He walked past the blazing oil drum fires and into the Divine Gate camp dressed in nothing more than his boots, cowboy hat, jeans and a long drover jacket. He cut quickly through the lines of people in glittering costumes and masks at the entrance, scanning ahead for any sign of Miranda. An arena had been prepared for the event, with scaffolding and bright lights that flooded the entire area with streams of vibrant color. A DJ was on the stage, positioned behind a wired semi-circle of turntables. He bobbed to the big rhythm grinding through the ten-foot speakers around the stage, his fingers nimble across the dials of a large mixer, his headphones askew with one ear covered and one exposed. Motioning to the crowd, he raised his hand as the pounding melted into an ethereal choir melody that seemed to float into the starlit sky. Then the beat was on again, hard and fast, so loud it vibrated in Seth's chest. The crowd started jumping, whooping as the rhythm quickened. They were dancing in the sand, on platforms, writhing against each other.
