her.
Miriam ran, bare feet sl
apping against the carpeted floor. She was running aimlessly, following the endless hallway until she came to a bank of elevators. Ben was close behind, so she threw herself against the crash-bar to the stairs, noting with something like horror that she was on the tenth floor. She’d made her gambit; now she had to play it through. She could have stopped and let her magic burn Ben to a crisp, but the last time she’d let her magic out, she’d nearly destroyed Comerica Park. If she did it here, with the wild riot of emotions running through her, the entire hotel might very well go up in flames. She had no control over it, and there was no way of telling what would happen if she let it out.
No, Miriam decided. She had to deal with Ben without it.
Stairs flew under her feet with reckless speed, bruising her heels and sending lances of pain up her legs and into her back, but every instinct inside her screamed for her to run, run, run. Just before she fled, she’d seen the mask of calm on Ben’s face slip, the façade of sanity crumbling to show the pounding rage and thundering madness that lay beneath. He wouldn’t let her go, not without a fight. And a fight would mean destruction she wasn’t ready to allow.
A stitch in her side stole her breath, slowing her descent. She heard Ben on the stairs above her, growling and cursing. After what seemed like an endless series of stairs, Miriam finally burst out into a lobby hallway filled with people. Most were heading in the same direction, so she darted in among the crowd, hoping to lose Ben in the crush of people. The crowd dispersed around her into the main floor of the casino, and Miriam was inundated with sound, overwhelmed by jangling slot machines and people chattering, card dealers jabbering their patter; she was choked by a thick haze of cigarette smoke, the cloud of nicotine rolling in a visible fog. People were everywhere, milling and chatting and drinking and smoking, playing slot machines and hunched over card tables.
Jack and Djinn Page 15
