The Burn

by K J Morgan

  "Put your weapon down!" Logan yelled at him, lowering his stance, the .45 held straight in front of him.

  "This is how I killed her," the Necromancer told him. "I slit her throat."

  "Don't listen to him," Miranda warned.

  Logan grabbed her and pushed her out of the way. Training the .45 on the figure before them, he pulled the trigger. The gun blasted in the confined space, hot and deafening. Logan kept firing, each shot ringing from the metal around them.

  The Necromancer took two hits in the chest and collapsed to his knees. He glared up at them, his blood spilling across the floor grates, his white hair loose at his back. Dropping on his shoulder, he smiled, whispering a soft prayer against the metal. The hum of power thickened. The ceiling above them clicked and rotated, slowly grinding into a new position.

  A soft murmur of anticipation rose from the walls.

  "Khagan," the Necromancer said, his teeth stained red. "My blood is your strength."

  A shadow rose from under the grate. Spiraling upward, it spread and thickened, the dark mass at its center taking solid shape. The figure of a medieval warrior formed within its vaporous coils, his shoulders rising above them.

  A nightmare in a battle mask, his body appeared strained and yearning for violence, his corded arms visible under the sweep of a cloak, a long sword glinting at his side. The rest of his armor was tightly secured over the muscular length of his torso, a ghostly trace of markings visible on his skin.

  Logan shook his head, backing toward the wall. "Not real. Nothing's real in this place. Nothing!"

  The Khagan stared at him, drawing the sword from his side. It scraped free of its sheath with a hollow sound, its long blade shining and lethal.

  Miranda grabbed onto Logan's wrist and forced the gun down. She stepped in front of him, drawing her dagger from her side. "He'll leave," she offered. "Let him go. They'll only come after him if you don't."

  The warrior before her said nothing.

  "He must die," the Necromancer replied from the floor. "Only the dead can leave this chamber."

  "I won't let you do it!" she yelled.

  The Khagan lunged forward, charging for Logan. Miranda leapt back and kicked him in the gut. He grunted. She danced from foot to foot in a kickboxer's readied stance, waiting for him to attack. There was no way through his armor, but his arms were vulnerable, if she were quick enough.

  He seemed to consider her a moment, then lunged again. She leapt out of his way and plowed into his side, throwing him off balance. He pivoted and caught her, slamming her against the wall with enough force to blur her vision.

  She let out a pained cry.

  "Goddess," he hissed from behind the cold metal of the helmet, his accent a heavier and cruder version of the Necromancer's. "Why do you defy your master?"

  Miranda tasted the blood in her mouth. She looked at him, seeing nothing but darkness behind the eye-slits of his mask. He had her pinned. There was no way to move, no way to fight. He jerked her roughly again and the dagger fell from her hand.

  She glared at him. "I have no master."

  "Let her go," Logan yelled, raising his gun again. "Now!"

  The Khagan pushed her higher against the wall and she twisted, kicking against him to free herself. He staggered back. She dropped to her feet. The Khagan turned and ran the blade of his sword through her stomach.

  Miranda froze, the pain shocking and unbearable, the skin of her stomach suddenly wet with blood.

  "Miranda!" Logan yelled.

  The Khagan yanked the blade free. Miranda dropped to the floor, curling onto her side in agony. She heard the sound of Logan firing again from behind her. Rounds exploded in the thick air, passing through the warrior without effect and sparking from the metal walls behind him.

  The Khagan raised his sword again.

  Miranda shut her eyes.

  Logan screamed once. A wet slash of noise cut the sound short, blood misting in the air. Miranda heard a heavy thud hit the grate behind her. The .45 skittered across the grate.

  Logan was dead.

  She made a soft sound of anguish, tears welling hot.

  The Khagan stepped over her again, pausing to crouch by her side. Blood coated the blade of his sword, dripping thickly from the blade. He reached down to touch her face and she flinched.

  "I know your sign and its location," he said, his accent sharp and quick. "You do not suffer in vain, Goddess, though I am destined to kill both your lovers."

