Devouring Flame, page 11
“For that much, I’d say we haven’t just rented the space, we’ve subcontracted the entire staff. Which means—” He grinned, slow and evil. “—we get to assign them wherever we see fit.”
“Where are you planning to assign Ringmaster?”
Smith scowled, bunching his fists. “I hear the Ninth Circle of Hell has a few openings.” He forced himself to relax his hands before his claws poked holes in his palms. “Mostly I want him out of the way. He can lounge in his tent and count his money.” Smith tapped the tablet. “He’s got enough that it should keep him busy until after the Feast. In the meantime, I’ve got some research to do—starting with where I can find some decent pants.”
Chapter Twelve
THE next two days were the longest in Hashim’s life. In one way, he was more on edge than when he’d first set foot in the Portland Interstices for the Consort Race—keyed up from his clandestine assignment, mixed with wonder at the resort itself: its luxurious amenities, its lush gardens.
Its delicious fire-demon tech staffer.
But in another way, he was more bored than when he’d been relegated to goatherd duty for Yashar’s clan. He had nothing to do since Ringmaster had suspended his ludicrous unnecessary “rehearsals.” Ringmaster didn’t summon him for anything else either, and when Hashim finally crept downstairs to ask Gorthu oh so casually if he’d heard any news, Gorthu said the rumor was that Ringmaster was away.
“Doing something about the upgrades, Omisan said.” Gorthu was propped up in his bed, reading Stephen King and snacking on live shrimp. “She’s jazzed because she’s getting a new stove and walk-in fridge out of the deal—in the café and the mess hall.”
Hashim raised his eyebrows. “Ringmaster’s upgrading the carnies’ facilities too? Not just the customer-facing attractions?”
Gorthu shrugged. “Apparently the people who’re renting the Carnival—and to whom we owe this minivacation, bless their big, fat moneybags—are insisting on it in case they need the mess hall for overflow dining.” Gorthu set his book aside, facedown on his blanket. “I hear that the place is gonna be filled with vampires. Who eat food! How wild is that?”
“As long as they don’t mistake the acts for food, they can be as wild as they like. I’ll let you get back to your book.”
Gorthu waved as Hashim slipped out the door. He wanted to believe that improving the carnies’ mess tent was Smith’s doing, but it might be just as Gorthu had said—a requirement of the Carnival rental.
Other than this one visit, Hashim hadn’t dared to leave his room since his tryst with Smith, because he wasn’t sure when Smith would return, and he didn’t want to miss him. He hoped for news of Rion, too, but received no word from Dr. Makori either.
It’s not as if either of them can run over here with updates every half hour. And if Smith was cooking up some kind of scheme to liberate them all, then Hashim had to be patient.
He sucked at patience.
He trudged up the stairs to his room, but as he was opening the door, his cuffs tightened almost painfully on his wrists, the top row of jewels glowing. He tried to walk into his room, but at the threshold, his belly cramped and his muscles seized. Gritting his teeth, he stepped back. The pain disappeared.
It would seem I am not to return to my room. Undoubtedly this was a summons from Ringmaster. Hashim stomped down the stairs. As long as he maintained a straight line toward Ringmaster’s tent, he was fine. But if he deviated from the path—as he had to do to detour around the ladders of the crew who was still working on the fucking ring toss sign—the pain nearly dropped him to his knees.
By the time he made it to Ringmaster’s tent, he was panting with exertion and so angry he felt as if his hair was on fire. He forced himself to scratch on the tent flap instead of storming inside.
“Enter,” Ringmaster called.
When Hashim stepped into the tent, Ringmaster was shrugging into an embroidered silk dressing gown that appeared oddly lumpy, unlike the smooth lines of his red tailcoat. He barely glanced at Hashim.
“The company that’s leased the Carnival has decided it wants to subcontract all the staff too, so you’ll report to them for the next three days.”
“So you’re pimping me out now?” Hashim pretended horrified outrage, but inside he rejoiced. Smith did it. He’s finding a way.
