BURNED

Spread-eagled, she lay atop a reflective sheet of metal. All around, an elaborate arrangement of mirrors and lenses had concentrated the sun’s rays on her. With a small sigh, Mikani knelt next to the body and ran his hands over her, not quite touching.

There is no anger, here. Strange. Mikani smelled the girl’s fear, feeling her agony in phantom shivers and pain. Terror, shards of emotional memories screamed against the very stone. But of the killer . . . the mirrors and lenses were clear. Empty, as if they’d known no human touch.

And yet, there is purpose . . .

He saw her struggle, as aftershocks of terror rather than visual images: the taste of blood from a bitten tongue, the pain of constraints against wrists and ankles, harsh stone against the girl’s back, and the sickening scent of the charnel house her body became. That would be so much simpler—to see, rather than feel. Shivering, he turned away. Already, his head pounded in protest, and from a detached place in his mind, he knew that when he came down, he’d pay dearly.