Then Ben pressed a palm against her broken ribs, leaning on her as he climaxed, and the agony of his weight ignited her rage, took the fire inside her from cold coals to burning inferno in less than a second. She shoved him away with sudden strength; heat washed through her, a now-familiar feeling. She felt power shuddering in her soul, felt it reach out and snake from her into Ben, latch onto him and vanish. She’d never paid close attention to what happened in that moment before. She’d been confusing the rush of orgasm with the flux of power within her, but now, her body’s desires tamped and cold and unresponsive to Ben’s selfish, animalistic humping, Miriam tried to understand exactly what she was feeling within herself when the power–she forced herself to think the word out loud: magic–when the magic burst out of her soul. She felt it leap from her to Ben, felt it wrap around him. She closed her eyes and delved down, imagined herself as a spirit, incorporeal and ethereal. She followed the magic on its journey, caught a fragmentary glimpse of a roiling ocean of energy inside her, a sea of magic boiling and raging like fire and magma. The glimpse was the briefest of glances, and what she saw took her breath away, or it would have, but she was not Miriam in that moment, she was an invisible, nonphysical observer following the flow of magic, a jetstream of gold and silver sparks and coiling explosions of color spanning the spectrum. The current of magic arced from out of her and into Ben, into his heart, dug into the core of his deepest desires, wrapped around the strongest element it found there within him, took the image it found and wove into it, expanded and turned it physical. There was a flash of light and Miriam was thrown back into herself.
There was a moment of disorientation, when Miriam was still seeing the burst of magic like a shower of sparks from a kicked bonfire, like stars falling in silver lines, like shafts from the sun refracting through a prism into shimmering rainbow light, and then she was herself again, a woman physical and exhausted and hurting. Ben was next to her, complaining, but Miriam ignored him, trying to hold on to the sense of power she’d felt within herself.
“Wh-where am I?” A confused feminine voice spoke from the corner of the bedroom. Miriam started, gasping. She turned to see a woman standing by the door, clad in black lace lingerie, pale breasts spilling out of the bustier, blond hair teased out, full lips caked with bright red lipstick, eyes mascaraed. The woman crossed her arms over her chest, looked to the bed and saw Ben.
“Ben, is that you?” The girl asked. She took hesitant steps toward Ben, peered at him. “It is you. And this is your bedroom. What am I doing here? What time is it? How did I get here?” She scrunched her face up, thinking. The clock on the bedside table said 1:59am. She obviously knew Ben, who was sitting up groggily, looking from Miriam to the other girl.
“Rachel?” Ben mumbled. “What’re you doing here?” He rubbed his eyes, as if to make what he was seeing disappear. Miriam struggled to contain herself. When the magic had latched onto Ben’s deepest desire, the image it had woven itself around had been this girl dressed in this lingerie.
“Who is this, Ben?” Miriam demanded. She heard the anger in her voice, drew confidence from it.
The other girl, whom Ben had named Rachel, echoed Miriam’s words, “Who is this, Ben?”
Ben looked from Miriam, naked and clutching the sheet to her body, to Rachel, standing in front of him in sheer negligee. Ben’s eyes, and his body, revealed his desire for Rachel, despite Miriam next to him. He struggled for words. “I–this, uh…shit. I don’t know. How did you get here, Rach? Miriam, did you do this?”
Miriam got off the bed, pressed herself against the wall with the bedsheet in front of her. “I guess I did, huh?” she said, letting her disgust and anger bleed through. “We both know I did, Ben, so let’s not play games. I’m a freak, I know. Who is this, Ben?” She repeated the question, yelling it this time.
Ben flushed, and she saw him searching for answers. “This is…this is Rachel. Uh, she’s–she’s a friend of mine.”
Rachel planted a hand on a hip, angry. “A friend? I’m a friend now? What the hell, Ben? I’m your girlfriend. What is she doing in our bed?” Rachel’s high-pitched, whining voice grated on Miriam’s nerves, and she felt the anger burning ever hotter, threatening to reignite the magic. Now that she’d felt it, and seen it, Miriam could sense the power within more clearly; she wanted to grasp it, let the anger set fire to her, burst through her and consume this irritating girl and Ben along with her.