  Miranda felt herself trembling, her breath catching and uneven. She couldn't think, couldn't move, couldn't focus on him anymore.

  "Sleep," he said, his fingers stroking Logan's blood across her cheek. "Soon, your master will need you again."

  Chapter Twelve

  The wind had risen on the playa, streams of dust slipping across the desert, catching the soft glow of the moon. Cold swatches of neon burned between the camps, adorning entrances, art cars and costumes, creating a ghostly phosphorescent world in the middle of the desolate nowhere.

  Seth walked past the glare of oil drum fires, focused on the Rathvam camp as it loomed before him, its gates shadowed against streams of colored light. Music pulsed from inside. Crowds had gathered at the entrance, leaving a dry river of bicycles parked in the harsh wind around it.

  He grimaced, scanning the camp border in both directions for any sign of Pete. Arrive separately, meet up inside. Right. Letting a slow breath out through his teeth, he walked through the arena entrance.

  Female fire spinners greeted him from the stages in garters and leather boots, their breasts bared to the firelight. They turned in circles as they arced and spun their poi, creating bands of flame around their bodies. Dancers on stilts swayed above the crowd in butterfly masks and flowing costumes.

  He paused, glancing across the revelers, then up at the dark silhouette of the Divine Gate tent set against the night sky. Miranda was in there somewhere. He could feel her now. Damn it, Pete, where are you?

  Walking past the swirl of dancers, he found a dusty couch had been placed away from the speakers and sat down, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. He waited, watching the crowd from under the felt brim of his Stetson.

  The air of eccentricity, of darkness and humor and excess, was thick around him. People swarmed around the art pieces on display, exploring mirrored mazes and starkly lit neon tunnels, their voices loud enough for all to hear. A screaming fight, an eruption of laughter, a giddy retelling of a story that made no sense, it all blurred together to create a bizarre intimacy between strangers, a closeness fueled by the loss of inhibitions and the light of the moon.

  It occurred to him that the people here were all looking for something, for meaning, for identity, for escape, for a lover, for an abuser, for an audience. They were all looking for something, without ever realizing that something might just be looking for them too.

  He narrowed his gaze through the crowd, recognizing one person in particular. A woman danced against a spill of blue light from the stage, her lanky outline moving with drugged confusion, her short hair damp. She swiveled her hips and rocked to a different beat than what came through the speakers, looking skyward before stumbling back in a move that was half rhythm and half loss of balance. Cecilia.

  He pressed his lips together, watching her flounder in the flood of light. She was barely clothed in a silver bra and tight shorts, a neon shine glossing over the sweat on her skin. Men circled close by, some touching, some laughing.

  Seth felt his teeth grind. Pushing up from the couch, he shouldered his way through the jostling throng of dancers, climbing up onto the stage to face her.

  She didn't see him at first, her movements erratic, her eyes half-closed. In the harsh light, her thinness appeared skeletal, her cheeks sharply drawn, her eyes sunken. She turned in a motion intended to appear masterful, only to misjudge the steps. Her foot tripped and she fell.

  Seth caught her before she dropped beneath him. She swayed back in his arms, her head dipp
ing back on her shoulders. Looking at his face, she smiled, her eyes completely dilated, the pupils large and black.

  "Seth," she breathed.

  "What are you on?"

  "Nothing," she grinned, unconcerned.

  "I mean it. What did you take?"

  Her expression turned churlish and vengeful. "What the fuck do you care? Maybe I feel good right now. Maybe I needed to."

  He cursed under his breath. He could feel her tremble against him, her body weak and light. "C'mon." He steadied her on her feet and led her back to the couch. She held onto his hand, all smiles, pressing closer than she had to.

  He sat her down on the dusty cushions and looked across the camp, searching for Pete. There had to be some way to get her out, someone who could take her to a safe place. She grabbed onto his hand, pressing it to her lips, then she looked up at him, her dark eyes imploring. She had glitter on the skin of her cheeks, sparkling from her hair.

  "I still love you," she said, a drunken joy in her eyes. "I do. You're the best man, the best person I ever met."

