Devouring Flame, page 14
“We’ll just have to shut those down too.”
“How?”
“I don’t know, but I’ll figure something out.” He kissed Hashim softly. “It’s—”
Hashim kissed him back. “What you do.”
THE next night, Smith stood in the corridor, peering out at the banquet hall. Even though the ball was in full swing on the midway, there were still a good couple hundred vampires decimating the buffet. He shook his head in disbelief. The quantities of food they’d put away in the last twenty-two hours boggled the mind.
Warm, sinewy arms snaked around his waist, and Hashim kissed him behind his ear. “I suppose vampires don’t really have to worry about minding their figures, do they? Not when they’re on a strict liquid diet for the other thirty-odd thousand days out of each century.”
Smith turned in Hashim’s embrace. “I was just thinking the same thing. I’m stunned that the kitchen staff was able to keep up.”
“Never underestimate Chef’s determination to succeed. We didn’t dare do anything less than phenomenal work.”
“That’s a goblin berserker trait. Anything less than perfection infuriates them.” He kissed Hashim’s forehead because anything more would have inflamed him in a way that was highly inappropriate in the middle of an event. “I’m surprised Chef let you escape.”
“With only another hour or so left in the Feast, the rest of the staff can handle it. I’m in reserve for any last-minute table-side barbecue, but the flower fairy IRT will fetch me if I’m needed.”
Tessmacher staggered past with a vast tray of panna cotta, its delicate rose petal garnish in place. As soon as he set it on the buffet table, he was rushed by a horde of vampires who snatched the little dishes and practically flew back to their tables. Tessmacher blinked and hoisted the empty tray to trudge back to the kitchen.
“Wow. Vampires really dig sweets. Who knew?”
Hashim chuckled. “Since more than half that extended menu was desserts, I think that should have been a clue. At least all of them could be prepared in advance.”
The chandeliers flickered, which made the wrought-iron bats look like they were winking at Smith. One of the nearby vampires pushed his chair back with a clatter and rushed toward the restrooms, one hand over his mouth and the other pressed to his stomach.
“Uh-oh. The spell is feeling the pinch. It’s time to make our last push, and for that, I need to be out on the midway.”
“I’ll let Chef know. He’s held a massive multi-tiered cake in reserve. They won’t be able to resist it.” Hashim took a step away, but Smith reeled him back in.
“Will you come out there with me? I’d rather you were within my sight when I push the fatal button.”
Hashim nodded. “I’ll be right back.”
Smith lost a moment watching him race across the hall to the kitchen doors, so lithe and graceful and gorgeous. And mine. No matter what that bastard Ringmaster thinks.
He retrieved his tablet from the operations center and met Hashim in the hall. “Ready for the apocalypse?”
“Habib albi, I’ve been ready since I was conjured.”
They circled the banquet hall, aiming for the terrace doors, just as Tessmacher and a half-dozen other kitchen minions staggered into the room with a seven-tiered cake decorated with a flight of spun sugar bats and topped with an animated coffin.
The vampires surrounded them, their dead-black eyes never leaving the cake. Before they could pounce, however, the kitchen doors burst open and Chef emerged with a ten-inch knife.
“You will wait until the cake is properly served!” He strode over to the table, and amazingly enough, the vampires cowered back, their dessert plates clutched in their hands like Oliver Twist about to beg for more gruel.
As Chef wielded his knife, Smith and Hashim slipped onto the terrace. There were still a few vampires in the rose garden, being served tea by the housekeeping staff. From the shrieks and yells coming from the midway, however, not to mention the techno dance music blaring over the enhanced PA spell, most of the clients were at the ball.
They stopped at the edge of the midway, next to a tent dedicated to makeup and costume repair. The midway seethed with vampires in various disguises—sweeping black capes, top hats and dark glasses, elaborate face prosthetics, and sparkly face powder were all popular.
Hashim leaned up to shout near Smith’s ear over the din. “Do they seriously only cosplay themselves?”
Brooke appeared next to them, a makeup brush in her hand. “Of course. They’re more homophilic than any Pure. They figure they chose this life—or rather nonlife—so it’s got to be better than anything else. And now they’re exclusive, since the moratorium on turning anyone else was made permanent in today’s election.”
