Make Me Burn: Fireborne, Book 2

by R. G. Alexander

  She nodded, closing her eyes and focusing on time starting up again. She kept them closed even when Greg reached her side, not opening them again until the roar of Brandon’s motorcycle faded into the night.

  Greg put his arm around her. “You okay, Aziza Jane?”

  “No.” No, she really wasn’t.

  “Where did Brandon go?”

  She didn’t answer him, tilting her head back and looking up into the sky instead. “Te? Shev? If you can hear me… You suck. I don’t want to see either of you right now or I can’t be held responsible for my actions. Consider that a warning. And P-fucking-S. Don’t show up ever again unless you have something to contribute. Help me. Help me stop the Jiniyr, get me some useful information, protect Ram and the rest of the people I love…or fuck off.”

  She buried her face in Greg’s chest and he held her tighter. “Oh boy, okay, I can see I’ve missed a lot. You used Mayet’s Witness again, didn’t you? Let’s get you back to Penn’s. We can talk about it there. We’ll figure out what to do together.”

  But they wouldn’t. Penn, Greg…no one knew how to fix this any more than Aziza did.

  The Jiniyr were back.

  People were dying and Aziza felt like she was falling and couldn’t stop. That when she finally hit the ground, something impossible to replace might shatter.

  Brandon was gone.

  Chapter Three

  It’s almost time. All you have to do is let go.

  No. If she let go she would fall.

  Adrenaline made every muscle in Aziza’s taut, outstretched body tremble and her grip tighten instinctively on the silk fabric, the only thing keeping her from crashing to the floor far below.

  Her mind was flooded by the memory of falling backward carelessly and plummeting from Penn’s roof with her arms wide. Though the world had gone black, before she realized it, Ram had saved her from crashing into the unforgiving ground.

  He wouldn’t save her this time. He wouldn’t need to. Things were different now. She was different.

  A small handful of people standing beneath her craned their necks, waiting in absolute silence to see what would happen next. They wouldn’t save her either, but she had their undivided attention.

  Show them how to live. Let go…or I will.

  Pushing away that disturbing thought, Aziza listened for the cue of the music through the pounding of blood in her ears. When she heard it, she relaxed her pose and let go of the silk. Her body dropped, twirling down, the floor rising up to meet her so swiftly that to the untrained eye it may have seemed accidental. But she was in complete control. That was the point. She wasn’t falling. She was in control.

  Of this, if not her love life. If not of the Jinn or the Niyr or her emotions. Of this, if nothing else.

  The silk that had been coiled purposefully around her waist was now held in both her hands as she swung her legs upward and wrapped the fabric around her ankles. The swaying rigging helped as she used her body’s weight and momentum to spin in a dizzying circle through the air.

  Flying.

  The music she’d brought to practice on the aerial silks—a club-style remix of “Come Josephine in My Flying Machine”—reminded her with every precise movement who she was. The vocals were haunting, the beat hard and invigorating.

  Discordant.

  It was how she felt. Just a little…off. Not completely herself. She was missing something.

  Brandon. She wavered on the silks before pushing him out of her mind. The song. Focus on the song.

  The tune from her nightmarish dreams had now become a sort of anthem, a melody meant to keep her mindful of what she’d done…what she’d been told she still needed to do. The more she listened to it, the more familiar it became. Not only from the dream, but from a childhood memory that remained frustratingly out of reach. Sometimes she saw flashes of laughter and her father’s smiling, bearded face, but nothing else.

  She never forgot anything. Every word she’d heard spoken and every moment in her life was filed away and easily accessible in her mind. Even the memories she’d rather not keep—like the lifeless eyes of last night’s victim—would always be with her. So why was this apparently happy memory eluding her?

  Her arms and legs straightened as they’d been trained to do, slowing her spin and pulling her body up with a strength she’d never had before, a strength that had only grown in the last few weeks, giving her this newfound agility.

