“He taught you? This is getting more and more interesting.” The woman was pacing again, something metal clinking as she walked. “Why did he teach you? You should have learned at home or at school.”
“This might sound a little weird. But, well, I’m not Croyant. I didn’t learn to travel through matter before because Moyenne are raised with cars and airplanes. You know, the normal ways to move around.”
“Moyenne can’t travel through matter, not ever.” The woman came closer, closer, and Miranda smelled her dark, rich scent, jasmine and musk. “You’re lying.”
“No, I swear. Look, don’t you have a light in here? I’d really like to explain, and maybe you can help me get out of here.”
There was a moment of silence followed by a slight crack, and the room filled with sallow yellow light. For a second, Miranda closed her eyes against the sudden change, and then opened them slowly, bringing her gaze to the woman before her. She was—even in the horrid, almost dressing room light— beautiful. As Miranda had noted even in the darkness, the woman’s hair hung down her back, but now she could see its amazing thickness and its rich, dark brindle sheen. The woman’s eyes were brown but filled with a glow that seemed to come from within her, reflecting embers from a fire deep inside. Without meaning to, Miranda felt herself move closer, staring at the woman’s flawless skin, her small, tight, rounded body, her full breasts.
“You like what you see,” the woman said slowly, smiling. “Alas, I’m a little too busy for that.”
Miranda jerked back. “I’m not—that’s not what I want. I just think you’re—”
The woman held up a hand. “Don’t bother. I’m quite used to it. But now you need to tell me why you’ve come searching for Sariel. Sit.”
Miranda pulled her eyes from the woman and looked around the room, which was large and, she realized, cold. Hugging herself, she breathed in the stale, musty air. The walls and the floor were stone, unpainted, and the room was mostly filled with old leather-bound books. In one corner were two chairs and a round table. The woman walked over to it and motioned for Miranda to follow.
The table was covered with books and scrolls; a pot of ink and an old-style ink pen lay next to a pad of paper. Miranda sat down and then looked at the pad in front of her and tried—out of old, nosy habit—to read it. The writing was fluid and large, but then the woman seemed to read her thoughts and in a flash, the pad of paper sailed off the table and landed neatly on a bookcase. Her lips in a condescending, tight smile, the woman shook her head at Miranda and sat down in the other chair, smoothing her flowing robe.
“So, about Sariel. Tell me your sad story about him. Or, I can go in and find it myself?”
Miranda frowned and crossed her arms, wanting to laugh or cry or both. How had this happened, again? Why was it that every time she got mixed up with Croyant, she was trapped in some room, desperate to escape? At least this time she didn’t have a broken ankle.
“Look, he’s—he’s a friend. The last time I saw him, well, it was interrupted, and I wanted to find him. It’s not like he has a cell phone or anything. Anyway, who are you? What’s your name?”
“You are Moyenne.”
“I told you I was.”
“It’s hard to believe. It rarely happens that Moyenne manage to become penseurs de mouvement. It’s more likely they can start fires accidentally or levitate during nightmares or bend spoons. Circus acts. Carnival shows. Freak occurrences. But this?”
“Surprises the hell out of me,” Miranda said, keeping the conversation going as she tried to remember what she’d brought with her. Lipstick, Tic Tacs, Swiss Army knife. That’s right, she thought, I’ll smear her with lipstick, choke her with mints, and cut her up with my nail file.
The woman bit her lip, nodding. “So on a whim, you thought you could just conjure up matter and go find him.”
Miranda shrugged. “Yeah, stupid, huh? Ridiculous notion. So here’s the thing. Maybe you could let me leave your little subterranean nest here, and I can take a train or plane or whatever home. Where am I?”
Not saying anything, the woman stared at her, and Miranda felt something light and prying dip into her mind. She breathed in deeply and tried to look at the woman, but everything seemed fuzzy, darker, the woman’s features distorted. Sariel never taught her how to block a thought, and she tried to think about one thing, something innocuous like an object in her purse.