Smith scanned the gyrating mob then down at his tablet, where the gauge that he’d configured to track the spell load was ticking steadily up toward the red zone—assisted no doubt by Chef’s cake, trays of which were being delivered to the buffet table next to the makeup tent, only to be devoured instantly by costumed vampires.
“This could be a problem.”
Hashim looked up at him, concern in his dark eyes, but no fear. “What?”
“To get the best coverage for the unlocking algorithm, I need to be in the center of Ringmaster’s domain.”
“His domain?” Brooke said. “What’s that, www-dot-asshole-dot-com?”
“Not that kind of domain.” Smith gestured to the midway. “This kind of domain.”
She squinted at the crowd, then at Smith. “You won’t get through looking like that. They block anyone who isn’t costumed or carrying food. Come in here.”
She dragged them into the tent. “Take off your blazer, Smith, and put this on.” She handed him a black taffeta cape with a stand-up collar.
“Hashim’s coming with me.”
“Hmmm. I don’t have another cape.” She picked up a nearly empty tin of glittery powder and swiped a brushful over Hashim’s face. “There. That should do. Now as long as you don’t bare your teeth so they see you don’t have fangs, you can blend in with the crowd.” She gave them a pointy-toothed smile of her own. “Now go take this bastard down.”
Smith grabbed Hashim’s hand and together they dove into the crowd. They hadn’t gone two yards before they realized their problem—vampires were cold as the grave and the two of them were creatures of fire. Anytime they brushed against a vampire—which was difficult to avoid given the size of the mob—the vampire would shriek and leap away.
“So much for being inconspicuous,” Smith muttered.
Hashim lifted an eyebrow. “In that case, I say we exploit it.” He thrust out his hand and poked the nearest vampire in the shoulder.
It became a counterpoint to the dance beat. Thump-poke-shriek, thump-poke-shriek, until finally, according to Smith’s calculations, they were standing in the exact center of Ringmaster’s sphere of influence.
Unfortunately, it was also very close to Ringmaster’s tent.
“Do you suppose he’s in there?” Smith asked. “I mean, there’s enough noise out here to wake the dead.” He glanced around at the vampire revelers. “Obviously.”
Hashim shrugged. “His tent has a soundproofing spell. He might be there, or he might be off on one of his mysterious jaunts. It hardly matters, does it?”
“No. You’re right. This is our chance. If it goes well, it won’t make a difference if he’s here or in Tierra del Fuego. He’ll still be screwed.”
They huddled together as vampires danced around them, watching as the gauge inched toward red. When it was a hair away, Smith turned to Hashim.
“A kiss for luck?”
Hashim smiled. “Always.” He pressed his lips to Smith’s, with a hot flicker of tongue, then pulled away.
The needle ticked over into the red zone. Here goes.
Smith activated the unlocking program, and all around the grounds, a roar went up that overcame the sound of the ball. The Ferris wheel stopped amid shrieks from the vampires stuck at the top. The Nine Circles of Hell roller coaster ground to a halt in circle seven.
Suddenly the air was full of glinting objects that rained down on the vampires’ heads.
“What—” One fell at Smith’s feet, and Hashim picked it up.
An opened wrist cuff.
“It worked.” Smith grinned, but his smile faded when he met Hashim’s devastated expression.
Hashim held up his hands. His cuffs were still firmly in place. “Not entirely.”
Another roar shook the ground and Ringmaster burst out of his tent. “What the fuck is going on?” His gaze lit on Hashim. “You. Get over here. Now.”
Chapter Fifteen
HASHIM glared at Ringmaster and shouted, “Fuck you!”
Ringmaster’s answering growl could be heard even over the shouts of the vampires trapped at the top of the Ferris wheel. He brandished his wrist, and with a flourish, punched a button on the controller.
Pain shot through Hashim’s belly as if he’d taken one of his own knives. His knees buckled and he would have dropped to the ground if Smith hadn’t caught him.
“What’s wrong?”