  Aziza pushed her legs back against the silks, her body curved and breasts jutting out like the busty carving on the prow of an ancient ship, her skin warm, more from excitement than exertion. Forgetting her pain and fear, she let herself fall forward once more, loving the momentary sensation of weightlessness as she did flip after perfectly controlled flip until she landed on the padded mat and the music came to an end.

  Back on solid ground again, she sighed in disappointment.

  The smattering of applause made her grin in spite of her dark mood, as her instructor, Anthony, left the others who’d been watching her and came to her side.

  “Either I’m a miracle worker, which you are perfectly free to profess to anyone within hearing distance,” he said with the self-effacing British charm that was so much a part of his personality, “or you, Aziza Jane Stewart, are a prodigy. One week at your American school and not much more time here, and already you’ve given our seasoned performers some true competition. That was inspired. Are you quite sure you won’t join in this season’s student performance?”

  Aziza laughed, placing her hand on his arm as she bent down to grab her towel and water bottle. “Thanks, Anthony, but I’d rather be in the audience than in the spotlight. It’s the best place to watch your show.”

  Enough people, if she could even call them that, had her in their spotlight as it was. It made her twitch to think about how they’d all watched and known the truth—about Brandon, the murders and who knew what else—long before she did.

  She shook her head and held on to her smile. “I’m grateful you were available for private lessons, with everything that’s on your plate. This is exactly what I’ve been needing. Especially today.”

  She’d needed a distraction so she could stop climbing the walls at Penn’s and thinking about the dead girl’s eyes and Brandon’s betrayal. So she could stop remembering his heartbreaking expression and his lips on her skin. Greg and Penn had both encouraged her to come today, knowing she needed to work out some of her frustration before she lost what was left of her mind.

  Unfortunately, even this wasn’t enough.

  “I am glad of that.” Anthony cupped her shoulder in a friendly gesture before dropping his hand awkwardly. “Though my joy is tempered with the knowledge that my charm is not what it once was. Both you and your handsome friend have turned me down again.”

  Handsome friend. Her instructor was no more immune to Ram’s charms than anyone else in this city. He drew people to him like moths to a dangerous flame. From what little she’d seen, the Jinn had the market cornered in the sultry and breathtakingly beautiful department. And Ram was a prime example of his species, even without his powers.

  “Ram was here today?” She looked around, attempting a casual air, as if she weren’t dying to see him. To warn him about the murders. To be near him. Usually she passed him on her way in or saw him watching her practice, but she hadn’t caught a glimpse of him yet this morning.

  She’d talked him into coming with her a couple of weeks ago when she saw him at Underbridge. Dared him, really, since “talking” implied a conversation between two people and Ram tried to avoid those whenever possible. She’d had to do something. His body had healed but the rest of him was taking longer. Whether he admitted it or not, he was hurting and she owed him.

  Luckily, the dare had paid off. He still wasn’t back to his old self—with her, at least—but as soon as he arrived here, so many people had fallen all over themselves to be near him, she wasn’t surprised when he came with her the next time. And the next. Ram
had trained as a warrior most of his life, and he had enviable skill and control over his body—and enough arrogance and ego to appreciate the way everyone here admired it. Admired him.

  “He’s still here.” Anthony tilted his head, his smile broadening. “I understand he and another man are having an impromptu sparring session in one of the training rooms. I believe that’s why it’s so empty in here. Shall we go take a look?”

  Smiling back, she nodded and followed him through the grand room crisscrossed with ropes and wires, carefully staying out of the way of a young man in a harness who was running along the wall.

  The Hangar was a large industrial building in Greenwich, a little bit hard to get to but more than worth it for Aziza. The Aircraft Circus held performances throughout London, and The Hangar was where they all worked and trained in aerial silks and trapeze, among other things. With four studios, acrobatics, yoga and flexibility classes, along with these one-on-one sessions, this was the best place to get the kind of workout she needed. One where she was her only competition, and all her battles were internal. It was her meditation, her workout. And it was by far the preferable option to werewolf boot camp.

