Miriya

Chapter 3

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.