Devouring Flame, page 17
He concentrated, passing his other hand in the air over the scattered rings until—there. A tug, tiny but insistent. Unfortunately, it came from a pile of perhaps a dozen rings that had all fallen atop one another. But at least I have a starting place.
He kneeled down and picked up the first. Too big. He set it aside to try the next. Too big. Too small. Too— He froze, staring at the edge of a newly uncovered ring. It glowed. It pulsed. It practically winked at him.
Fingers trembling, Hashim used one extended claw to tease it out of the pile. He held it in his hand, almost afraid to try it on. But he knew. He could tell. Mine.
“Is that it?” Smith’s voice was stronger but still not back to his usual bluff forcefulness. Hashim nodded. “Then put the damn thing on so we can get the fuck out of here.”
Breath coming in uneven gasps, Hashim held the ring over his right ring finger. Not there. His thumb. Still wrong. His forefinger. Yes! He slid it on and it whispered over his knuckle to nestle at the base. Then he saw it, the words glowing in the gold.
Dar-y-Jibril.
The instant he read them, turning the sounds over in his mind, the ring disappeared, merging with his flesh, fusing with his bones, a part of him, never to be stolen again.
Dar-y-Jibril.
The name he’d instinctively known was his, had yearned to hear whispered on the wind.
Dar-y-Jibril.
Me. My name. Mine.
The cuffs dropped to the ground at his feet and then… and then….
Desert wind roaring in his ears. Fire singing in his veins. Flesh becoming smoke to rise up, up, up….
This was what it meant to be unbound, with no fetters binding him to the earth or to the insignificant figures flailing around his feet, so far away. Among them, he could pick out the three who’d attacked Rion, his blood staining their souls even though they’d scrubbed it from their hands.
I could burn them where they stand, those puny undead parasites.
Later.
He climbed higher, higher than the Ferris wheel, its gondolas frozen in place after the ride jocks were freed. I could pluck those gaping imbeciles from their seats. Fling them into the air. Watch them plummet to the ground in a satisfying pattern of broken flesh among the others who are running now amid a snow of red and white scraps, peering up at me, mouths stretched wide. Screaming? Perhaps, although the noise that reached him was more like the frantic cheeping of mice fleeing a cat.
Later.
From this height, he could see beyond the grounds, beyond the Vegas Interstices with Intergates scattered around its perimeter like open windows into any realm he chose.
I could dive through that one, where Yashar capers in his paltry, ineffective rites like a gibbering fool. Or that one, where the Faerie Queen postures on her living throne, ignoring how her people loathe her. Or that one—Earthside—where so many wicked men wield crippling power over the weak and helpless.
With one thought, one touch, one dive from on high, he could reduce them to nothing but ash on the wind, flying from one to the next as swiftly as an arrow, for he had no anchor now to hold him, no chains to bind him, no spells to control him.
Yashar named me destroyer. Now I can become the destroyer in truth.
Power infused him, greater than he’d ever felt, not even during that moment in the ritual fire before Yashar bound him. He savored it, gorging on it like the vampires on sweets at their ridiculous feast, growing larger, larger, and larger still, until the flames of his hair brushed the Interstitial sky.
The Interstices cannot hold me. Nothing can hold me. With this power, I could break through any walls, topple any tyrant, destroy the deadliest weapon.
Intoxicated with surge after surge of pure energy, he formed a fist of smoke to punch through the sky. But as he drew back, he felt a tug. There. Where his heart would be if he weren’t above such things as hearts.
He looked below and saw a glimmering thread leading from that spot in his core down, down, down to the Carnival so far beneath him, to end in the body of one tiny figure, who nevertheless burned like the heart of a volcano.
I know him. By his deeds, I know him. By his heart, I know him. By his true name, I know him.
Qayin-Baruti.
He does not destroy, he builds. He does not harm, he protects. He does not hate, he loves.
And though he fears, he does not run. Though he is powerful, others do not flee him.
How much better to be like him than like Yashar or Ringmaster or the Faerie Queen, who never seek to make their worlds better.