“He—” Hashim gritted his teeth against another burst of pain. “—still owns me. If I—Augh!” He buried his face against Smith’s chest and panted through the agony while it built as if he was being gutted. He forced himself to release Smith and took one step toward Ringmaster. The pain abated—not entirely, but enough to make it clear what Ringmaster wanted. “If I don’t obey him, he can p-p-punish me.”
Smith’s eyes flashed with buried fire. “Fuck that.” He grabbed Hashim’s hand. “He’s wearing a controller device. There’s got to be a way to disrupt the signal.” He narrowed his eyes, squinting at Ringmaster with loathing. “If it was electronic, I could fry its circuits with an electromagnetic pulse, but if it’s magical, we need Evan’s craft.”
Hashim shook his head, gritting his teeth as Ringmaster reinforced the command. “He has my true name. Only someone who knows it can untangle it from the spell.”
“Then we’ll get it.”
“How?”
“Hashim!” Ringmaster drew himself up, the gold braid on his coat gleaming luridly in the festive party lighting. “If you don’t attend me this instant, I will strike down every one of your friends, beginning with that aitcher.”
Smith flipped him off. “Check your fucking contract, asshole. You won’t get paid if you harm any of the EO staff.”
“Ah.” Ringmaster grinned toothily. “Thank you for the gracious reminder.” He shifted his gaze to Hashim. “You kill him.”
Hashim stared at Smith in horror. He wrenched his hand away. “No. I won’t. I—” He fell to his knees, fists clenched against his belly.
“Hashim.” Smith kneeled next to him. “We need to get you away from him.”
“No! You need to get away from me!” Hashim scrambled sideways, but he was hemmed in by a conga line of vampires. “He’ll make me do it. With the pain—And that may not be all he can do. If I can’t resist, he’ll make me—”
“He won’t.” Smith hunkered down next to him and tilted Hashim’s chin up, despite Hashim’s attempts to cringe away. “You voluntarily entered indentured servitude to protect me. You protected Rion. You’re a good man, sweetheart, and you’re stronger than him. You won’t kill me.”
Hashim’s heart thumped so hard that he shook with it. “You don’t know that. He—”
The thumping grew louder, rattling his teeth and causing several dancing vampires to lose their balance and trip over their capes. My heart can’t be beating that hard.
The pounding was interspersed with vampire shrieks. Suddenly the dancers parted like a fanged Red Sea, and Rion thundered through them. His normally mild brown eyes were reddened, and smoke puffed out his nostrils. Even though he was wearing a gray EO-monogrammed blazer, navy blue trousers, and shiny black oxfords, he was every inch the fearsome minotaur of legend. He bellowed once and charged straight at Ringmaster, his head lowered.
Ringmaster’s eyes widened, and he turned, scrabbling at his tent flap, but Rion reached him before he could escape, catching Ringmaster on his horns and tossing him into the air.
“Oooooooohhhhh.” A collective moan rose from the vampires, but they scrambled out of the way before Ringmaster hit the ground.
Rion glared at him, smoke curling out of his nose. “You leave my friend alone, you mean, awful, very bad man!”
Ringmaster pushed himself to his knees and rose, brushing dust off his coat, his teeth bared and his eyes pulsing red. “Why aren’t you dead? Those vampires paid a fortune for a chance to kill a minotaur. Are you telling me I have to give them a fucking refund?”
Although Hashim’s pain had vanished when Rion tackled Ringmaster, it was replaced by worry almost as debilitating. He grabbed Smith’s hand. “He’ll kill Rion. We can’t let that happen.”
Smith’s gaze was bouncing from Ringmaster to Rion. “I can’t figure out why he’s not dead. He was just gored by a minotaur, for brimstone’s sake. People don’t survive that. Unless—”
“Hashim!” Chef stormed down the midway. His cleaver was in his upper right hand, a lemon zester in his upper left, and he flung vampires out of his way with both lower hands. “Where the fuck are the vanilla beans?”
Ringmaster froze at the sound of Chef’s voice, turning slowly to face him. “Potboy?”
Smith’s eyebrows rose, and he blinked at Hashim. Potboy? he mouthed.
Chef’s lips drew back, fully exposing his tusks. “Dustman?”
Hashim returned Smith’s astonished look and mouthed Dustman?
