Devouring Flame, page 5
Part of him wondered why Hashim would put up with it, but regardless, Smith was now totally on board with Brooke’s plan to stick it to Ringmaster. In fact, he planned to go one better and teach the guy a lesson.
Although how he’d manage that—him, a defective demon aitcher working for an event-planning company—he had no idea. What could he do—smorgasbord the guy to death? Come to think of it, Chef could probably figure out a way to do that. Smith, though, had to depend on his tech kung fu and the demon ruthlessness that his mother always swore he had inside him somewhere.
Turns out I do. I just needed the right target.
Ringmaster stomped over to their table, obviously about to lay into Hashim again. Brooke’s eyes were as big as Smith’s fists. She gave a tiny shake of her head, so apparently he must be doing that smoldering intensity thing—or maybe just looking demon-edgy. Okay. No decapitating the owner of the venue. Damn it.
But he had to defuse the issue somehow, cut the bully off at the knees.
The kebab was still burning merrily so Smith plucked the skewer out of Hashim’s hand. Using his extended claws, Smith teased one of the flaming chunks of meat off the skewer and popped it—still on fire—into his mouth. Ahhhh. He closed his eyes in bliss. He’d convinced Chef to prepare well-done meat, but he’d never talked him into serving it when it was still on fire. This was fucking amazing.
He chewed and swallowed, the fire tingling in his mouth, singing in his blood. He opened his eyes to find Hashim staring at him, wide-eyed, with Ringmaster looming behind him like a red-coated refrigerator. “Perfect. Thank you, Hashim. It’s so rare to find a waiter who’s able to deliver my food exactly as I like.” He kept his expression bland as he nodded at Ringmaster. “My compliments. Your staff provides exemplary customer service.”
“Yes,” Brooke chirped. “I’m sure our clients will be ecstatic.”
Chill, Brooke. Don’t oversell it. This guy isn’t that stupid.
Ringmaster’s eyebrows bunched over his snout. He looked almost disappointed that Smith and Brooke weren’t angry, as if he wanted an excuse to rake Hashim over the coals. Take that, you douchecanoe. “Well. I’m pleased that you weren’t inconvenienced by this one.” He flicked his claws at Hashim. “You may go.”
Hashim inclined his head in a brief bow and Smith’s anger boiled up again at the sign of subservience. He popped another hunk of beef into his mouth, although it wasn’t as satisfying since the flames were dying down.
He listened to Brooke’s discussion with Ringmaster with one ear, finishing his snack while keeping one eye on Hashim, who moved among the other occupied tables with noticeably tense shoulders and a false smile.
I’ve seen his real smile, and it looks nothing like that.
Finally Brooke finished her conversation and stood. “Thank you for your time. Our housekeeping staff will arrive promptly at five to begin the strictly janitorial tasks. I’ll let them know to avoid the upgrade crews.”
Ringmaster frowned at the table, which only contained the water pitcher, Brooke’s empty glass, and Smith’s bare skewer. “I thought you were going to eat lunch.”
“We did.” She smiled brilliantly. “Thank you. We’ll be going now.”
She jerked her head at Smith, and when he stood, she grabbed his elbow and towed him out of the café, not saying anything until they were off the grounds and nearing the Interstitial gate. “Neptune’s balls, Smith, I can’t believe it.”
He tried to pry her fingers off his arm—with no success. “Yeah. That Ringmaster guy was a total asshole.”
“Not him!” She finally let go, and Smith rubbed his elbow, still smarting from her nails. “You slept with Hashim!”
He rocked back on his heels. “I—What makes you think that?”
“Oh please.” She pivoted and marched toward the gate. “Don’t insult my intelligence. I know a lover’s quarrel when I see one.”
“Whatever you thought you saw, it had nothing to do with love.” Hashim had made sure of that. Although to be fair, he’d never promised Smith anything. They hadn’t done all that much talking, anyway.
“Was it during the Consort Race?” She smacked her forehead. “What am I saying? Of course it was. Is that why he dropped out?”