“Your girlfriend?” Miriam stalked around the bed and picked up her clothes, put them on. “Your girlfriend, Ben? Then what am I?”
Ben opened his mouth to answer, but Rachel cut him off. “Oh, I know who you are. You’re Miriam, aren’t you?” Rachel smirked, cruelty and amusement glittering in her eyes as she pronounced the next words. “You’re his booty call, isn’t she, Ben? He’s mentioned you before. You’re who he goes to for a little extra somethin’ somethin’, isn’t that right?” Rachel turned away and pulled open the bottom drawer of Ben’s dresser, rummaged around and produced a change of clothes.
She had a drawer? Miriam’s anger went cold for a moment, stung by the apparent truth in Rachel’s words. Ben’s mouth was flapping, for once at loss for words. “I–It’s not quite like that, Rachel…” he said. He wouldn’t look at either girl, but instead edged to the dresser and put on a pair of shorts.
“It’s not, huh?” Rachel stalked up to Ben, poked a finger in his chest. “That’s what you told me. You said Miriam was just a side-fuck. Is it something else, Ben? Something more serious? Should I be worried by her?”
Miriam found something disturbing in the idea Rachel was presenting. Not only did Ben obviously have another girlfriend, but that girl knew about Miriam, and found nothing wrong with the idea of Ben having sex with someone else, as long as it wasn’t serious. Miriam hadn’t known anything about this Rachel.
“So what is it, Ben? Am I just something on the side?” Miriam asked. She was fighting tears, grasping desperately for anger to strengthen herself.
Ben looked from one woman to the other, caught between the two. Miriam watched him struggle for answers. Sure enough, his eyes glazed over and the vein in his forehead started throbbing. He would retreat into anger, now. It was the only way he knew how to deal with situations he couldn’t control.
“Back off, both of you,” he said, voice low and dangerous. “I don’t owe either of you shit. Rachel, I’m taking you home. Come on.”
“Why doesn’t she go home?” Rachel whined. “I’m already here, I might as well stay. She can leave.”
Ben growled and pushed Rachel out the door, snatching up his keys and phone with a string of curses in Arabic, Urdu, and English. “Come on, Rachel. Let’s go. Now.” He turned back to Miriam and started to say something, but changed his mind.
Miriam watched as Ben held the car door open for Rachel, kissing her as he started the car, laughing at something she said. Ben never held the door for her. Never kissed her, or laughed with her. So she was just “something extra on the side?” Miriam felt anger rush back with tidal force. She stuffed her feet into her shoes and stormed out of Ben’s apartment, slamming the door behind her so hard it shook the entryway windows. Thunder rumbled and a flash of lightning lit the night sky; drops of rain pelted Miriam, followed by a torrential downpour that soaked her to the skin in moments.
She barely noticed, lost in thought, consumed by rage. A side-fuck? Everything she put up with, and he was screwing someone else? And she had a drawer in Ben’s apartment? The drawer itself was beside the point. Miriam hadn’t ever wanted a drawer, never even slept in his bed if she could help it, but he’d never offered. What had Miriam’s breath coming in ragged, raging gasps was the fact that Rachel knew about Miriam. Ben had talked about her to Rachel. He’d probably told Rachel all about her, everything Miriam had said in confidence. They probably laughed at Miriam together, in Ben’s bed, making fun of stupid, clueless Miriam.
The anger was hot inside Miriam, a river of fire in place of blood. The magic
was boiling, ready to burst, but Miriam had no thought for anything except Ben, his betrayal of her on top of everything else. Did he hit Rachel, too? Or was that just Miriam? The way he’d held the door for Rachel—even when he’d pushed her out the door he’d done it more gently than he’d ever treated Miriam.
The night was turning bright, despite the rain. There was a blinding light coming from somewhere, but so lost was Miriam in her rage-fueled thoughts that she gave no notice to it. She paid no attention to the fact that she was dry, despite the curtains of windblown rain. She heard cars passing by, honking, but ignored that too. Cars were swerving around her, people yelling. Why were cars driving on the sidewalk? The thought flitted through her briefly, but was burned away almost instantly.