How much better to be like him than to be the destroyer.
To be like Qayin-Baruti.
To be with Qayin-Baruti, whether he called himself Smith or any other name.
I choose that path. I am not the destroyer. I am Dar-y-Jibril, whether I am called Hashim or any other name.
I choose him. I choose love.
ANY reasonably intelligent person would have fled from the enormous entity of fire-shot smoke that hovered over the grounds like a storm waiting to break. Hells, the vampires had run, and nobody could accuse them of reasonable intelligence—they’d chosen to be vampires, for brimstone’s sake.
Smith wasn’t suffering from power overload anymore—that juice seemed to be draining out of him at a good clip. But he needed to hold onto some of it if only so he wouldn’t be empty when Hashim left.
Because he was bound to leave. I mean, look at him. Lucifer himself couldn’t match that size and strength. Smith couldn’t begrudge him that, regardless of the hollow in his heart.
This is what I wanted for him—to be free to be himself. Free to choose. If he could choose this, why would he want a defective fire demon who was nothing but a computer jockey?
I never expected to find him. I can go back to the way it was before. Living alone with nothing but the occasional anonymous hookup and poker nights in Faerie for entertainment. Researching ways to fuse technology and magic in his eternal quest to bring all the realms into the modern era. Working with his colleagues to make Enchanted Occasions the premier event-planning company in the multiverse.
Before Hashim, he’d been satisfied with that life. It was far better than many aitchers had achieved or could expect. Why did it seem so flat and meaningless now?
Because before, I’d never been in love.
The vast smoke creature that had been his lover, his heart, his soul, peered down at him, pinning him in place with eyes of flame. Does he remember me? Does a being like that even think the same?
Then the smoke dove, arrowing down toward where Smith lay. Smith flinched, clenching his eyes shut against the impact.
But it didn’t come.
“Qayin-Baruti.”
At the murmur of his true name, Smith’s eyes flew open. Hashim was kneeling next to him, smiling softly, the glowing fire gem in his hand.
“You’ve come back?” Smith croaked.
Hashim nodded. “Although I am no longer a prisoner of those who sought to control me, it seems I am not without an anchor.” He held out the gem. “You.”
“What—” As Smith struggled to sit up, Hashim placed a hand between his shoulders to help. “I never wanted to hold you back. You don’t owe me anything.”
“On the contrary, I owe you everything. But you do not owe me.” He placed the gem in Smith’s hand. “If you wish, I can wipe your name from the gem now, wipe it from my own memory too.”
“You… you can do that?”
He nodded somberly. “I can do many things, most of them things I should not.”
“Is that what you want?”
“No. To be honest, I want something else.”
Smith swallowed, his mouth dry. “What?”
Hashim curled Smith’s fingers over the gem and caged them with both his hands. “I want to complete the spell. To join my true name with yours. To become your lover, your partner—”
“My husband?” Smith whispered, his heart lodged in his throat.
Hashim nodded. “My mate. From now forward. After all—” He glanced at Smith through his lashes. “I promised never to leave you.”
“That’s what I want too.” He rolled to his knees. “Can we do it now? Before anything else blows up?”
Hashim nodded, then leaned forward. “Dar-y-Jibril,” he murmured into Smith’s ear.
Smith sucked in a gasp, his eyes widening, as his lungs tried to expand past his rib cage, as his heart tried to leap out of his chest. Judging by the expression of combined pain and wonder on Hashim’s face, he must be feeling the same.
Inside their joined hands, the fire gem vibrated, its glow growing stronger until it shot through their fingers into the sky like a laser light show. Smith met Hashim’s gaze, tender and hot, and dove forward for a kiss.
His lips are perfect. Warm and soft, yet firm. His beardless skin so smooth against Smith’s rough stubble. The heat of his mouth as Smith stroked inside, Hashim’s tongue meeting his in a sinuous mating, was as seductive as his fire-eating dance.
When they broke the kiss, the glow had disappeared. Still breathing heavily, Smith unfurled his fingers. Instead of the fire gem’s glittering globe, he held two rings that looked like fire prisoned in translucent glass. Smith knew immediately which one to pick.
