Jack and Djinn (The Houri Legends, #1)(32)
There was a blinding light approaching, but so lost was Miriam that she paid no notice to it. She paid no attention to the fact that she was dry, despite the curtains of windblown rain still pounding down. She heard cars passing by, honking, but she ignored them too. Cars were swerving around her, people were yelling.
An odd hissing noise, the sound of water hitting a frying pan, somehow 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. Billowing clouds of steam wreathed around her, trailed her, rose up and vanished and skirled in the thunderstorm wind. As she was walking down the middle of the street, another car appeared, honking and swerving around her, skidding on the grass, then disappearing into the rain-soaked night.
A single headlight penetrated the gloom and rain, approaching her like a freight train. She stopped in her tracks, unable to move. She could only stand and stare, rooted to the spot. The unnatural glow around her continued to burn bright, along with the rage still coursing through her.
The headlight wobbled, turned aside, and then Miriam realized 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.
Miriam knew it was Jack. She ran to him, knelt beside him where he’d crashed. She pulled his helmet off, sobbed when she saw the blood spurting from his nose and ears and mouth. He moaned softly and 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, the man she loved was gasping for breath, limp in her arms.
The man she loved. Somehow it was true.
Jack coughed, blood dribbling down his chin, frothing as his lungs failed.
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 at her silent demand, burgeoning like an explosion. 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 in an instant.
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, seeking out any cut, any scrape, any hurt on him, commanding 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 within her.
Tires squealed and footsteps pounded the pavement, and Ben’s voice boomed out, “What the hell are you doing, Miriam?” She felt his hands grasp her shoulder and yank her, toppling Jack to the ground in the process, striking his head against the pavement again. That sent Miriam over the edge. She jerked away, crouched at Jack’s side and put his 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. I love him. I love him the way I’ve never, never loved you. The way I never could love you. You’re nothing but a monster, and I hate how much of my life I’ve wasted on you. I hate how much pain I’ve let you put me through. No more, Ben. Do you hear me? I will not take any more from you. Never again.”
That got Ben’s attention. He stepped toward her, like a bull ready to charge. His eyes were full of the madness again, the same crazed blindness that had almost got her killed yesterday. 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 sun fire; she was fire, her body a woman’s body carved from living flame. She saw her features 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 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.