Devouring Flame, page 7
Hashim chuckled, catching Smith’s hand and drawing him back the way they’d come. At the first intersection, he took a left, the third right, the second left and fetched up against another wall.
“You’re doing this on purpose.” Smith spun him against his chest. “You can’t be that distracted.”
Hashim undulated against Smith in a full body wave, ending with a hip swivel that ground their cocks together. “Don’t underestimate your diversionary powers. That’s how we got into trouble the first time.”
Smith’s smile this time was almost shy. “Really? I distracted you?”
“You have no idea what your ass looks like in those faded jeans, do you? Especially when you crawled under the table to check the cable connections.”
“You liked my ass, huh?” His grin grew, and he took Hashim’s hands and placed them on his butt.
Hashim nodded. “Mmm-hmmm. Although I confess I was first distracted as soon as I opened the door. By your chest. In that indecently thin and tight T-shirt.”
“My chest?” He repositioned Hashim’s hands on his pecs. “Do tell.”
Hashim gave up the playful pretense. It was all true anyway. “Although it was your eyes that were the most devastating.” He stroked Smith’s stubbled jaw. “So dark and kind, but with a wicked flame burning in their depths. I could tell that you were like me. A child of fire.”
Smith sucked in a breath, then blew it out. “That’s it. I’m not waiting another second. We could be wandering around in here all day, and I need to taste you now.” He dropped to his knees in front of Hashim. “I still dream about your taste. You’re—”
A high-pitched giggle echoed through the labyrinth, followed by another and another, and then the pounding of many footsteps.
“Shit,” Smith muttered, scrambling to his feet. “The last thing we need is some kid skittering around the corner when I’ve got you down my throat. Think you can get us out of here this time?”
His nerves vibrating like a brass gong, Hashim nodded. “Don’t let the acoustics deceive you. They’re meant to mislead. And in any case, there couldn’t be children in here. The Carnival is closed.”
Smith blinked. “Yeah. I forgot.” He smiled slyly. “I must have been distracted. In that case—” He reached for Hashim’s sash. “—let’s pick up where we left off.”
A moan, long, low, and tortured, whispered down the passageway, lifting the hair on Hashim’s arms and deflating his cock.
Smith grabbed his hand. “That wasn’t some canned sound effect, was it?”
“No. We are definitely not alone. And someone is in trouble.”
THE unerring way Hashim dashed through the stone corridors, never hitting a dead end, never hesitating at any turn, made Smith realize the other wrong turns must have been foreplay. He obviously wasn’t playing now, though, and Smith had to haul serious ass to keep up.
Suddenly they burst out of a narrow passage into a chamber with at least a half-dozen gaping doorways leading out of it. This must be the center of the maze.
Hashim gave an inarticulate cry and rushed across the uneven floor. He kneeled next to an enormous crumpled figure whom Smith had originally taken for a central rock formation. The dirt surrounding the figure was dark, and even in the low light, Smith could tell it was glistening wet.
“Rion?” Hashim stroked the figure’s massive head. “Speak to me. Please.”
Smith edged closer. Whoa. Talk about horns. Then he saw the ears, the snout, the enormous glassy eyes. Lucifer’s balls. He’s a minotaur. A minotaur who was in the process of bleeding out in the middle of a second-rate carnival attraction. This is so wrong.
The minotaur—Rion—was breathing in sharp, shallow pants, as if he couldn’t draw air into his lungs. He was bare from the waist up, and what Smith had originally taken for ink was blood oozing from an almost ritual pattern of slashes. Someone had carved the poor guy up like a solstice offering.
“Hey.” Rion’s voice was little more than a thread. “I’m not feeling so good, Hashim.”
Hashim’s breath hitched. “No, my friend. I don’t imagine you are.” He looked up at Smith. “We have to get him out of here. Get him to the first aid station.”
Smith hunkered down next to Hashim. “He needs more than first aid, babe. And I don’t think we can carry him, anyway. He’s bigger than a goblin berserker.”
