Running Hot

time later when she turned off the water. For no discernible reason, all her senses were suddenly revved sky-high. Intuition worked that way.
    She grabbed the white spa robe that had been thoughtfully provided by the hotel and opened the door to the bathroom.
    There was a man dressed in a tuxedo in the bedroom. He held an odd-looking box in one hand.
    “My apologies, Miss Renquist,” he said. “But I really have no choice.”
    “Who are you?” she managed.
    “Newlin Guthrie.” He glanced at the strange device. “This is my latest invention. It’s going to be huge in the security market. Similar to a Taser except you won’t feel a thing after the first jolt. Puts you out like a light for a couple of hours but with no lasting side effects.”
    She couldn’t believe it. He sounded genuinely apologetic. There was nowhere to run so she launched herself at him, hands outstretched, mouth open on a scream for help.
    The twin probes of the electroshock gun struck her before she was halfway across the room. Pain scorched her nerves and her senses for what seemed like an eternity.
    Then she plunged into darkness.

FORTY-SEVEN
    Notes of pure, crystalline energy drew her up out of the depths of an unnatural darkness. Madness and death pulsed and flashed in the music. The power of the singing dazzled and riveted Grace’s disoriented senses.
    She realized in a rather vague way that she was sprawled on her side on a carpet. Beneath the carpet she could feel an unyielding concrete floor. Panic splashed through her, briefly pushing back the nearly overwhelming energy of the singing.
    She opened her eyes and levered herself to a sitting position, one hand braced on the carpet. She was vaguely aware that she was still wrapped in the hotel bathrobe. The first thing she saw was a luminous beam of energy slicing through the night. For a few heartbeats the hot ray of light got tangled up with the impossibly brilliant notes of the music. Her senses could not seem to separate the two.
    Martin Crocker came to stand in front of her. He smiled his I-can-give-you-anything-you-want smile.
    “You’re dead,” she whispered.
    “Am I?” he asked.
    “Yes.”
    She had intended the word to come out as a defiant shout. Instead, it emerged as a breathy gasp of sound that was drowned beneath the torrent of mad psychic energy that swirled around her.
    “You were very useful to me,” Martin said. “But all good things must come to an end. Unfortunately, you’re no longer an asset. You’ve become a liability.”
    This was not a dream. She was officially going insane. The music was making her crazy.
    She clamped her hands over her ears. As a defense mechanism it was pathetic. The singing dimmed a little but it was still too powerful. It flooded through the atmosphere around her.
    “You’re dead,” she repeated, louder this time. Her senses pulsed in response, sending out sharp spikes of energy.
    To her amazement, the image of Martin Crocker winked out. Relief shivered through her. Shaking, she took her hands away from her ears and clamped her fingers around the nearest object. It turned out to be the arm of a theater chair.
    The scalding music continued to soar and flash, drawing her deeper into a hell fashioned of purest crystal.
    She turned her head to follow the beam of light and found herself looking at a stage. A woman in a white gown that appeared to have been splashed with blood stood in the center of the light beam. Her blond hair was loose around her shoulders. She gripped a knife in one hand as she poured the psychic energy of her Siren’s music out into the theater.
    Vivien Ryan, La Sirène.
    In a fleeting instant of horrible clarity the memory of one of the online film clips that she had viewed while researching coloratura sopranos slammed through Grace’s fevered brain. Vivien was singing the famous Mad Scene from Lucia di Lammermoor. The blood on the virginal white gown looked all too real.
    So did the body sprawled in the shadows of the stage. A man, Grace realized. His face was turned away from her.
    She clutched the seat arm, feeling as though she were about to drown. In the opera the scene she was watching takes place after Lucia murders her unwanted bridegroom. What if she was too late? What if Luther was already dead?
    No. She would know if he was dead. In spite of the relentless power of the music, she was certain of that much. The knowledge gave her a curious strength. Her senses pulsed more strongly. It was not