Miranda clung to her old leather wallet in her thoughts for about half a second, and then without her wanting it, she saw the layers of memory from the past few days flick before her like a newsreel. There she was running down the street. Next, she saw Sariel’s hands on her ankle. Then he was in front of her, kissing her, his hands on the sides of her face, his breath warm and orangey. Hawaii. The hospital and his abrupt departure. The poetry conference. Sariel on the bed, taking in the message. Sariel with his hands on her forehead, trying to take away his very existence. And as the woman strolled around Miranda’s mind, it seemed she was reaching into Sariel from Miranda’s memory because Miranda was flooded with ideas and thoughts that weren’t hers: First the first and now the second plaque. You’re needed here at once. Quain. Kallisto. Rabley Heath. Adalbert. I have to leave Miranda. Now. Take away the evidence. No choice.
The woman left Sariel and then turned over some memories that Miranda tried to yank away, but the woman was too strong. Almost in slow motion, the woman took them both to Miranda’s bed and stood them by the foot, holding out an arm and laughing at the vision in front of them: Miranda on top of Sariel, his hands on her breasts as she moved slowly, slowly. Sariel’s face as he came. Miranda’s sounds as she followed him. The woman replayed it, found another, watched Sariel between Miranda’s legs, focusing closer, closer.
The woman’s laugh echoed in the room, and Miranda felt her face flush and then grow pale with anger.
Stop it! Get out of my bead, Miranda thought. These are mine.
They were mine first, the woman thought back.
A few other scenes flittered past, and then Miranda felt the woman leave her mind, the memories falling back together like playing cards. After a moment, Miranda blinked into the light of the room, which was clear again. Breathing out, she looked up at the woman, knowing, now, who must be in front of her. Sariel’s former girlfriend.
The woman was nodding, her chin in her hand, her eyes on the table. Miranda could see the rise and fall of her breath under her robes. Miranda stared hard at the woman, and then one of her thoughts came to her, as if Miranda had ordered it, willed it. It wasn’t sent. Miranda caught it out of the air like an annoying fly.
I’m going to kill her.
Miranda felt breath rip up her windpipe, her heart lurching. She froze, hoping the woman wasn’t paying attention to what Miranda was thinking.
What else was the woman thinking? Keeping her mind as opaque as possible, Miranda extended herself, reaching out with a tentative tendril of thought, and doing so, she found a dark hard core of vicious ideas swirling just away from her reach. The woman’s eyes were slits, unfocused, angry. Stilling and barely daring to breathe, Miranda was able to catch threads of thought that spun from the woman’s mind like thin wisps breaking off from a cloud bank: Go to Quain. Back to l’enclos. Find this worthless group. And once you have Sariel, finish it forever.
For a second, Miranda saw a medieval fortress, a castle really, solid and completely enclosed. It was built high with thick white stone, with arched windows, turrets, and even a moat. Then she wafted inside with the woman’s thoughts to a room inside the castle. A slim, wiry man sat at a table and looked up at the woman with dark soot eyes. His hair was thin, slicked to his head, and even from here, Miranda swore he radiated hate. People in robes stood in front of him, listening carefully as he spoke. But so much of what they said was in French, words Miranda didn’t recognize except for a few she knew meant spell or charm. But the man behind the table spoke of colors: Gold. Red. Purple. Red again. His hands moved, his eyes lit up; he w
as enraptured, he was ecstatic. He was, Miranda could see, nuts.
The woman seemed to sense Miranda, and her thoughts pulled back to the dark center except for one. I’m going to kill her. And enjoy it.
Gasping, Miranda yanked herself back into her own thoughts and brought forth her wallet one more time. Brown, old. Viv gave it to her for what? Her twenty-third birthday. The pictures of the kids. She would need one of the new baby. Colin. Colin, Hazel, Jordie, and Summer. Her nieces and nephews. Would she ever see them again? She shouldn’t have gotten so angry. Viv meant well, even though she was hysterical. Hormonal. Maybe it wasn’t true anyway.
“You think too much,” the woman said. She was looking up, her face set.
“Kind of an occupational hazard of being human. Maybe you’ve forgotten that. Look, I guess at some point you were Sariel’s girlfriend—”
“Girlfriend!” the woman exclaimed. “What an insipid word. In any case, he’s not worth a word at all. Look how he treated you, my dear. He didn’t even want to leave a trace of himself in your mind. He tried to take everything you had of him.”