Ringmaster’s lip lifted in disgust. “It’s a vampire banquet, not an orgy. Although….” He leaned back, looking Hashim up and down. “I’ll let them know other options are on the table.”
Hashim’s belly roiled, but he kept his voice even. “Don’t forget I’m an ifrit, a creature of fire. If a vampire were to stick his undead dick in me, it’d burn off. I doubt that would be covered by your liability insurance.”
“Hmmph. Good point. I’ll warn the event coordinator. Then it’ll be her ass on the line.” Ringmaster tapped his chin. “They requested you specifically. Seems some vampires prefer table-side food preparation and your little stunt with the kebabs is just what they’re looking for.” He glared at Hashim. “Do you have a problem with that?”
Hashim bowed his head to hide his elation. “No, Ringmaster. Of course not, Ringmaster.” Eat shit and die, Ringmaster.
“Good. Now get out and go back to your room. They’ll summon you when you’re needed.”
Hashim bowed again and left, barely restraining himself from racing across the grounds. This is it. It must be. He took the stairs to his room two at a time and when he burst through the door, Smith was there, and Hashim flung himself forward, trusting Smith to catch him.
Which he did. Of course. Although he staggered back a step before he caught his balance, his hands under Hashim’s ass.
“Whoa.” Smith grinned, and Hashim kissed him, savoring his fire and flavor. “Hello to you too.”
Hashim pretended to be mortified. “Oh no. I forgot. You’re my boss now. Have I crossed the line of proper decorum between employer and employee?”
Smith smacked him on the butt. “Fuck that. I’m not the boss of you, or anyone, for that matter. That’s not my gig.”
Hashim slid down Smith’s front, adding an extra wiggle to press their groins together. Smith was back in his usual jeans and T-shirt, more’s the pity. “Ringmaster told me that you’ve subcontracted the staff and acts, though. And that you’ve asked for me—” He fluttered his eyelashes. “—specially.”
Smith kissed his forehead. “That’s true. I didn’t want him to think he had special dispensation to exclude you. Is that okay?”
Hashim scoffed. “What do you think?”
“I think—” Smith kissed him on the lips, far too briefly. “—that I need to introduce you to a few people. Are you ready to go meet the real boss?”
“Should I be worried? Am I dressed appropriately?” Not that he could do anything about it if he was. He only had iterations of the same outfit. The only difference between what he wore one day versus another was the color of his sash.
“You’re perfect.” Smith leaned forward to murmur into his ear, “I prefer you naked, but that’s not an option right now.”
Hashim gulped. “Are you sure?”
Smith chuckled. “Sadly, yes.” He glanced around the room. “Let’s get you out of this place. It’s way too much like the dorms at my boarding school, and that’s just terrifying.”
Hashim bit his lip. “You remember that I can’t leave the grounds, right?”
“Yup. I’m taking you to our on-site operations center. Perfectly legal.” He scowled. “Damn. I should have asked Brooke to get you a pass. But if everything goes well, you won’t need it, and I’m stuck here for the next three days anyway to monitor the convention.”
“Do I need to bring anything?”
Smith cocked an eyebrow with another glance around the room. “Do you have anything to bring?”
“No.”
“Then I guess we’re set. Come on. We’ve got to prep for a massive suckage of vampires.”
“Suckage?”
“Do you have a better word for a metric fuckton of bloodsuckers?”
Hashim grinned. “Suckage is perfect. Lead the way.”
FOR half the trip across the grounds, Smith kept his hands in his pockets. But as they were passing the Nine Circles of Hell roller coaster, he thought, fuck it, and took Hashim’s hand. Hashim glanced at him, eyes widening, but he didn’t pull away. In fact, he tossed his hair back and grinned, swinging their hands as if to display their connection whenever they passed anyone else, whether carny or EO staff.
When they entered the banquet hall, though, Hashim gazed around in wonder, his lips parted in a soft O. “By the first star, this is incredible. You’d never know it used to be the gryphon barn and hippogriff stables.”
Smith looked around with satisfaction. “What can I say? We’re good.”
