Playing with Passion Theta Series Book 1 (3 page)

He locked his angry gaze on hers. "The
three troupe males are dead." His deep voice vibrated across the
length of the theatre, every word clear and precise.

"So are the two sorcerers who attacked
me," she countered, expelling a slow breath. Gene, Dave and Sam
were dead, her worst fears confirmed by her most dangerous enemy.
Blood magic sorcerers? Demons called from the depths of hell? They
were nothing compared to the male on stage. If she were very lucky,
he'd kill her quickly.

But not until she had answers. "Why?"
She pointed to the audience. "Why kill them?"

He shrugged his broad shoulders and
smiled, human gestures made vile by his alien version. "Witnesses.
I could not allow them to live to tell the tale."

"You killed everyone?"

"An audience of sorcerers and
witches—no great loss to our world. My news media will report it as
a tragic accident. No one will hear that your panic caused the
fire."

"My panic?"

"You—lost—control," he
growled.

Not even
close
, she thought, smirking on the
inside. She'd been in complete control. She'd told the men to burn
and they had. But The Director thought she'd panicked. Fine. Let
him believe what he chose. Better that he doesn't know he's not the
only firebird in the house.

"The two sorcerers wanted to kidnap
me. When I fought back they began to conjure a spell to kill my
troupe. I pushed one into the curtain and his spell set it on
fire." Ingrid lifted her chin, resolved to live or die without
shame or submission. Even in her lie, she refused to be revealed as
a coward.

His eyes widened for a heartbeat, then
narrowed again. "You should have gone with them. My soldiers would
have located you. None need have died."

"They were handing me over to a
mid-level demon they'd managed to call up from hell or wherever
your type lives."

He growled, "What demon?"

"They didn't say a name."

"I will locate him by tonight. He will
never attempt to steal my property again." She shivered at the word
and glanced away. Slavery, no matter how good the living
conditions, was still slavery. The Director scowled at her
reaction. "Your race is mine, Ingrid. You may be a lovely piece of
ass and a top projector, but you are as replaceable as a good
whore. Now, where is Mack?"

"I don't know. It seemed like he
pulled his power as soon as he saw the sorcerers, even before the
spell went into effect. The troupe was weakened by the sudden
withdrawal of his axis energy, otherwise, we might have all
escaped. The sorcerers were able to knock us out easily with their
spell because we were vulnerable."

"But not you? You remained alert?" The
Director had no eyebrows to arch, only scarlet hair pulled back in
a long braid, but he still managed to look surprised.

"I blacked out like the others, but
woke first," she lied easily.

Ingrid’s quick thinking and stronger
axis energy had saved her today, but defending herself against the
sorcerers had resulted in the deaths of three friends. Maybe The
Director was right. She should have gone with them. What was the
loss of one life, compared to her three friends, or even worse,
compared to the lives of hundreds of innocent sorcerers and witches
who’d come to see the performance? Those deaths were also her
responsibility.

But the power Ingrid had manifested to
save herself went beyond anything she'd ever accomplished in the
past. It confirmed what she believed was possible for her race. So
she slid her guilt into a box and locked it tight. She would move
forward, convincing The Director to send her to a more powerful
troupe. This was a dangerous path for her to take, but it was the
only one that made sense. Her life had never been safe, but if her
people found freedom, it might become significant.

The Director was studying her
thoughtful expression with pit black eyes. Any minute he might rip
through her mind and see the truth. To stave off a mental attack,
she went on the offensive, using the tiny thread of power she had
left to send him a visual of exactly what she'd described as having
taken place. It was a fantasy she molded to look real, her
specialty. When she finished, she stumbled against the chest high
wall behind the last row of seats, her fingers turning white with
the strain of keeping herself upright.

The Director waved a hand and the
bodies in the seats began to disintegrate, the metal chains
clanking as they resettled on the empty seats and floors, echoing
off the walls in Dickensian style. Ingrid looked around, but saw no
spirits, only chairs covered in clay-colored ash and
silver.

"Gene would still be alive if you'd
left with the sorcerers."

A stab to the heart—one
of
his
specialties. "Yes, sir." Ingrid kept her head down, showing
submission, hiding her fury.

"The media will report that someone in
the audience set the fire with a spell gone wrong. When I find Mack
Stone, we will speak again."

The Director swung his hand out toward
the audience then turned, walking directly into his personal flames
without flinching. As the chains dissolved along with the bodies,
Ingrid slid down the wall, curling into a fetal position on the
ash-covered carpet. The medics found her a few minutes later,
sobbing.

CHAPTER TWO
: New York City -
One month later

Mack Hudson's first meeting with the
new Ingrid started out okay, then went south fast.

His shuttle was on the Belt Parkway,
his human driver, Scott, able to maneuver a vehicle through traffic
like a snake through grass. Even so, they were fifteen minutes
behind schedule, her flight from Atlanta having arrived at JFK
twenty minutes early. Their newest troupe ingénue was probably
pissed off by now, but they hadn't expected this kind of traffic.
He'd left several messages on her Holotab to let her know they were
on their way but running late. She hadn't responded.

“Should I increase altitude?” Scott
asked.

Mack considered the idea for a few
seconds. “Nah. But see if you can get around these transport
vehicles we’ve been tailgating the last mile or so.”