“Well, whatever.” Miranda pushed out a forced, light tone, even though her insides felt saggy with sobs. “Listen, I made a mistake. I ended up here. Let me go, and I’ll find my way home. You don’t have to enact some kind of vengeance. I just met Sariel. We aren’t a couple or anything. He obviously doesn’t have trouble leaving me, so I bet you could get him back.”
“That’s what you think I want? To have him back? Let me show you something about your precious friend.“
Miranda was pushed back into her chair, her eyes forced closed, and she realized she was getting a message, the same thing that must have happened to Sariel at the hospital and that last night in her bed. In front of her a scene was coming into view. There was a room—Sariel’s living room. But it didn’t feel warm and comforting as it had the night he’d healed Miranda’s ankle. The air felt tight, taut, clenched, full of hate, the lights and the heat off. The woman was facing the window that looked out onto darkness, and, in the middle of the room, levitating off the floor, was Sariel. He was unconscious, pale, his face weary even in unconsciousness. Red welts ribboned his chest and back, and his hair was unloosed, hanging lankly. Miranda could hear her own thoughts beating into the scene, and it seemed the woman in the memory heard her, too, for she turned and looked around about the room for a moment.
“Who’s there?” the woman hissed. “What do you want?”
The woman scanned the room, her hands on her hips. After a moment, she shook her head and walked over to Sariel’s limp body.
“You are so weak,” she said to him. “So driven by your cock. You don’t deserve to come with me. But you know too much.”
Sariel was roused for a moment, murmuring, “Kallisto. Don’t go. Don’t leave me. I love you.”
The woman, Kallisto, laughed, looked at him, spinning him slowly in the air. “See what I mean? You want me still, even after this.”
“Yes,” he said so softly, Miranda had to strain to hear. “Please.”
Kallisto flicked her hand, and another welt bloomed on his chest. She moved her hand again, and Sariel spun, his face toward the floor. Kallisto flicked both hands and welts appeared from his hips to his thighs.
“You still want me? More pain? I bet you never want it to stop.”
“I want you,” he mumbled.
Kallisto laughed, spun him around, flicked her hands some more.
Stop! Miranda thought. That’s enough!
That’s what he should have said back then, but he was so weak. Watch. There’s even more. Kallisto thought back, pressing Miranda closer and closer to the scene.
Sariel cried out, but never changed what he was saying. Miranda listened to him beg for Kallisto to take him with her even as welts flared on his body.
After some time, Kallisto looked toward the window again, her eyes full of disgust. As Miranda watched her in the scene, she saw that Kallisto, despite her lovely skin, her long, beautiful hair, her amazing eyes, was horrid to look at. Ugly. Bad meat, Miranda thought. Just like Brennus said.
The memory faded, and Miranda opened her eyes, shaken by what she’d just seen. Sariel seemed so lost, so desperate, bewitched. In such intense pain. And yet, strangely, in love.
Kallisto smiled down at her, nodding. “So you still think I want him back? Such a weak man? Such a pathetic creature? Why would I want a man who couldn’t even manage to take your memories as he was supposed to? And if I wanted him, I could have him now, this instant, at my feet.”
“Actually,” Miranda said, trying to keep her lips from trembling, “I haven’t a clue of what you want. Why you would keep me here and riffle through my sex memories is beyond me. But, hey, if you want them, have them. And why you would want to show me your bondage experiences with Sariel is just too much for me to contemplate. But I watched, I saw. I just want to go home now.”
Kallisto pushed back from the table, staring down at Miranda, that smug smile on her face again. “Because of his sloppy, inept job, you’ve been very helpful. Gave me so much useful information. Sariel is on his way or is here already. I think I might need you eventually. Sort of, as you Moyenne say, my ace in the hole. I can always kill you later.”
“Kind of a backup plan. A handy plan B?” Miranda felt frozen, her mouth moving anyway. All she’d wanted was to see Sariel once more, and this? This was way beyond a jealous girlfriend. This was… this was?
“This is about the world being made right. Balanced,” Kallisto said. “This is about Moyenne being put in their place, once and for all. After all their years of suppressing us, ordering us around, their time has come. Too bad you showed up here, or your Croyant abilities might have guaranteed your survival.”