Hazel and her crew, along with some clever transformation spells from their staff design mages, had worked their usual wonders. The banquet hall was easily three times its former size. The rough wooden plank walls were now a creamy blush plaster. Wrought-iron chandeliers in the shape of flights of bats replaced the old bare hanging bulbs. Half the crew of brownies in EO livery were assembling tables while the other half draped them in crimson damask tablecloths.
Smith shook his head. Red linens and bat decorations. Could the vampires be any more cliché? But that’s what they’d requested, and EO guaranteed complete client satisfaction.
He led Hashim to across the hall, past the swinging double doors that led to the kitchens, and down the short hall to the operations war room. He paused outside the door. “You might find someone you know in here.”
Hashim’s brow puckered. “Your undine colleague you mean?” Smith held the door and Hashim stepped inside. “But—” His jaw dropped. “Rion?” He raced across the room to where the minotaur sat on an oversized stool, wearing a linen tunic that Hazel’s team had whipped together out of old sheets.
“Hey, Hashim.” Rion gave his usual guileless smile. “Brooke said you’d be along. Doesn’t the place look great?”
“Forget the place. What about you?”
“Me?” Rion waved one hand, which was laced with pink scars but was free of gauze or bandages. “I’m great. Doc got me all fixed up. See?” He lifted his tunic to display the scar tissue on his massive torso. “He says in a couple more weeks he can work a spell on the scars and they won’t even show anymore.”
Hashim looked up at Smith, his eyes glittering with unshed tears. “Thank you.”
“Hey, thank Evan. He’s the doctor-witch.”
“But—” Hashim frowned, scanning the room. “Rion can’t stay here where any of the carnies could see him. I sort of led Ringmaster to believe that Rion was dead.”
“You did?” Rion blinked at him. “Gee, I was gonna go report for work after lunch.”
“No!” Hashim and Smith shouted in unison.
Brooke breezed in from the hall, her tablet in her hand, with Forrest, Hazel, and Tessmacher at her heels. “That’s right. You’re working for Enchanted Occasions now. Ringmaster has nothing to say about it.”
“Okay, Miss Brooke,” Rion said. “I like it here better, anyway.”
She smiled as she sat next to him at the conference table. “I’m very glad to hear that. Now, if everyone could take a seat, we have a lot to discuss.”
Smith shot a reassuring smile at Hashim and took his usual place at his computer, behind a double bank of monitors. He adjusted the arm on one monitor, raising it so he could see Hashim at the table, sitting between Rion and Tessmacher.
Hashim exchanged a worried glance with Rion and patted his arm, half rising from his seat. “If you want us to leave so you can discuss company business, I can take Rion into the other room. We could help set up tables.”
Brooke waved him back to his seat. “Nonsense. The two of you are integral to our plans for the convention and Feast.” She beamed at them, but Smith detected a slightly manic glint in her eye.
“Did you hear that, Hashim?” Rion whispered, audible to everyone in the room. “We’re integral.”
Hashim clapped Rion’s shoulder. “Of course we are, old fellow,” he said heartily. “Haven’t I always said so?”
Brooke nodded to Smith, and he brought up the meeting agenda on the primary monitor on the side wall. “The first day of the conference begins tomorrow with the regular sensitivity training sessions. The initial lecture will be in the auditorium—”
“We have an auditorium?” Rion asked wonderingly.
Brooke smiled at him. “Indeed we do. And break-out session rooms as well, where the hands-on workshop sessions will occur. As I understand it—” She checked something on her tablet. “—the vamp—clients require no refreshments during this first day.”
“Thank fuck for that,” Smith muttered. Asking Chef to serve up carafes of fresh blood as if it were a coffee service was enough of a nightmare, but if the vampires expected their food… er… on the hoof, as it were? Smith was not down with that, no matter how much the suckers were paying.
Brooke shot him a quelling glare. “As I was saying, no refreshments are required because the vampires prefer to fast for some time prior to the Feast, the better to… um… enjoy it.”
“The better to gorge themselves, you mean,” Smith said.
