Playing with Passion Theta Series Book 1 (2 page)

Ingrid’s axis was fed by a constant
stream of Mack’s energy. Her psycore sang in response, allowing her
to project the most realistic of characters. The audience sighed
and moaned, some calling out, "Ingrid" as they experienced the
ultimate in pleasure.

But as her partner lifted her for the
second time, a wrenching pain ripped across her abdomen.
"Gene."

"We're fine," he answered, but they
weren't. His supporting arm had wobbled, then steadied. "It's
Mack," he croaked out.

Ingrid heard soft chanting coming from
stage left. "Put me down. Something's wrong."

A high-pitched screech stabbed her
eardrums like shards of shattered glass, the pain excruciating. She
covered her ears as Gene's arm lost its strength, collapsing and
bringing her along. As they fell, her partner pulled her against
his body, their gazes reflecting the other's fear and puzzlement.
She felt the jarring shudder as his knees hit the stage hard, then
her feet. A moment later, they were on the floor.

Ingrid opened an eye, conscious of
lying on top of something, but afraid to move. She reached out with
her hand, not surprised to find she was splayed across her partner.
He'd cushioned her fall.

"Gene, you okay?"

No response.

An unnatural breeze stirred up resin
and dust, driving her to cough and cover her nose and mouth. Gene's
chest rose and fell beside her, but there was still no reaction
when she nudged him. The music had stopped, leaving the theatre
bathed in an eerie silence. Why wasn't the audience up and shouting
for their money back? Witches were particularly whiney.

Even though her ears no longer hurt,
the sharp pain in her gut was one she recognized. Mack, the little
shit, had pulled his axis power even before the high-pitched noise
had broken their focus, causing all of the actors to suddenly
weaken. A production manager was trained to withdraw his power at a
slow and steady pace, not pull it out like a rotten tooth. Typical
asshole move. He must have seen something was off, and
panicked.

But what had caused that sound? She
managed to lift her head and look around. The rest of her troupe
was still on the ground, breathing, but unconscious. Did anyone
call a medical team? She glanced toward her production manager's
position by the stage right exit. Empty. Where the hell was Mack?
It was his job to step up and deal with this kind of
situation.

She huffed in exasperation; her anger
holding back the panic that made her heart beat rabbit fast. Since
she was the only one awake, it was left to her to make the call. At
least her ear had stopped throbbing.

Before she could act, Ingrid was
yanked roughly to her feet, lifted by a male in sorcerer's robes.
She was slung over his shoulder like a child and held there with an
arm around her knees. Another sorcerer stood to his right, Taser in
hand and pointed at the ground.

They reeked of
magic.
Holy hells—the
chanting
.

"Put me down!" Ingrid wiggled wildly,
almost kicking her abductor in the groin. Surprised, the sorcerer
lowered her to the ground and stepped away, a shocked expression on
his face. Her knees wobbled, but Ingrid stubbornly managed to
steady herself.

She would not show
weakness.

The males looked amused. "You should
be unconscious like the others." The taller sorcerer, the one who'd
picked her up, pointed at her passed-out friends.

"What did—you do to my—my troupe?" She
was panting, rubbing her belly where the pain was greatest. Being
tossed over this guy's bony shoulder sure hadn't helped.

"They'll wake up soon. It was a simple
spell."

"We're taking you," said the other
male with a smirky grin. He grabbed her arm and yanked her
closer.

"Get your grubby hands off me." When
she pushed against his chest, he chuckled and tightened his grip.
"Taking me where?"

"It's an exchange. Nothing personal."
His gaze roamed over her body. She tried to wiggle away, but his
grip was already tight enough to leave a bruise. Plus, he seemed to
be turned on by her struggles. She knew the type.

Ingrid analyzed her energy reserves, a
skill she'd learned at the age of six. Even though Mack had pulled
his, she had a good supply of her own axis energy, a lot more than
most acting thetas. Her battery was on the low side, but at least
she was not without weapons.

"Why do you want me?" Maybe she could
talk them out of whatever they had planned.

"A demon’s purchasing you for his
harem." He stroked his free hand along her arm. It stank of blood,
affording her a good idea of the type of magic they were involved
in. His hand continued over her hip and down to her ass. "You're
even hotter up close." She slapped his hand away, but he didn't
release his hold on her arm.

"Cool off, Roman, we have to get her
out of here and back to the demon, fast."

“Can’t we have her first? I’ll share
with you.”

"The Director's going to
cook you over a spit and feed you to his dogs,
Roman
, piece by piece. The troupe is
his property."

And wasn't that something she loved to
tell people? Where was the giant jerk when a girl needed him? He’d
been in her dressing room only half an hour ago.

She glanced in Gene's direction,
noticing blood on the floor near his head for the first
time.

"The Director is a minion of our
master," the tall one stated with confidence. "Our new master will
give us the power to take over this measly city,
then..."

"You believed that? The
Director's an
archdemon
, asshole. No demon is higher on the food chain. You're even
dumber than you look." Ingrid slammed her heel down on Roman's
instep, kicking him in the knee a second later. As he howled in
pain, she ran to Gene. Blood had pooled under his head near his
ear. He must have hit the floor hard when he fell.

"He's hurt! Gene, wake up, honey."
Ripping off a section of her dance skirt, she wadded it up and
pressed it against his head. Truly panicking, she glanced around to
see if anyone else was awake. Alan, still looking dazed, had
crawled over to the nearest troupe member, Staci, quietly trying to
wake her without attracting the attention of the two
sorcerers.

"Alan, call an ambulance. Gene's
hurt." Alan had a level head and would get the others to safety.
She'd deal with the sorcerers.