  "Don't."

  "I love you. I really do. And I know you, Seth. I know you love me too, for the person I am, you know? Just because we fight, it only means we love each other, right? That's what it really means."

  "Where are all of your friends? Did they leave you here like this?"

  "Like what?"

  "Cecilia, Jesus."

  "I have new friends now."

  He paused, looking down at her. "What new friends?"

  "It's a big secret." She laughed. "Shhh."

  He stared at her, a sickening feeling forming in his stomach. "Are your new friends in this camp?"

  "Seth, fuck, stop talking to me like I was two," she snapped, swaying on the couch then smiling as two women walked by. "You're so beautiful," she murmured to them.

  They smiled back.

  "Do you remember what you took?" he asked.

  "Of course I remember. You want some? I have another tab. C'mon Seth, I want to touch you, you know? We can have sex. God, it would feel so good right now. Why not, you know, like we used to? Like old times."

  "Stop it," he said harshly.

  "What? Now I disgust you or something?"

  "That's not it."

  "Then what? It's her? Is that it?"

  "It's you and I," he said carefully. "That's just not where we are any more."

  "C'mon," she replied, smiling. "Don't be so serious. We're here, right now, the two of us. That's where we are."

  He held her gaze then shook his head. "I'm somewhere else."

  Her smile faded, her eyes narrowing. "Fine. I've got someone else anyway, and he's deeper than you, way more interesting than you. He's not some guy who shows up to Burning Man and tries to score with the first girl he sees. He's got more class than that. He's rich too, and he gets it. He understands—"

  He barely heard her, his attention distracted by a quick struggle of movement from behind the stage scaffolding. Shapes appeared and disappeared in the darkness, the motion of their bodies strained and violent. A raw shout rose above the music, then cut short.

  Seth stood in place, unsure of what he had seen. Then a few of the shadows seemed to disperse before his eyes, cloaked figures slipping from the space behind the scaffolding and vanishing into the crowd.

  "Pete," Seth said between his teeth, feeling the nauseating drop in his stomach.

  "Because he's in charge of this entire camp," Cecilia yelled at his back. "And everyone here respects the hell out of him. He's a participant, you know? He gives back to the burners. He's not some sculptor who doesn't get it, what it means to be a Burner. So many people don't get it. You just have to tell them how it really is. But you… you've always had your head up your ass. This was the biggest mistake of your life and you're gonna figure it out too late. You're—"

  "Stay here," he told her, still focused on the darkness under the scaffolding. "Right here."

  She cursed at him and he ignored her, cutting into the throng of dancers and shouldering his way to the scaffolding. He ducked under the metal supports and peered into the darkness around him, seeing nothing. There was no one there.

  He released a tense breath, expecting to feel some measure of relief that refused to come. He could have been mistaken, could have misinterpreted what he saw, but something in him knew that wasn't the case.

  Turning back, his gaze caught a dark stain on one of the supports. He froze, then crouched down, touching the wet metal with his hand. A moist blotch smudged under his fingers, its texture oily and red.

  He drew back, glaring into the surrounding shadows.

  No one was there.

  Grimacing, he glanced across the dance area, his gaze seeking Cecilia. Through the movement of dancers, he could make out a young couple kissing on the couch, the faded cushions around them vacant.

  She was gone.

  "Cecilia!" he yelled, climbing out from under the scaffolding. He pushed through the crowd, jostling the writhing crush of dancers, the press and sweat of their bodies jammed against him.

  He turned in all directions, breathing hard through his teeth as he searched for her. The speakers behind him pounded an aggressive rhythm through his chest, the dark bass tones playing to fear and adrenaline.

  Cutting his gaze to the Gate, he could see her on the stairs, heading toward the entrance. Her gait was halting and uneven, her balance failing her. She pushed ahead, determined.

  "Cecilia," he growled, forcing his way through the crowd. "Don't you do that. Don't you go in there to find him."

  Cecilia disappeared through the dark entrance.