“Smith,” Brooke said, her teeth clenched, “I am counting on you to support me here.”
“Right. Sorry, Brooke.”
“Yes, well. Moving on. That evening, the clients will leave the grounds for the casinos at the other side of the Interstices. We won’t be expected to host them again until the following morning when their annual general meeting will take place, again in the auditorium. We will facilitate the election of their officers and the vote on some proposed amendments to their bylaws.”
Officers? Bylaws? These jokers sounded less like dark princes of the night and more like a multinational corporation. But then Smith remembered the manic giggling in the labyrinth before he and Hashim had discovered Rion. Definitely not a kinder, gentler vampire suckage, no matter how they try to disguise it with modern jargon.
“The vote won’t occur until the evening, as they expect debate to continue for most of the day. We will only be required to… uh… replace any breakage and wipe up any blood spatter.”
If that’s how vampires “debate,” no wonder they’re fans of the Olesson-Pakulski wedding.
“Then, at one second after midnight, the Centennial Feast Day begins. The vampi—clients will expect access to their contracted food and drink beginning immediately and continuing for the next twenty-four hours.”
“Your pardon.” Hashim raised his hand. “These vampires—”
“Clients,” Smith said dryly, earning another glare from Brooke.
“These clients expect to eat for twenty-four hours straight?”
Brooke cleared her throat. “As we understand it, some of them do exactly that. We can expect the banquet hall to be populated pretty much the entire time, although the size of the crowd will vary over the course of the day. We’ll also have food stands set up on the Carnival grounds. There will be a beer garden with a full selection of sausages”—Smith snorted, but Brooke didn’t pause—“and schnitzel in front of the labyrinth, which will remain closed.”
Rion heaved a sigh. “Good.”
“Additionally high tea will be served on demand in the rose garden, and we’ll stock a full buffet during the cosplay ball in the evening.”
Rion raised his hand this time. “Excuse me, Miss Brooke?”
“Yes?”
“Why so many places to eat?”
She sighed, folding her hands on the table. “The vampires—”
“Clients?” Smith asked blandly.
“No, Smith. Vam-fucking-pires. We’re talking about the entire vampire population of North America. That is, they reside in North America now, but they may not have originated here. The North American VP was turned in Bavaria in 1836. The beer garden and sausages are his request. Many were turned in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, and they all want high tea—every hour of the day. Those who were turned more recently, up through the moratorium in 2007, want more modern options, so the hall, the carts, and the buffet will contain a wide array of foods—although not as wide as originally requested.” She scratched the side of her nose. “Trust me, we didn’t show that list to Chef.”
Hashim leaned forward. “What would your chef have done with such a list?”
“It’s not what he’d have done with the list, it’s what he would have done to the person who showed him the list.”
Tessmacher whimpered.
“Chef is so alarming, then?”
“He’s a goblin berserker.”
“Ah.” Hashim sat back. “Say no more.”
Forrest drummed his fingers on the table with a sound like rattling bamboo wind chimes. “Not that I’m complaining, but why have there been no vampires turned since 2007?”
“Easy,” Smith said. “Twilight. Too many moony teenagers with unrealistically romantic notions about what it means to be undead. All the vamps started freaking out. They might be bloodsucking, egomaniacal sociopaths, but they’re not pedophiles. At least that’s what their PR team claims.”
Forrest nodded and sat back in his chair—although for him, even when he was relaxing, he still maintained the posture of old growth timber.
“Right.” Brooke signaled to Smith to bring up the updated map of Interstices with all EO’s changes. “Now, for the cosplay ball, we’ll be using the Carnival grounds and opening the front of some tents. The clients will interact with the Carnival games and rides like any other guest—”
“Who hasn’t seen the sun in centuries,” Smith muttered and was rewarded with a quiver of Hashim’s lips.
“Smith.” Brooke laced his name with a boatload of exasperation. “If you can’t—”
A circle of green fire flared in the corner, and Evan stepped out of it, his pearl gray trousers and white button-down as pristine as usual. “I trust I’m not late.”