She noticed an odd hissing noise, the sound of water hitting a frying pan, and somehow that pierced through her daze. Miriam stopped, and for the first time realized that the blinding light was her, she was glowing like the sun, lit up from within, and the rain was hitting her superheated skin and evaporating, turned to steam on contact. She was walking down the middle of the street, and here came another car, honking and swerving around her, skidding on the grass and disappearing into the rain-soaked night.
A single headlight poked through the gloom and rain, approaching her like a freight train, but she declined to move. The glow of her skin hadn’t subsided, because her burning rage at Ben was still coursing through her, merely set aside for a moment. The headlight wobbled, turned aside, and then Miriam saw it was a motorcycle, a red Suzuki like Jack’s. The helmeted figure skidding the bike to the side looked like Jack, too. The rider fought for control, but the rear tire bounced and hydroplaned on the wet asphalt and the motorcycle tipped over and slammed into the ground, sliding and tumbling, the rider rolling like a rag doll across the ground, and Miriam knew it was Jack, the crush of horror in her gut told her it was him. She ran to him, knelt beside him where he’d crashed to a stop against the curb, pulled his helmet off, sobbed at the blood spurting from his nose and ears and mouth. He moaned softly, tried to focus on her, but his gaze wavered and he went slack in her arms, heavy and limp.
No. No.
Not again. No. She was suddenly eleven again, holding her daddy’s head in her lap, watching him fight for breath, clutching his chest, gasping, trying to reassure her, plucking at her sleeve with weak fingers. And now, again, a man she loved was gasping for breath, limp in her arms.
No. She refused to let it happen again. Not again. Not Jack, not like this.
“Oh, Jack, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” She was pleading and begging, holding him in her arms, feeling the rage shift to desperation, feeling the magic burst open within her, burgeoning like an explosion in a closed room. The magic was flushing through her, turning the heat to power, tendrils of magic licking at Jack’s broken fingers, at his eyes and bleeding nose, filtering through his ears into his brain, eliciting a moan from him. The flow of blood slowed and his broken arm, the bone showing white through torn leather, healed like an injury in reverse.
Miriam sobbed and dove back into herself, closing her eyes and feeling the magic swirl around her, curling about her essence like a cat brushing against her legs, and she sent it back out, back through Jack, sought out with her essence-sight any cut, any scrape, any hurt on him and commanded the magic to heal it. She felt the magic obey her, and Miriam felt laughter bubbling up in her, a kind of wild joy at the power blazing in her.
Tires squealed and footsteps pounded the pavement, and Ben’s voice boomed out, “What the hell are you doing, Miriam?” and she felt his hands grasp her shoulder and yank her, toppling Jack to the ground, cracking his head against the pavement. That sent Miriam over the edge. She jerked away, put Jack’s coat under his head, kissed his lips, stood up and turned to face Ben. She saw the anger in his eyes, the possessive jealousy at the sight of her with another man. She saw his fists clenched, and she didn’t care.
“Who is that, Miriam? Is that who you’ve been with, behind my back?” Ben had the gall to act outraged.
“Yes, Ben, it is. Do you remember when you were drunk and beating on me in your parking lot? Jack’s the one who rescued me. He rescued me, from you.” She was full of magic and rage and bravado, and she didn’t care what happened anymore. “He kissed me that night. Kissed me better than you ever have. One kiss from him is better than a thousand from you. He turns me on, makes me hot like you never could in your wildest dreams. You’re pathetic, compared to him.”
That got Ben’s attention. He stepped toward her, like a bull ready to charge. His eyes were full of the madness again, the crazed blindness that had almost killed her just the other day. Only this time, she was ready. She had the magic within her grasp, she had the rage in her grip, she squeezed it, felt the heat subsume her and turn white-hot. Jack was at her feet, moaning and coming to consciousness, and she wanted him to see her like this, to know who–what–he thought he loved. She wanted no secrets. There was a whoompf, like a backdraft, like gas-soaked wood catching fire, and she was lit up from within, burning with sunfire; no, that wasn’t right: she looked down and knew that she was fire, her body was a woman’s body carved from living flame. She saw her curves, as clearly defined as if she were naked, her female form writ in tongues of fire hotter than the sun itself. She smiled, and she laughed, and the sound of her voice was the tolling of a thousand bells. Ben was transfixed, mouth agape, fear for once etched in his eyes. Jack was shielding his face with an arm, but not moving away, unburned somehow despite being mere inches from the inferno of her body.