  He swore, knowing that it was a trap, knowing that they would be waiting for him and he shouldn't just follow her in like this, right through the entrance. He simply had no choice.

  * * *

  Ducking into the tight metal hallway of the Gate, Seth drew a careful breath, his attention focused on the shadows ahead. The heavy bulkheads reflected a dull shine from the lanterns, a soft hum reverberating through the walls and floor grates. The air was thick, humid and metallic.

  Cecilia was nowhere in sight.

  He walked slowly down the corridor, trying to ignore the ghostly sound of whispering that seemed to follow him. Glancing at the intricate symbols marking the metal, he felt a chill of recognition, Miranda's hushed explanations surfacing from the dark. Their souls are ingrained in the metal.

  "Souls," he repeated, forcing his gaze away.

  It was impossible to accept that this thing was what she had described, a crypt, a machine, a gate between worlds that was somehow powered by captive souls. How could anything like that exist? Who could've built it?

  It didn't make sense, but neither did the memory of her vanishing in his arms, a breathless apology lingering in her place. The reality of what was possible was of no use to him now.

  The doors along the interior wall were closed. A spiraling staircase appeared at the end of the corridor, its railings sculpted to appear like human figures reaching for each other, their bodies elongated and distorted by an artist's vision.

  Seth glanced back down the hallway, then focused on the stairs. Unless she was hiding behind one of the closed doors, Cecilia couldn't have gone anywhere else. He put his hand on the railing, then snatched it back, feeling an arc of hot electricity snap against his skin.

  "Shit," he muttered, then stepped down onto the staircase.

  Cecilia's voice echoed from the walls as he descended. He paused on the lower floor, crossing into the corridor as quietly as he could. The walls pressed tighter, lit by a series of glowing blue lamps, no more effective than moonlight.

  One compartment was open. In the dim glow beyond it, a larger door appeared, its metal gears and locks glinting. Seth stopped before the open chamber, listening as Cecilia's words became distinct.

  "Please, it's what we talked about," she implored. "Last night, you said there would be a perfect time. I want that time to be now. I want to sit with you and feel your
energy around me, you know? Out there, where everyone can see us. I want everyone to know that I'm with you, the most amazing man on the playa. I want you to be touching me in front of everyone."

  "If I touch you tonight, I will hurt you," the Necromancer replied. "You may enjoy it, you may not. Either way, I will not stop until I am done."

  She replied with a breathless laugh, as if she thought it was a joke. "You mean like some kind of crazy scary sex? That'll have everyone looking at us, right?"

  Lowering himself against the riveted doorframe, Seth edged closer and angled his view into the compartment. The two of them were there, standing close together, the golden walls around them covered with interconnected symbols.

  Cecilia had her back turned toward the door, her skin bare under the straps of her bra. She looked frail compared to the man before her.

  The Necromancer stood in silhouette, his white hair falling in waves down his chest. He held one arm across stomach, as if protecting a wound that had yet to heal. He watched her as she moved closer, his pale eyes glowing.

  "I just want everyone to know," she said, pressing wantonly against him. "I want everyone to see us."

  "You want Seth to see us," he corrected.

  "Yeah, maybe. Why not?" She shook her head and almost lost her balance in the process, too drugged to stay on her feet easily. "Why shouldn't he see what he's given up? You're ten times the man he is and you're totally into me. He should see that. He should be made to see it."

  "And what would you do, if he were watching now?"

  "Now?" she swayed, stumbling a few steps away from him. She sat down and reached for her purse, drawing out a cigarette and a lighter. Then she smiled, managing to slip the end of the cigarette between her lips with drunken effort.

  The lighter scratched to life in her hand, its tiny spark wavering as she put it to the paper. Firelight danced in the dark pools of her eyes, highlighting the thick sweep her lashes and her delicate brows. She winced, drawing a long breath, then nibbled at the chewed edges of her nails.

  Seth narrowed his gaze, gauging the possibility that she might walk out on her own. C'mon Cecilia, see him for what he is and come a little closer to the door. If I have to come in there, it's going to get messy for all of us.