“Got it.” Scott swerved to the left,
avoiding a collision with a mini by only a few feet, and speeding
ahead to ride the tail of the SUV who was actually going the speed
limit. When the nervous female in the SUV was finally able to move
into the middle lane, Scott passed her by, riding up behind another
driver in another shuttle. All of the traffic was remaining the
usual three feet off the road, which was why Mack had nixed the
idea of flying higher. If they were suddenly soaring over the heads
of other drivers, word would go out that a VIP might be a passenger
and they'd be followed to the airport. It was his job to keep his
troupe members out of situations where they'd be overwhelmed by
fans wanting autographs and kisses, or worse.

Mack’s fingers were
tapping out a quick rhythm on his knees, a nervous habit he'd tried
to break without much success. This was his first personnel change
since he'd become production manager of the Hudson River Theta
Troupe five years ago. His former Ingrid's transfer had been
granted last week and now he had to break in a new girl. The two
ingénues, always named Ingrid and Gene, were usually the heart of
each theta troupe as well as the major cash cows for The Director.
The former Ingrid Stone was expected to ease into her role as
Ingrid Hudson as smoothly as possible, and it was part of
his
job to help that
process along. It should go without a hitch, they were all
professionals after all, but this female had a rep that worried
him.

She was twenty-three years
old and had already been in
four
troupes, unheard of for a career actor of any
age. After reading The Director's report on the incident in
Atlanta, he'd decided not to discuss it with the other members of
the troupe. The news report had made it seem like an accident
caused by a careless audience member, so that's the version he'd
run with. Trust within a troupe didn't come easy. A theta's shields
were stronger than tungsten steel, but they were at their most
vulnerable during a performance—definitely not the time to lose
faith in a fellow actor.

Scott pulled their shuttle into the
gated driveway that led to the VIP pickup area. After scanning the
registration sticker in the shuttle window, the guard waved them
through. Scott flipped the vehicle into standard mode at the curb
by the terminal exit. The wheels came down and the shuttle rolled
to a stop.

She was there, sitting in the shade on
one of the cushioned benches, a dark haired beauty with a psycore
able to project the highest level of fantasy—-probably the only
reason The Director put up with her. With their current Gene and
this new Ingrid, his troupe would remain in the number one slot,
probably widening the gap between first and second
place.

The troupes that made money for The
Director were the troupes that survived.

He laughed to see his fingers beating
out a faster rhythm. Apparently, even production managers could be
star struck.

When he jumped out of the shuttle, she
stood, brushing an unruly strand of espresso-colored hair out of
her face. Even though her flight had been a short one, she looked
frazzled, not entirely unexpected. She'd only been given two days
notice. It must’ve been crazy to pack up her entire life and say
goodbye to her friends in such a short amount of time.

He'd do his best to make her
comfortable. "Hey, I'm Mack. Welcome to New York. This is our
driver, Scott." Smiling, he picked up one of her large bags,
leaving the other for Scott. After transferring them into the
shuttle, he stood by the passenger door, expecting her to climb
inside.

"You're late." Ingrid hadn't moved an
inch.

"I left messages. Didn't you get
them?"

"I haven't looked. I turn Sass off to
keep her quiet."

"Sass?"

She picked up on his confused
expression. "My Holotab."

"Ah. Well, from now on,
I'd appreciate it if you kept your...
Sass
on all the time. I need to know
I can contact you."

"Fine."

Scott tossed him an amused look as he
returned to the driver's seat and readied the shuttle.

"After you," Mack said, standing by
the door.

She waited another five seconds before
moving, walking up the two steps, and taking her seat. Mack hopped
in, pushing the button to retract the stairs.

He was about to ask how her flight was
when his stomach rumbled loudly. She cracked a smile for the first
time, her wide mouth curving into a warm grin.

Holy shit, she was beautiful. He'd
seen her image spinning around over The Director's H-tab, waving at
some invisible fan or friend, and of course, he'd seen her in
e-mags and on the news. But in person, she blew that virtual female
out of the sky.

He realized she was waiting for him to
say something. "Sorry. I never had a chance to eat breakfast. I
ordered pizza for lunch from Anthony's, a local place. It should be
at the house when we arrive. His sauce is without doubt the best on
Staten Island. Hope you like sausage."

Scott choked on a laugh and her smile
broadened.

Mack scowled at Scott. "Are you ten?"
Scott ignored him. Mack gave her a sheepish grin.
"Sorry."

"It's good to hear people laugh. And
for the record, I do like sausage." She winked at Scott's
reflection in the rear-view mirror. "I suppose I'll have time to
eat. I have a shuttle picking me up at the troupe house in two
hours.

"A shuttle?"

"I explained to you during last
night's holochat that I was staying at a hotel in Manhattan for a
few days."

Mack frowned. Perhaps she'd forgotten
in the chaos of her quick move, that during the holochat, he'd told
her she was expected to stay with the troupe. He'd go over
everything again when they got to the house. "Gene will be joining
us for lunch. I'd like you to get to know each other before
tomorrow's rehearsal."

"I won't have much time if the traffic
remains heavy." She rubbed her eyes and wrinkled her brow. "Can't
we fly above them?"

"Not a good idea. It would draw
attention to our vehicle."

She blessed him with a
look that had
You Idiot
written all over it. "Then what's the use of
owning a shuttle equipped with the flyover feature?"

"We use it when we're forced to, but
I'd rather we blend in. There are creatures out there much more
dangerous than your fans and many of them also have flyover
features on their vehicles." He tacked on a smile in an attempt to
lighten the tension thickening the air inside the shuttle. This
female had the proverbial cold stare down to an art.

"I'm sure it's no worse than Atlanta.
Our troupe performed for all species of supernatural. There were a
dozen large vampire nests run by four master vampires as well as
several packs of werewolves."