“I have no idea why he dropped out. He didn’t speak to me before he left. Not even—” Smith’s voice broke on the word. Shit. He swallowed twice. “Not even when I offered to escort him through the gate.”
Brooke grasped his arm again—more gently this time. “Oh, honey. I’m sorry.”
“About what?”
“He hurt you, didn’t he? I know you don’t say much about your sex life—”
“And there’s a reason for that. We’re colleagues, not BFFs. Could we maybe remember that and steer this conversation back to more professional channels?”
Oddly, she nodded, although her expression contained far more pity than Smith was comfortable with. “Okay. Let’s go give Mikos the good news.”
They gated from Vegas to the Athens Interstices and walked to EO headquarters with no further conversation, which suited Smith just fine. Now that the venue was set, he could monitor the convention activities from the safety of his own desk. If he needed to visit his mom, he’d go through New Orleans or Omaha. They opened directly onto the demon realm too. No need to ever set foot in Vegas again.
He was just powering up his rig when Mikos strode in, his curly black hair standing up in tufts as if he’d been clutching it—or possibly ripping it out. Usually that only meant one thing.
“Chef?” Smith asked.
“I wish. Listen, Smith, I know you prefer to stay behind the scenes, and I thought I could let you remote in for this whole gig. Brooke’s getting up to speed quickly, but this is a big event. She needs on-site backup.”
Smith thought of that asshole Ringmaster and what Brooke herself had identified as his user-abuser vibe. “I can see that.”
“I was planning to be there, but I’ve been called out to Crete. The minotaur crisis from last summer has flared up again, and Zeus can’t be bothered to mediate.” Mikos wrinkled his nose. “Funny how my despicable aitcher self is suddenly indispensable when an Olympian has an unpleasant duty to offload.”
Eels began gyrating in Smith’s belly. “So is Forrest—”
“Forrest doesn’t have the bandwidth, not with the gardening requirements. He probably wouldn’t have agreed anyway. I’m sorry to ask it of you, but I don’t have another option. Brooke will deal with the client-facing chores, but I need you there to handle the infrastructure, including Chef. Can you do that for me? Please?”
Smith sighed. How could he refuse? Mikos had given all of them—Brooke, Forrest, Smith, Chef, all the other staff—satisfying work and a place to belong, even when they’d been rejected by everyone else in their lives. Suck it up. He indulges my quirks without a qualm the rest of the time.
All he had to do was steel himself whenever he saw Hashim for the next few days. Piece of cake.
“Sure, Mikos. No problem.”
Mikos heaved a huge sigh, and his brilliant smile nearly lit the room. “Excellent. Thank you! I’ll make sure you get hazard pay for this. Later.” He whisked out of the room.
Smith slumped in his chair. Forget hazard pay. He’d probably need extensive therapy by this time next week.
Assuming treatment was even possible for a rebroken heart.
HASHIM couldn’t remember the rest of his shift. He assumed he took orders and delivered meals efficiently since nobody complained or tried to gut him with a steak knife. He couldn’t even remember Ringmaster’s exit, although he’d barked out some kind of demand.
Smith stood up for me. Against Ringmaster.
He hadn’t needed to do it. In fact, he would have been totally justified in registering a complaint, since Hashim had fully intended to provoke him. Not that a complaint would get me fired. I only wish it would. He laughed, a slightly hysterical giggle. Talk about job security.
Then his mood bottomed again. It wouldn’t matter whether Smith had acted out of concern for Hashim personally or just because he was a decent demon in general. They still had no future, and not only because of Hashim’s past actions. Bound ifrits had no rights other than what their masters granted them. As merely a conjured ifrit, as he was in Yashar’s clan, he actually had more freedom than he did now, even though those “freedoms” were limited. But when so much of your existence was controlled, even tiny freedoms—the right to choose his own clothing, his own tasks, his own opinions, his leisure activities—was hardly trivial. Not to mention that I had leisure time.
Ringmaster had never shown the slightest inclination to take advantage of his staff with his… staff… as it were. None of the acts—male, female, nonbinary, agender—had ever reported any abuse of a sexual nature. Hashim wasn’t afraid of that.