He slid it onto Hashim’s left ring finger. “I choose you.”
Hashim smiled and took the other ring from Smith’s palm. He slid it onto Smith’s right ring finger to mirror his own—the correct placement for demon matings. “I choose you.”
For an instant, the rings flared, the letters of their true names twining together before they faded to invisibility. But we know they’re there.
Smith laced the fingers of his right hand with Hashim’s left, so that the rings met. He leaned forward, his lips a breath away from Hashim’s, and murmured, “My husband.”
“Smith!” The shout rattled every sign on the midway.
Smith jerked back and landed on his butt. His boss stood in front of the ducky pond joint, his hands on his hips. Smith scrambled to his feet. “M-M-Mikos. When did you get back?”
“Never mind that. Care to tell me why the ILE is on my ass with some bullshit story about a marauding unbound ifrit?”
Smith glanced sidelong at Hashim. “Um….”
“Why are half our clients hugging the porcelain in the restrooms, and far too many of them spewing over the sides of the Ferris wheel gondolas?”
“Er….”
“And why, by Zeus’s overactive cock, is Chef standing at the top of the roller coaster, pounding his chest with all four arms, and wearing nothing but his toque?”
“Mikos, I can explain—”
Mikos crossed his arms and started tapping his foot. “I’m waiting.”
Hashim sidled over to Smith and took his hand, their rings meeting in their palms. I’m not alone. And everything we’ve done is worth the price, even if it means Mikos kicks me to the curb.
Smith lifted his chin and stared Mikos down. “In the first place, where the fuck was the ILE when a disguised goblin berserker was running a slave trafficking ring out of the Vegas Interstices?”
Mikos’s eyebrows shot up. “What?”
“In the second place—”
“In the second place,” Hashim cut in smoothly, “there is no unbound ifrit. The only ifrit here is most definitely bound. To his mate. With full consent.” He pressed a kiss to the opalescent band on Smith’s ring finger, then faced Mikos, who was staring at Smith, slack-jawed. Hashim patted the lapel of his EO blazer. “Besides, how can an ifrit be a rogue when he is gainfully employed by the most highly respected event-planning company in the multiverse?”
Mikos’s jaw snapped shut. His chest heaved once, twice, three times before he seemed to calm himself enough to speak again. “So Smith has an unexpected husband, and I have an undocumented ifrit on staff. Care to explain the vomiting vampires?”
Smith gripped Hashim’s hand tighter for courage. “The… uh… Centennial Feast spell got a bit strained and crapped out a few minutes early.”
“Impossible. That spell has been stable for eons. I calculated the food loads with plenty of leeway.”
“Yeah, the thing is….” Smith scrubbed his free hand through his hair. “We sort of revised that a little.”
“You changed the menu?” Mikos’s voice reverberated in Smith’s bones. Uh-oh. Siren meltdown imminent. “Are you fricking insane? Is that why Chef is behaving like a precivilized goblin throwback?”
“Ah, no. That would be because he encountered an old, let’s say acquaintance, and engaged in a precivilized goblin throwdown.”
“If it helps,” Hashim said brightly, “I think he won.”
“Don’t tell me any more.” Mikos pinched the bridge of his nose. “I don’t think I can take it.”
“Hey, Hashim!” The ground shook as Rion galloped up to them. “Were you that big smoke guy? That was awesome, but kind of scary.” He lowered his voice. “You won’t do that again, will you?”
Hashim patted Rion’s arm. “No, my friend. You needn’t worry.”
“Rion?” Mikos’s voice vibrated with disbelief. “What are you doing here?”
Rion blinked, his gaze bouncing from Hashim to Mikos. “Um, helping with the flowers? Did I do something wrong?”
Mikos rushed over and took Rion’s hand. “No, no of course not, my dear. But your mother is frantic with worry.”
“She is?” A smile dawned on Rion’s muzzle. “I thought she was embarrassed by me. You know, because of my stepfather being mad and all.”