  Thank God she’d discovered this place—this very human, no-magic-needed-for-feats-of-daring place. When she’d marked “running away to join the circus” off her bucket list back in Texas so long ago, she’d been sad to leave the small class behind. Because of her memory—the woman performing on an aerial hoop beneath a hot air balloon—but also because of the atmosphere. The acceptance…the feeling of joy and family. The trust.

  When they arrived in a crowded hallway, Anthony steered her through the huddled group so she could look inside.

  “Speaking of perfection,” a woman behind her muttered. “You ever seen anything tastier than those two fit devils grappling shirtless?”

  Aziza was too busy catching her breath to answer.

  Ram and a man she didn’t recognize moved together in a dance-like circle on the exercise mat, close enough to either kiss or beat each other bloody as they ducked kicks, dodged punches and held each other’s arms down. The spectacle was breathtakingly erotic.

  Her Jinn was still godlike and beautiful, but the word “pretty” was no longer entirely accurate. His time in exile had hardened him, made him look more like the warrior he was than the mischievous, deviant devil she’d first met. He’d cut his hair close to his head in a militant look and his side still carried the slashing scar from the wound he’d suffered that fateful night. The solid cuff on his wrist that she knew couldn’t be removed glinted as he threw a punch, reminding her that his actions had left more than physical scars behind.

  He was stronger, his lean muscles more defined than they had been a few weeks ago. When she first met him she’d thought, despite his behavior, he looked like an angel. Now, he was all man.

  Ram bent his knees and rolled, a move that should have knocked his opponent on his ass, but instead the man jumped with a laugh and winked at the audience. “Fool me once…”

  A collective sigh echoed through the crowd, and Aziza wasn’t any more immune than they were to the smiling stranger. She’d been surrounded by hot men for months, and yet this man still managed to startle her with his attractiveness. It was as if someone had taken all the best qualities of her hunky entourage and poured them into one cool, lean package that reminded her a little bit of a young, short-haired Lenny Kravitz.

  And she’d had an all-out, posters-in-her-high-school-locker crush on Lenny.

  The man had obviously been getting a workout because his light-brown skin was gleaming. He wore low-riding black sweatpants and nothing else, and what she’d at first assumed were tattoos, on closer inspection merged into a series of scars across his chest, raised marks that had form and had obviously been put there on purpose. Designed. Scarification? He had small-gauge piercings in his ears as well. They only made him look more masculine and dangerous. So did his eight-pack abs.

  He’s different.

  Something drew her in, but Aziza honestly wasn’t sure if that was instinct or hormones talking. As if her hormones hadn’t been getting enough of a workout already. Would they never be satisfied?

  At that moment, Ram took advantage of the man’s posturing to flip him into the air and onto his back, then covered him with his torso to hold him down.

  Aziza squirmed. Speaking of erotic… The only way the scene could have been hotter was if she were naked between them. Or if Ram claimed the sexy spoils of his victory as she watched.

  Oh yeah. She was shameless, and getting worse all the time. It must be the Jinn in her.

  Ram grinned down at his vanquished opponent. “…shame on you. Isn’t that how your sentence ends?”

  The people around her clapped, and when Ram raised his emerald eyes to accept the accolades, his gaze crashed into hers with a force that made her knees weak. He frowned abruptly. “Show’s over.”

  The crowd groaned their disappointment as Ram got to his feet and held out a hand to the stranger. “Good match, West,” he offered in a low voice.

  The man rose to his feet and patted Ram on the shoulder in a warm, familiar gesture that told her they knew each other outside of The Hangar. “Anytime, my friend. And I mean that sincerely. This is better than the yoga class Chiye talked me into. Men were never meant to bend that way.”

  By the subtle southern twang and whiskey warmth of his voice, she could tell West was an American. What was he doing here?

  “Men were not, but it is lucky for us that women are.” Ram lifted his eyebrows. “The view alone is worth the attempt. But their flexibility? That is our true reward.”