Miriam took a step forward, and her foot shook the earth as if she were a giant looming a hundred feet high. She opened her mouth to speak, to tell Ben to leave, but a gout of flame burst from her like dragon breath, forcing Ben to throw himself backward to the ground and scramble away.
“What the fuck are you?” She heard him say.
“I’m over you, Ben, that’s what I am,” she answered, stepping toward him. “If I see you again, I’ll kill you. I’ll burn you to a crisp.”
He fled, climbed into his car and drove away, and she saw the terror still stark in his eyes as he looked in the rearview mirror.
Miriam turned to face Jack, who was standing now.
“Are you afraid, Jack?” She was prepared for him to run as well, but what she saw in his eyes nearly extinguished her.
“No,” came his answer, whispered. He lifted a hand, hesitant, as if testing the heat. A step forward, then, and he was close enough that he should have been consumed, but he wasn’t. The flames were licking at him, but he remained unburned. She felt her magic arcing between them, saw it flowing around him, protecting him. He stepped closer to her, eyes shining with wonder. His hands rested on her waist, where he always put his hands, where they fit so perfectly; she felt his touch as soft and familiar and desire-inflaming as ever; she was kissing him, feeling the fire that was her essence washing through him, and he was gasping for breath, looking into her soul. She saw her own eyes reflected in his, glowing and flickering. His palms explored her body, pushing her even hotter, if that was possible.
“You’re you,” Jack said. It was cryptic, but she heard the meaning beneath the words.
“I don’t know what I am, though,” she whispered. It was true.
“Me neither,” Jack said, and his eyes showed curiosity, and a little fear, but even more love. Love, that didn’t scare her quite as much. “But I know who you are. You’re Miriam. And you belong to me.”
She wrapped her arms around him, reveling in the joy of belonging.
* * *
Somehow they were at her apartment. She didn’t know how, had no memory of walking or riding or driving there, but they were there, and she was back to flesh now, the fires no longer burning, but not quite banked either, just flickering low and dull, ready to burst alight once more.
Jack was standing in front of her, leather jacket tossed over a shoulder, thumb in a jeans pocket, staring at her with a smile. He was waiting.
She knew what he was waiting for: permission. Miriam breathed deep, closed her eyes and searched her heart for reservations, for fear, for hesitation; she found none, only desire.
Jack kissed her neck, slipped his hands under the bottom hem of her shirt again, a habit of his she was growing to anticipate every time he put his hands on her waist.
Miriam didn’t answer, at least not in words. She pulled away from him, led him by the hand to her bedroom, closed the door. Her heart was pounding against her ribs: she had never, ever let anyone into her bedroom. Not Nick, or Ben, or anyone. Her bedroom was a sanctum, where she could let down her walls and just be herself. Now here was Jack, in her bedroom. He had gotten inside her walls, both physical and metaphorical, and she wasn’t sure how. Maybe she was still afraid.
“You’re trembling. What’s wrong?” Jack seemed to be attuned to every least detail, every change in her mood.
Miriam wasn’t sure how to answer. “I–oh it’s nothing.”
“No, it’s not. Are you nervous? We don’t have to do this, you know. I thought you wanted to, but if you don’t–”
“No! It’s not that. I do. God, I do. It’s just that–” she cut herself off, laughing in embarrassment. “It’s stupid. I’ve never let anyone in my room before. I mean, like no one. Ever.”
“Not even your parents?” It seemed like an innocent question, but it reminded Miriam that Jack knew nothing about her. The one thing about Ben was that he knew it all. She didn’t have to explain her past to him. He knew all about her parents. That may have been part of why Miriam was so hesitant to start anything with Jack: she didn’t want to have to explain her life story.
“My parents are both gone, Jack. It’s a long story.” Miriam hated how much of a non-answer that was.
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