He had no idea, however, in what way Ringmaster would choose to exercise his newly minted total power over Hashim. As far as Hashim knew, Ringmaster had no other enslaved minions.
What if he ordered me to hurt someone? Omisan. Rion. Smith. What would happen if I refused?
Could he refuse?
At least under Yashar, Hashim had been able to work around orders he found objectionable—such as the order to ensorcell the Prince of Faerie—as long as he was willing to face the repercussions. But being bound was different. The cuffs on his wrists felt tighter now, heavier, more binding, although he wasn’t sure whether that was real or because they had assumed greater virtual weight in his mind.
When he left the café to get ready for the next show, he hung his apron on the hook in the kitchen and slunk out the back door without speaking to Omisan or the other servers. Some of them had seen the altercation between him and Smith—and afterward, with Ringmaster—and he didn’t want to deal with it.
When he got to the sideshow tent, though, Tarla, the gorgon snake charmer, stared at him in confusion. “Hashim? What are you doing here?”
He shrugged. “It’s showtime. Where else would I be?”
“Ringmaster said you wouldn’t be performing. I’m taking the bally this afternoon.”
Hashim let his hands drop to his sides, nerveless. If Ringmaster wasn’t planning on him performing, what was he planning for Hashim to do? Maybe I should have paid more attention to what he was saying after Smith left. Now that he made himself remember, Ringmaster had said something about reporting to his tent after his shift. “Sorry. Just had something else on my mind, I guess.”
Tarla smiled and buffeted Hashim’s shoulder. “No worries. Although I doubt we’ll pull in the crowds we do when you’re out front. My snakes kinda scare them off.”
Hashim ducked out the back flap and crept along the side of the tent to peer at the stage. The regular outside talker was back in his spot rather than Ringmaster.
I suppose I should report as ordered.
Hashim ran his fingers through his hair, straightened his shoulders, and marched across the grounds to Ringmaster’s tent. He scratched on the flap in the pattern every carny learned to announce their presence to Ringmaster.
Even as late as this morning, Hashim would have entered without an invitation—it was one way he resisted his indenture. Now, he didn’t want to test the waters and discover that perhaps he couldn’t resist, even if he wanted to.
“Enter,” Ringmaster called.
Hashim slipped inside. Ringmaster was sitting in the throne-like chair behind his enormous desk. The only other chair in the tent was tucked in the corner behind the desk too, so Hashim had no choice but to stand on the carpet in the center of the tent. He locked one hand around his opposite wrist, determined not to show his nerves. “You wished to see me?”
Ringmaster steepled his fingers, staring at Hashim from narrowed eyes. “You’re fortunate that you pleased those customers, although if you imagine I don’t know you didn’t intend to please them, you’re a bigger fool than I thought.”
“I’m sure my next shift will be less eventful, Ringmaster.”
“I’m sure it would be, even if I had to adjust the spells on your cuffs to make it so, but it hardly matters now. As of 5:00 this evening, the café will be closed, as will all the attractions.”
“Closed? Why?”
“For upgrades and refurbishment,” he snarled. “As if the Carnival needs it. Bad enough I’ll lose the gate money, but shelling out cash on this ridiculous list of unnecessary improvements? Throwing away good money as far as I’m concerned.”
“Then I’m surprised you’re doing it.”
“Watch your mouth.” He fingered the spell band on his own wrist that controlled the carnies’ cuffs, and Hashim steeled himself for the jolt of pain. It didn’t come. This time. But what’s to stop him from invoking the pain spell in the future? There’s nobody to protest. “I’m leasing the Carnival for a private party. That undine and her hired muscle that you almost incinerated in the café are managing it.”
Hashim’s heart sank. He’d thought Smith had supported him out of kindness, or perhaps from remembered affection.
But apparently he was just protecting his investment. No different from Ringmaster.
“I see.”
“After we close, you will perform the bally as scheduled.”
Hashim frowned in confusion. “Without an audience?”
“Consider it rehearsal.”