"You're coming
now
." Touchy-feely Roman
grabbed her around the waist, covering her mouth with his stinky
hand. He started to drag her toward the back stage door, limping
only slightly. She should have kicked him harder. "Don't force us
to use magic, bitch. We'll make you pay."

The threat was a weak one since they
were most likely low on energy. She bit down hard on his palm,
drawing blood. Roman snarled and let her go. "Get the fuck away
from me!" she shouted, backing toward Alan and Staci.

"Your boyfriend will be dead in a few
minutes." The other creep was hunched over Gene. "He must've hit
his head when he fell."

The words were a knife to
her gut. Gene had been holding her and couldn't use his hands to
protect his own body. "No. You're lying." His chest had been
moving, hadn't it?
Shit
. She couldn't think straight. There had to be something she
could do to fix this. Why wasn't the audience storming the
stage?

She glanced up, her hands flying to
her face in shock. The two sorcerers had spelled a brick wall,
which stretched across the stage, the width of the proscenium. She
was on her own.

"Hurry up, Roman." The tall male
seemed nervous.

Roman glanced at his friend and
nodded. "Come with us, bitch, or we'll kill the rest." Their
mid-level demon was probably impatient. If they kept him waiting
too long, he’d take revenge on them instead.

Gene's still body turned her anger to
molten rage, heating her skin, tightening her muscles. She blinked
away the sweat that stung her eyes as axis power vibrated in her
belly, snaking its way into her psycore. She could still taste the
sorcerer's blood. These assholes had hurt her troupe. Killed her
partner.

"Have it your way." The two sorcerers
raised their hands in unison to call forth a spell.

Ingrid detonated. "Burn in hell," she
hissed, pushing out power to stop whatever dark magic they
threatened to use on her helpless friends.

The fire she’d created inside her mind
came to life, attacking the sorcerer’s fingertips as they traced
the spell, moving quickly over wrists and arms, engulfing shoulders
and necks as if their bodies had been doused in rocket fuel. The
stench was nothing compared to the sound of their screams as they
ran about blindly, one into the main curtain, still open, the other
slamming into the wall they'd constructed with their dark magic.
The main curtain caught fire as if it were made of paper, the
flames spreading to other curtains: the legs, travelers and
backdrops that masked the skeleton of a bare theatre. Scenery
stored in the wings from other theatrical productions began to
smoke. The theatre was an inferno within minutes.

“Hurry, Ingrid,” Alan shouted over the
din.

"But Gene’s hurt. He
needs…”

“We’ll come back if we can.” Ingrid
knew he was right, yet she still stood frozen to the spot, ready to
burn with her attackers. “Ingrid!” Alan's desperate plea, the idea
that some of her friends could be saved, cut through her fury. The
spell for the wall had fallen when the sorcerers began to burn, and
the audience’s cries were now hammering against her sensitive
ears.

The night had become pure sensation,
the stench, the smoke-filled air, the taste of blood, the heat—a
nightmare made real.

With Diane, another troupe member,
stumbling beside them, Ingrid and Alan dragged Staci to safety
though the back stage doors. Ingrid collapsed on her hands and
knees in the parking lot, hacking up black bile as two medshuttles
glided alongside the four thetas.

But Gene was hurt and still inside and
where was Dave or Sam? She turned back, shouting, forcing herself
to stand. "The others..."

"It's too late." Alan pointed at the
backstage door. Black smoke billowed out, then rose into the air,
carried away by a steady breeze. Alan was doubled over in pain, one
of his hands badly burned. Diane sat on the ground beside him,
clinging to his leg as she sobbed. The two medics, a human male and
female, lifted Staci onto a gurney. She was unconscious, but didn't
seem to be burned or bleeding.

Ingrid wasn't about to be carted off
to hospital if more of her troupe could be saved. She raced to the
front doors of the theatre, stumbling on unsteady legs, hoping
there was a chance she could get to the stage from that direction.
Once in the lobby, she was grateful to discover she didn't need to
push her way through a fleeing audience, although it was odd she
hadn’t run into even one. She remembered hearing the audience
screaming, which should mean the fire had spread beyond the
proscenium. Using both hands, she stumbled into the theatre through
a set of double doors, hot to the touch.

The crackle and heat of the flames
still burning on stage was forgotten as her mind tried to make
sense of what she was seeing. Her gaze trailed from seat to seat,
section to section, her brain unable to comprehend the destruction.
"This isn't real," she whispered, although no one could hear
her.

Trapped in their high-priced seats by
magic-blocking chains, the audience had been reduced to twisted
slabs of charred flesh, where only a few minutes ago they were
burning up with pleasure.

All dead. Burned alive.

Ingrid gagged, but had nothing left in
her stomach to bring up. What sickened her the most was the smell
of the magic used to secure them in place, a familiar scent that
chilled her bones. This wasn’t the work of the
sorcerers.

The Director, the archdemon who held
every theta’s life in his cruel fist, stood center stage, his
expression grim. Because he’d fed off the audience’s pain as they’d
died in the most grisly of manners, power arced in waves around his
body, a light show created by death. Ingrid clutched at the low
wall at the rear of the theatre, having never seen chaos on this
scale.

The wall of flames behind him spared
her the vision of her friend's bodies, and for that, she was
grateful. Ingrid put aside the pain of their deaths, as she’d put
aside so many other feelings, and allowed her anger to surface. The
Director had been present and had done nothing to help Gene, Dave
or Sam. They'd been left to die, as he concentrated his energy on
trapping and murdering the audience.

The red and blue flames framing his
prodigious form didn't spread or make contact with the floor, walls
or ceiling. He controlled this fire, his element throughout the
ages. In such a dramatic pose, he looked powerful beyond imagining,
able to kill with a snap of his fingers, blah, blah, and blah. She
would’ve laughed if the situation weren't so tragic.