“She’s been searching for you for months.” Mikos frowned. “With no help whatsoever from her husband. She was terrified that something had happened to you.”
“Something did,” Smith said. “The asshole who used to run this place stuck him in the middle of a labyrinth and let anybody who dropped a couple of silver pieces take potshots at him.”
“What?” Mikos roared, in a perfect G7 chord.
“That’s why we overloaded the spell. We had to take that guy down and free all the carnies, including Rion.” And Hashim.
Mikos threaded his fingers in his hair and pulled. Hard. “Smith, you’re supposed to be the problem solver not the bloody problem itself. This makes the Olesson-Pakulski wedding look like a freaking princess party by comparison. We’ll be lucky to get a satyr’s coming-of-age beer bash after this. Earthside office holiday parties and—”
“Mikos!” A vampire wearing a copy of Gary Oldman’s weird bifurcated white wig from Coppola’s Dracula movie staggered up to Mikos like a guy who’d downed an entire case of beer. He had chocolate smeared across his dead-white cheek and scraps of red and white fabric stuck to his embroidered crimson robe. Smith didn’t want to think about what the rusty dots scattered over the satin might be.
Mikos closed his eyes briefly before pasting on his professional smile. “Vladimir. Good evening. Lovely costume.”
“Yes, I know. Isn’t it?” The vampire gestured to the grounds where EO security trolls were helping stranded guests off the Ferris wheel—although they still left Chef alone at the apex of the roller coaster. “This event has exceeded all our expectations. The accommodations, the food, and above all, the entertainment!” He clapped Mikos on the shoulder with a pale, long-nailed hand. “You can count on a five-star review and our repeat business next year.”
The vampire staggered off, giggling like a schoolgirl. The sound send a shiver up Smith’s spine. Do all vampires laugh in that crazy, high-pitched way?
But he shook it off. Mikos was staring after the vampire, his mouth agape—although on Mikos, even that looked good.
“So, Mikos,” Smith said, releasing Hashim’s hand to slide an arm around his waist. “You were saying?”
Chapter Nineteen
ALTHOUGH Hashim wanted nothing more than to find a quiet spot to be alone with his husband—preferably with clothing optional—Mikos dragged Smith away on Enchanted Occasions business.
That’s fair. Their engagement isn’t complete until after the cleanup.
Since Mikos hadn’t fired him on the spot, Hashim was still an EO employee, so he went in search of a job to do. He found a harried Brooke directing the crew of golems and brownies who were stripping the banquet hall of its fixtures.
The bat chandeliers had already been lowered to the floor and lined up against the wall. The brownies were bundling up the tablecloths, which were rather worse for wear, since the vampires hadn’t bothered to eat neatly when their goal was speed and quantity.
“Is there anything I can do to help, Brooke?” He smoothed the lapels of his borrowed EO blazer. “I believe I’m still on payroll.”
Her shoulders sagged in relief. “Hashim. Thank Neptune. Could you—No! Stack the tabletops in that corner with the others, not on top of the chandeliers!” She huffed an exasperated breath. “Golems. They may be strong and relatively dexterous, but they are not independent thinkers.”
The restroom door swooshed open and a vampire in a bedraggled cape crept out on his hands and knees. The brownies and golems sidestepped him with practiced ease.
Brooke shot Hashim a wry glance. “I’d feel sorry for them, except….” She shrugged.
“I know. They brought it on themselves. Although considering their obvious discomfort, none of them looks the least regretful.”
“I guess they figure it was worth it.”
“For Chef’s cooking? I can’t disagree.”
Brooke slapped her forehead. “Chef. Damn, I nearly forgot. He’s still MIA. Could you be an angel and supervise the kitchen decommissioning? Everything but the walk-in fridge—Chef always does that himself. Tessmacher’s in there, but he’s freaked about issuing orders to the golems.”
Hashim raised both eyebrows. “Tessmacher speaks?”
She grinned. “You’d never know, but, yes, he does. However he only comes up to the golems’ shins, and they keep almost stepping on him.”
“I would be honored to assist, but I should warn you—” He lifted his nose in the air. “I could never be an angel.”