“I’ve been doing ten shows a day for six months. Surely I don’t need that much rehearsal.”
“Apparently you do, since you let your torches gutter this morning and fled the stage in mortification.”
“I didn’t—”
“Are you saying you fled the stage for some other reason? Because if that were the case, I would have to consider another method to school you.” Ringmaster leaned back in his chair, lacing his fingers across his stomach, and smirked. “After I informed your sheikh of your behavior, he readily agreed with me that an unstable ifrit such as yourself shouldn’t be allowed to go unchecked any more than a djinn or, say, a goblin berserker.” He smirked, the smug bastard. “Think of the danger to the public if you should lose control and run amok.”
If I could only learn my name, I’d give you amok. “You talked him into selling me, didn’t you?”
“It wasn’t difficult. I’ve never known a wizard who was so fucking hopeless at cards. The price I paid for you will extricate him out of a most embarrassing situation.” He tsked. “He should know better than to gamble with ghouls. They take immense joy out of collecting their IOUs—in pounds of flesh.”
Hashim’s fists were clenched so tightly that his claws bit into his palms. “May I go now?”
“I suppose.”
Hashim forced himself to bow, palms together, as he backed toward the tent flap. “Thank you, Ringmaster,” he forced out between numb lips.
“Oh. One more thing. I altered the restraining spells on your cuffs. Others can go elsewhere here in the Vegas Interstices, but you are restricted to Carnival grounds.” He bared his teeth. “This is your entire world now, and I am your god.” He flicked his fingers, dismissing Hashim as if he were nothing but an annoying gnat. “I advise you to get used to it.”
Chapter Seven
INTERSTITIAL real estate required will, magical talent, and power to alter it into something that could be inhabited. The EO staff had all that in spades, so Smith wasn’t worried about that part of the gig.
“But can you ever truly satisfy a vampire?” he muttered as he walked through the enormous kitchen space, making notes on his phone for the appliances and fixtures that Chef demanded before he could work. They’d have to bring in more kitchen staff for Feast Day. Even with the vastly abbreviated menu Mikos had negotiated with the vampire CEO, the quantities of food on the manifest were mind-boggling.
“How much can they actually eat? Where does it all go?” Uh… there’s a frightening thought. He paused in front of the wide doors that opened onto the newly paved terrace to send Brooke a quick text.
Additional restroom facilities?
Technically, the conference extended until noon the day following the Feast, and if they weren’t prepared for every… er… outcome, things could get ugly.
He waited for her On it response, then stepped outside.
What had been an amorphous nothing was now a vast field sprouting with new grass. Slate walkways looped in graceful arcs through the half closest to the banquet hall, and a team of gnomes were erecting a gazebo in its center. Meanwhile Forrest was directing a crew of bwci carrying pots of what looked like barbed twigs.
Smith walked over to join him. He nodded to the pots. “Is this our future rose garden?”
Forrest shot him a harried glance. “I don’t have time for a chat now, Smith. I still have to get these planted and convince them that this poor excuse for lighting is sufficient sunlight for them to grow, bud out, and bloom within the next twenty-four hours. And I haven’t even started on the hedge maze, although boxwood is much less temperamental than rose bushes.”
Smith gripped Forrest’s sinewy forearm. “If you need more help—”
“From whom?” He gestured at the line of bwci, interspersed with the occasional sylph, who were delivering pot after pot of thorny sticks. “I’ve already got everyone except for Hazel’s crew, but they’re cleaning the damn Carnival, and I value my head too much to suggest to Chef that Tessmacher and his team might be spared for half a day.”
“I bet Andy could scare up some freelancers from Faerie. He and Con are all about interrealm cooperation.”
Forrest ran his knobby fingers through his hair. “I don’t want to—Ah, screw pride. Yes. I’ll take anyone you can get with even a smidge of earth magic. I have to import the flowers for the Feast Day centerpieces as it is.”
“Give me the specs, and I’ll make sure you’ve got them on time.”
Forrest smiled tiredly. “Thanks. Usually this isn’t such an issue, but working without actual sun is—”