“Our world?” Miranda asked. “What do you mean?”
“I mean the world as it will be when we make it true. I mean the world as it will be with Quain as king.”
“Quain!” Miranda said, remembering how Brennus looked as he spoke that name, the fear in his face even as he tried to scare Miranda. And she thought of how Sariel couldn’t even say the man’s name. Was that the man at the table? “Who is he? What is he going to do?”
“Yes, our new world king.” Kallisto pushed her hair away from her face and stared hard at Miranda with her intense black eyes. “Maybe before you die, you can meet him.”
And then, without warning, Kallisto was gone.
Exhaling, Miranda sank back against her chair, her body soaked with exhaustion. Thank God Kallisto had left the light on, but just as the thought left her mind, the yellow light flickered and went out.
“Shit,” Miranda said, pressing her hands against her thighs, as if making sure she was still there. But she could barely move her hands. She tried to move her feet, but they were stuck together. In fact, she could hardly turn her neck. Miranda pulled and yanked her arms and then tried to kick herself free with her legs, but she was bound tight to the chair. She could almost feel the rough circles of clenched rope on her body.
Miranda breathed in, glad that at least Kallisto had left her lungs and other organs alone. Maybe her heart beat a bit too quickly and she could feel her stomach twinge from anxiety, but she was still alive. However, Miranda could tell that if she were left alone in this musty dark basement for a while, she would wish she weren’t.
Closing her eyes because there was no point keeping them open, Miranda thought of Sariel floating in the middle of his living room. But had it really been Sariel? The limp, pleading man wasn’t anything like the man she’d first seen in the corner of the bar, his gold eyes glinting at her. As she’d stood in Kallisto’s memory, Miranda had felt his longing and his need, his willingness to do anything, everything, for Kallisto.
He hadn’t wanted to do anything for her, Miranda thought, biting the inside of her mouth. All he’d done was show her a wonderful, amazing time, and then chickened out, trying to take her memories and disappearing, which was the exact same thing any M
oyenne man would do if he could. And had. Like Jack. So she’d built Sariel up into something great, but why? Because he could take her to Hawaii by thinking? Because he could heal her ankle by his warm, magic touch? Because he showed up in the middle of the night and held her body like no one had done before?
Miranda tried to shake her head, but then was stopped by the invisible bonds. She had to get out of here. Moyenne. Moyenne. Maybe she wasn’t ordinary after all. She’d gotten herself to this room by imagining it—so maybe she’d screwed up, but she knew she should be able to think her way out.
Trying to get comfortable, she started to invoke the image of matter, the roiling gray coming toward her. At first, Miranda thought she saw it, but it was only the difference in darkness between open and then closed eyes. Concentrating, she tried again, willing the matter to appear as it had before. But after a couple of minutes, she knew it wasn’t going to work. It was as if there were a wall in front of her mind, a barrier keeping her—keeping her here. Clearly, Kallisto had imprisoned her in the basement in more ways than one.
“Damn it, Sariel,” she shouted, her words bouncing off the stone walls and then evaporating. “Why did you leave me?” The sound echoed in the cold box of the room until it died and fell flat on the cold floor. “Why didn’t you want me to remember?”
Without meaning to, she started to cry, wanting to go home, wanting to go back to Viv’s, even if Viv would go on and on about the adoption story. Listening to another one of June’s lectures would be better than this blasted, stinking basement where she was tied up like a turkey, waiting for the oven to preheat. Right now, Miranda even wanted Dan.
“Okay, okay. It’s going to be fine,” she whispered. All she had to do was think. There had to be a way to escape. Sariel had gotten her out of messes—attacking bar patrons, broken ankles, commute traffic. Miranda would have to find a way to use powers she didn’t even have. Sariel could talk to her with his mind, and if she could move through space like he did, couldn’t she do that, too?
Again, she closed her eyes and tried to relax, focusing on Sariel. She brought forth his face, his smooth tan skin, his long black hair, a smile on his full lips. In her image, he was looking at her, waiting for her to speak, his eyes wide with anticipation.
When You Believe Page 18