“I don’t care,” Hashim said fiercely. “We’ll manage. We can’t leave him here.”
“No question of that. But I have a better idea.” He reached for Rion’s hand, to give it a reassuring squeeze, but stopped when he saw the gashes across the palms. He must have tried to fend them off. Hells and devils, if they couldn’t give him a weapon, they might at least have let him wear protective gear. Exactly what kind of rig is Ringmaster running here? “Rion, my name is Smith. I’ve got a friend who can help you out. Just hold tight for a sec, okay?”
Rion started to smile, but it changed to a wince and a groan. “O-o-okay, Smith.”
“That’s the ticket. Hashim’ll keep you company for a minute, and then we’ll get you squared away.”
Rion obediently fastened his gaze on Hashim’s face. Anybody else might take Hashim’s pitiful attempt at a brave smile at its face value, but Smith knew better. Luckily, Rion wasn’t as critical an audience. He blinked at Hashim, his breath coming ever shallower.
Hashim shot Smith a desperate, pleading glance, then settled down next to Rion, his hand stroking Rion’s forehead. “That’s right. You’ll be up again in no time, which is good, because I’ve been craving one of your egg salad sandwiches.”
“R-r-really?”
“Would I lie to you?” Hashim loaded his tone with fake outrage. “You’ll be good as new before you know it.”
Hashim lies so smoothly he could fool an archangel. Rion didn’t stand a chance. Shit. Neither do I.
Smith stood, pulling his cell phone out of his pocket. He moved to the edge of the chamber as he dialed the number of his erstwhile fuck buddy, Evan Makori, an internal medicine doctor who was also one of the most accomplished witches Smith had ever met.
Evan answered on the second ring. “Smith. To what do I owe the pleasure? It’s too much to hope for that you’re merely calling because you’re craving my company.”
“I am, but in a professional capacity.”
Evan sighed. “I feared as much. What is it?”
“I’ve got an injured minotaur here.”
“A minotaur?” Evan’s tone turned from sultry and playful to sharp and professional in a heartbeat. “Where in blazes are you? Ancient Crete?”
“No. The Vegas Interstices. He’s been cut. A lot. I think he’s bleeding out, but he’s too big to move, and—”
“Stop talking. I’ve triangulated your location. I’ll come to you.”
“Good. These coordinates, offset by three feet widdershins. Got it?”
“Yes. I’ll be there momentarily.”
And Smith had to hand it to the doctor-witch. Before he’d had tucked his phone back in his pocket, Evan had materialized inside a circle of his signature green fire. Evan stepped past the flare, one hand holding his medical bag, dusting the fingers of his other hand against his sharply creased gray trousers, as perfectly composed as if he were greeting a patient at his Earthside clinic.
He gave Smith the barest nod before striding over to Rion’s side and dropping gracefully to his knees. He reached for Rion’s wrist, but then gave a disgusted snort at the cuffs that covered his pulse point. Instead, he laid his long fingers against the angle of Rion’s jaw.
Evan looked into the minotaur’s pain-filled eyes and smiled—which was a spell all on its own, even without any magical boost. “Hello. I’m Dr. Makori. And you are—”
“Rion,” Hashim said.
“Thank you, sir,” Evan said in the tone that never failed to intimidate importunate hospital administrators and second-tier witchcraft practitioners. “We’ll speak later. For now, I must speak with Rion.”
Rion gazed up at Evan. “You’re so pretty. Are you a prince?”
Evan chuckled. “No. Simply a doctor with a sideline in witchcraft.” He sketched a rune in the air. It glowed for a moment then sank down and disappeared into Rion’s chest. The minotaur’s breathing eased at once. “That’s better, isn’t it, Rion?”
“Yeah. Thanks.”
Evan lifted Rion’s hands gently, studying the deep slashes, and although he didn’t frown—his bedside manner was too good for that—his eyes narrowed slightly and his lips firmed into a line. Smith could understand the sentiment.