As Chef and Ringmaster—or apparently Potboy and Dustman—glared at each other amid a gaping crowd of vampires, Rion trundled over. He offered his hands to Smith and Hashim.
“Are you okay?”
Hashim let Rion haul him to his feet. “Yes, but what are you doing here? It’s not safe.”
“Brooke told me.” He nodded at a point behind Hashim’s shoulder, and then Brooke was there, hugging Smith.
“Neptune’s balls, Smith, I thought that douchebag was going to kill you.” She let go of him, and to Hashim’s surprise, hugged him too. She was cool, like water over stones, but not dank like the vampires. “I knew he looked familiar.”
“Who?” Smith asked. “Ringmaster?”
“Yes. He looks like Chef.”
“If he’s a goblin berserker, that explains why Rion’s charge didn’t hurt him. Those dudes are practically indestructible. But where are his tusks?”
Brooke rolled her eyes. “Hello? Cosmetic dentistry?”
“Then what about his other arms?” Just then, a loud rrrrip sounded and another pair of arms tore through Ringmaster’s coat. “Oh. There they are.”
Hashim’s knees buckled. Immediately, Smith was there, his arm around Hashim’s waist, sturdy body supporting him and fueling his dwindling inner fire. “Brooke, you must take Rion away. Out of the Interstices altogether. Before Ringmaster is less—” He glanced over the heads of the goggling vampires, who had apparently decided the face-off between Chef and Ringmaster was being staged for their entertainment. “Less distracted.”
Rion shook his big head as a roar went up from the vampires. “I won’t go. You need me.” He bared his wrists, free at last from the cuffs. “He can’t do anything to me now.”
“He could sue you for breaking your indenture.”
Smith barked a laugh. “In what court? ‘Your honor, my slave had the audacity to free himself before he was slaughtered by vampires who paid me for the privilege.’” He snorted. “Not a chance in seven hells.”
Hashim clutched Smith’s sleeve. “But he could retaliate. Hurt Rion somehow. Nobody raises a hand against Ringmaster.”
Inside the circle of vampires, Chef backhanded Ringmaster with one free hand. Smith cocked his head. “Apparently they do now.”
“Dustman,” Chef roared, “you dare show your face outside the Mountain King’s stable yard? I can’t let such an outrage pass!” He jammed the lemon zester into Ringmaster’s neck. “Pfaugh! If my custards don’t set now, I shall hold you personally responsible.”
“What is this outfit, Potboy?” Ringmaster yanked the zester out of his neck and tossed it aside. “If you couldn’t be content serving your betters in the guards’ mess, you should have returned to the fighting pits where you belong.”
“Me? You were good for nothing but collecting dragon shit.” He gestured to the Carnival and the surrounding vampires with his cleaver. “You may have branched out, but you’re still wallowing in shit of your own making.”
Ringmaster roared and knocked Chef’s toque off, then ground it into the dust with one jackbooted heel.
Brooke and Smith exchanged a wide-eyed glance. “Uh-oh.”
Smith grabbed Hashim’s hand, his other on Brooke’s back. “Come on, Rion. We have to get out of here before the shit hits the Ferris wheel.” But when they turned, there was a solid wall of vampires behind them—sparkly or caped or rocking the Buffy facial prosthetics, all of them jostling to get a better view of the fight. “Damn it.”
“Don’t worry, Smith,” Rion said. “I can clear a path.” He put his head down and snorted. The vampires eeeped like startled chicks and leaped out of the way—all but three of them, who practically salivated as they stared at Rion.
They were Nosferatu-freaky, with bald pates, overlong incisors, and nail extensions. All three were armed with machetes.
“Hey.” Brooke frowned at them, hands on her hips. “Machetes are not part of the approved costume pieces for Nosferatu cosplay.”
Rion’s nostrils flared, showing red. “It’s them. The ones who attacked me.” When Rion bellowed, the vampires lifted their tattered robes and took off like they were sprinting for the last boat out of Hades, Rion thundering at their heels.
Brooke bit her lip. “Should we stop him? I mean, the vampires are clients and he’s technically an EO employee.”
Hashim shook his head. “Rion won’t hurt them. He doesn’t have that in him.”
