Miriya Page 3
CHAPTER THREE
Curiosity killed the cat.
Fortunately, Miriya reminded herself, she was not a cat.
She was an alpha telepath, an adult of sound mind, financially secure, content with life.
None of which served to explain what she was doing on a flight to New Orleans. She glanced at the skinny man seated beside her and shook her head. “You realize that Mardi Gras is the worst possible time to visit New Orleans.”
Jake grinned and pushed his glasses up on the bridge of his nose. “It just sounds like one big party.”
“A party like you’ve never seen.” Miriya allowed her thoughts to drift, the memories to return. Her mind reached out and brushed against Jake’s, against the now-familiar rough surface of his psychic shields.
She sensed it when his defenses eased. She too relaxed her psychic shields, allowing her memories to seep seamlessly from her mind to his. Streets so tightly packed with half-naked, sweaty people that breathing became a chore. The distinctive scent of alcohol mixed with human waste; the cloying smell of vomit no amount of water could wash down the clogged drains. Screaming people, reeling drunks, flashing breasts—
Wait, Jake protested. Not so fast. I liked that part.
You would. Her psychic shields snapped back down around her mind. Pervert.
Not fair. I’m just a man with normal needs.
That statement, she reflected ironically, was true. Her telepathic powers had manifested in her early teens, unfortunately right around puberty when the minds of the boys around her seemed obsessed with female body parts.
It was one thing to respond to a verbal insult or an unwelcome touch. It was another to react to thoughts, especially when they were idle wishes and juvenile speculation. Still, for a girl—for she had been a girl then—accustomed to standing up for herself, with fists, if necessary, her teenage years had been especially difficult.
Her grades plunged. When they hit rock bottom with an F in art—the first and only F ever given out for an art class in the history of St. Augustine High School—she called it quits and ran away from home.
Miriya fared better than most sixteen-year-old runaways. Her telepathic powers of persuasion guaranteed free food and lodging. As she honed her craft, her tastes in men improved to those with an abundance of resources to spare on a pretty, young girl. She legally changed her name and dropped the Cajun accent. The expensive meals, designer clothing, jewelry, cars, and apartments soon followed, and all for the pleasure of her company, sexual favors not necessary.
Her final patron, Charles Brandon, was one of those rare Renaissance men—an intellectual, a prominent businessman, and a philanthropist. Together, Charles and Miriya had enjoyed fine meals in Michelin-starred restaurants, which were often preceded by visits to art galleries, museums, or lectures and discussions with prominent experts in economics, social sciences, or physical sciences. Charles awoke her hunger for knowledge and returned her to the path she had abandoned when she dropped out of school.
Cambridge and Boston, with their abundance of excellent universities, offered sufficient intellectual diversions to keep her occupied year round. One day, when wandering through Harvard’s hallowed halls, Miriya had chanced upon a stray thought. A Fortune 500 corporation was negotiating in secret an acquisition of a promising technology start-up.
Miriya promptly invested in the start-up. Three months later, with only minimal reluctance, she reported to the IRS a return of 532 percent. Her telepathic abilities soon yielded additional investment ideas, though some of the best tips she found while wandering the halls of Congress, the fertile mixing ground of wealthy corporations and crooked politicians.
Her financial concerns vanished soon thereafter. Independently wealthy and with only a twinge of regret, she had released Charles. He went on to find happiness in the arms of a pretty socialite. For a year since, Miriya had enjoyed a life free from the burden of friendships and relationships, too busy to be lonely.
Besides, a telepath was never really alone. She had too many voices in her head. Not even the privacy of her condominium offered the silence she craved. She had learned how to tune the endless barrage of other people’s thoughts down to white noise, but after a while, even white noise could become intolerable.
She had resigned herself to an eternal headache.
Jake’s hand slipped over hers, tightening quickly enough to keep her from instinctively jerking her hand out of his grasp. His touch was light enough that she could have succeeded if she tried, but she did not. “It’s not all bad,” he assured her.
“What isn’t?”
“Being different.”
She affected a casual shrug. “I don’t think I could have gotten this far by being normal.”
Jake chuckled. “I think you underestimate yourself, and just how far some otherwise-normal people get in life. Still, being different offers different opportunities, demands different responsibilities. You’d never have gotten invited along on this trip if you were normal.”
“So, what are you expecting from this trip, beyond your standard Mardi Gras revelry, drunkenness, and licentiousness?”
“Licentiousness? Wow, I haven’t heard that word since I last read the Old Testament years ago.”
“I took a class in biblical archeology three months ago. The professor was exceedingly fond of quoting scripture.” So, what will we be doing in New Orleans?
Investigating the Mistick Krewe of Comus.
What in heaven’s name for?
Oh, good. I was worried that your first question was going to be, “Who-da-what-da?”
You’re a country boy to the core of your being, Jake.
He offered her a good-natured shrug. “We are who we are. Tiger. Stripes. All that sort of thing.” So, the krewe. What do you know about them?
Not much more than any native New Orleanian knows. The Mistick Krewe of Comus is not your run-of-the-mill parade organizer. They’re more like a secret society. I don’t think they organize parades anymore, not since the city council demanded to know the membership rolls of any krewe that wanted parade permits. Antidiscrimination. All that crap.
You don’t believe in it?
In what?
Antidiscrimination.
Miriya snorted. I’ll believe in it when it starts working. Anyway, the krewe still runs a Mardi Gras ball, supposedly. It’s believed to be an incredibly elaborate affair, invitation-only. Everyone wears a mask, of course.
Which provides no defense against a telepath.
She frowned. Jake’s matter-of-fact statement confirmed that his aw-shucks demeanor did nothing to dull his powerful edge as an alpha telepath. What did you want with the Mistick Krewe?
For several years, the Mutant Affairs Council has tracked high levels of psychic activity in New Orleans, especially around Mardi Gras. The abundance of charlatans—magicians and fortunetellers—makes it easy for second-rate telepaths and telekinetics to disappear into the crowd, so to speak, and defraud the public.
Defraud? Miriya’s eyebrows drew together. Fortune-telling is a game, Jake. Everyone knows it. No harm, no foul.
Not if people get hurt or when they disappear.
What?
Much of the psychic activity appears centered around the Mistick Krewe headquarters. Last week, in anticipation of Mardi Gras, the council sent in one of its undercover agents to investigate, but we haven’t heard from him in almost five days. He’s the reliable sort, so we’re certain something’s seriously wrong.
So the council is sending you in to find him?
Jake shook his head. The council is sending me in to identify the source and reason for the psychic hyperactivity. If I find our agent along the way, that’s a nice plus, but that’s not why I’m here.
That’s a bit hard-hearted, isn’t it? It appears that working for the council is an occupational hazard. It sucks when you can’t even count on your boss to save your ass.
Jake disagreed. The council takes care of its own. It’s why you’re here, afte
r all.
I beg your pardon.
We need you to find our agent.
Miriya’s scowl furrowed her brow. Why me?
Because you can find him. You know his mind intimately.
What?
Jake looked at her. His Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat as he swallowed hard. I’m sorry, Miriya. It’s Charles Brandon. He was working on behalf of the council when he vanished in New Orleans five days ago.