Hashim peered into Evan’s face. “It he—”
“Smith.” Evan’s assessing gaze never left Rion. “If you and your associate could give us a little space, please?”
“Ah. Sure.” Smith held out his hand to Hashim. Hashim’s chin took on a mulish cast, and he opened his mouth as if to protest, but then Evan uncovered a gouge low on Rion’s side and Hashim sucked in a breath.
He reached for Smith’s hand, then stopped, staring at his palm in horror. It was smeared with Rion’s blood.
Evan glanced up, seeming to take in the problem. “Wipes are in my bag.”
Smith extracted a couple—they were magically right on top, of course—and drew Hashim aside. Hashim’s gaze stayed riveted on Rion, so Smith cradled his palm and cleaned off the blood. “It’ll be okay. Evan’s the best.”
Hashim looked up at him, and, hells and devils, the look on his face. Total devastation. I’ve seen that look before. Smith crumpled the wipe in his fist, where it vanished. The night at the resort when I found the fire gem. The next day, when Andy escorted him to the Interstitial gate, and I watched on the monitor because I was too busy being an asshole to talk to him again.
This time, Smith did what he should have done then. He gathered Hashim in his arms, tucking his head under Smith’s chin, and murmured in his ear, “It’s all right. He’ll be all right.”
“Who would do something like this?” Hashim’s voice was a rough whisper. “Rion would never attack anybody. He’s the most gentle, inoffensive person you’d ever meet.”
“Probably someone who didn’t bother to find that out.”
“He said that to me, you know. Just yesterday. That the players saw nothing except ‘monster’ when they looked at him. He—” Hashim’s voice caught in a half sob. “He said he wished he didn’t have to do this job. That he could ask riddles instead, like Sphinx.”
“Why can’t he, then?”
Hashim shook his head, pressing his cheek against Smith’s chest.
Across the room, Rion let out a sharp cry, and Hashim jerked in Smith’s arms. Smith stroked his hair, peering around at the chamber. There were no cameras, no tech of any kind, but that didn’t mean the whole place wasn’t under surveillance by magical means. Someone could be watching them right now. Someone should have been watching when Rion was attacked, and intervened or sent help immediately. So why didn’t they?
“Hashim, shouldn’t there be safeguard spells on this place? I mean, if a player was injured, the Carnival owner could get sued, shut down, or clapped in the stocks for a week.”
“I think so. We’ve never had a player injury that I know of, although neither Rion nor I have been here long. Six months.”
“Any rumors from before? Who was stationed here before Rion?”
Hashim blinked. “I—I don’t know.”
“Well, I want to know. And more—I want to know what happened to Rion. Because he shouldn’t have been attacked like this. Unless the attack was the whole point.”
Chapter Nine
HASHIM stared at Smith, horror slithering up his spine like a tunnel snake. “What are you saying?”
Smith’s grip tightened on Hashim’s waist. “I’m saying the protection spells do a suspiciously piss-poor job in actually protecting the Carnival employees.”
Hashim remembered Rion’s SpongeBob Band-Aids. “Rion was covered in bruises just yesterday. He said the players got ‘overenthusiastic.’”
“This wasn’t overenthusiasm. This was a premeditated attack against an unarmed opponent. The question is why was it allowed to happen when the damn Carnival is supposed to be closed to visitors? Isn’t the labyrinth monitored? One of the stockier races could get stuck in those passageways for days until they lost enough bulk to wiggle through.”
“There’s a room with scrying spells for all the attractions. I saw it once. There’s only one minion who staffs it, though, and he’s a chupacabra who, I’m told, is more interested in his next goat liver snack than in strict attention to his job.” I wouldn’t blame him for his passive resistance, except Rion’s paying the price.
“Is he on duty now?”
“How would I know?” Hashim said irritably, wringing his hands when Rion moaned again. “No. Wait. I saw him heading out the front gates this morning when I was on the way to my first show.”