  Her lips quirked. There was the Ram she knew. At least he was able to let down his guard with someone, which had to be a good thing. Even if that someone wasn’t her yet.

  Ram glanced at her again and held out his hand. “Aziza, wipe the drool off your chin, if you would, and allow me to introduce you to my friend.”

  Resisting the urge to wipe her mouth—in case he wasn’t being sarcastic—she frowned at him and stepped inside the room. “Good morning to you too.”

  “Aziza? Aziza Jane Stewart?” West bent down to scoop up a white towel, tossing it over his shoulder before moving closer and holding out his hand in greeting. “As I live and breathe. Do you know I accused him of making you up? Apparently the Fates have been against us from the start, since I’ve just missed seeing you every time we’ve come here and the few times you visited Underbridge.”

  When she took his hand, a momentary shock like static arced between them and it took a second for his words to register. He knew about the club as well? The invite-only fetish club that was now the one common thread in all the murders the Enforcers were investigating? Every conversation seemed to come back to that place.

  She gave Ram a questioning look. “Underbridge?”

  West’s hand was still warm in hers, and her palm tingled when he smiled. “That’s where we met him. And now I owe him my life because my roommate is in love with The Hangar. Unbeknownst to me, Chiye’s always wanted to run away and join the circus. The classes have distracted her from driving me crazy with the need to sightsee.”

  Aziza laughed. “Your roommate and I have something in common then. I’m sorry we keep missing each other.”

  West let her hand go with seeming reluctance. “I’m sorrier now that I know Ram’s beautiful, big-eyed badass is real. But now that we’ve met, we can make up for what we’ve missed.”

  Beautiful badass? Aziza bit her lip. West was charming, but what had Ram been telling him? “So, Ram talks about me?”

  Ram smacked his towel against his leg. “West, if you’re done silver-tonguing Aziza, would you give us the room for a minute?”

  Tonguing. Aziza shivered subtly.

  The Lenny Kravitz look-alike shook his head and sighed. “Still mean as an alley cat this morning,” he murmured. “Handle with care, Aziza Jane.”

  West closed the door behind him and they were alone. The c
rowd had moved on and there was silence in the hallway beyond. Ram was studying her small shorts and revealing leotard as if he hadn’t seen them before. As if he hadn’t seen her before.

  He moved past her to lock the door and Aziza took a shaky breath. “What?”

  “That should be my question, since you’re the one who sought me out. You haven’t done that in a few weeks.”

  She tried to laugh. “I seek you out all the time—usually you just ignore me.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  God, how did he know? There was too much. But he was talking to her and she wasn’t ready for that to stop. Wasn’t ready to tell him what he needed to know and then watch him walk away again. “You’ve made friends, I see. Are they who you’ve been staying with?”

  “When I’m not with a woman or in my hideaway at the club, yes. I’m not exactly welcome anywhere else.”

  Aziza swallowed. She wanted to say he was, but too many others didn’t feel the way she did. Nobody else felt the way she did. In spite of all he’d done, they didn’t trust him—not even Greg—not completely. “I’m sorry.”

  He was standing closer now. “You look like hell. Spent the night on your knees with your cur again?”

  She bit the inside of her cheek. Hard. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of denying it. “On my back, on my knees, against the wall… I don’t have to tell you that Fireborne is the word for tramp to my people.”

  Recognizing the barb—he’d once told her Fireborne was the word for justice to the Jinn—Ram huffed out a surprised laugh at her quick response, looking at her sideways. “Feisty this morning.” He narrowed his brilliant-green gaze. “You’re also lying. You spent the night crying, not fucking. Did you and the Enforcer have a fight again? Make my day and tell me it was all about me.”

  “Enough, damn it.” For weeks he’d been an ass—ignored her or judged her—and she’d taken it out of guilt. But after last night, after having to defend him yet again, she was through. He’d called her out on her shit before, and it was about time he got a taste of that hard-to-swallow medicine.