Smith’s brows drew together as he watched his friend examine more of Rion’s wounds. “Why was Rion still hanging out in here, and why are you still doing shows for nobody? Why are you two the only Carnival employees still on the clock?” Smith’s tone was hard-edged with anger. “Didn’t that asshole Ringmaster bother to tell you the park was closed?”
Hashim laughed bitterly. “He told me, all right. He told me I needed rehearsal, so I wouldn’t disappoint the clients who were paying so handsomely for use of the Carnival.” He averted his gaze, not wanting to meet Smith’s eyes. “In other words, you.”
Smith laid his big hand along Hashim’s cheek. “Not me. I’d never have asked for that. Neither would Brooke nor Mikos. This is all on Ringmaster.”
“Oh, I know, at least in my case. But—” He glanced at the center of the chamber where Rion lay, all bloody and broken, with the witch-doctor working over him feverishly like a dark angel. “I don’t know why Rion would be here. I mean, he’d normally be here at this time because it’s his usual shift. But why today? Surely even if Ringmaster didn’t tell him about the closure, someone else would have.”
“Did you?”
Hashim tensed in Smith’s embrace. “I—I’ve been distracted since yesterday. I haven’t seen him since then.” Dushara have mercy, this is my fault.
“Hey.” Smith tilted Hashim’s chin up with one finger. “I can see what you’re thinking. This is not on you. This is on somebody else, and I’d bet my entire cache of vintage Bowie T-shirts that I know who.”
“Ringmaster,” Hashim muttered.
Smith nodded. “We heard that crazy laughter, remember? This wasn’t just one stray guy running amok in here, some random act of violence. This was a deliberate attack by an armed group.”
“You mean Ringmaster set Rion up to be hurt?”
“I mean Ringmaster set Rion up to be killed. The question is why?”
Killed. Heat built behind Hashim’s eyes, and his fingers curled into fists. “I know why. Money. With Ringmaster, it’s always money.”
Smith studied Rion, his expression grim. “I’ve got to ask. How much is the life of a minotaur—one of the few in existence—worth? And who would have the resources to pay it?”
“Do you—”
“Excuse me,” Dr. Makori called. “We need to get Rion to somewhere more well-lit and preferably with less underlying dirt.”
Hashim broke out of Smith’s arms, although he immediately missed the warmth. “His dorm room isn’t far. There’s a shortcut I can show you.” Hashim carded his hands through his hair, tugging it in frustration. “But Ringmaster could find him there and ask why he’s not at work.”
“He practically bled out,” Smith said. “Can’t he take a fucking sick day?”
Dr. Makori snorted. “Unlikely, given the consideration already shown for Rion’s welfare. In any case, I was thinking of something with rather more medical amenities than a dorm room.” He glanced down at Rion, whose eyes were closed.
Hashim’s heart seized. “He’s not—Is he—”
“Be calm. I’ve sent him into a healing trance, nothing more.”
Smith walked up behind Hashim, his chest a comforting warmth against Hashim’s back. “Did he say who attacked him?”
Dr. Makori lifted one elegant eyebrow. “There wasn’t much opportunity for small talk.”
“It’s not fucking small talk, Evan. We have to find out who did this.”
“And keep Rion safe,” Hashim said, “so it can’t happen again.”
Dr. Makori opened his bag and extracted an obsidian-handled athame and a bag of crumbled brownish herbs. “I agree with you… I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name?”
“Your pardon.” Hashim bowed, his palms pressed together. “Hashim of the Windr—formerly of the Windrider clan.”
“Charmed.” With his blade, Dr. Makori began to draw a circle in the dirt around Rion’s prone figure. “As I said, I agree with Hashim, and while I agree with you as well, Smith—provisionally, at any rate—any interrogation must wait until Rion is stable.”
“Stable?” Panic welled in Hashim’s belly. “You said he was healing. You said—”
“I don’t believe I said anything to you specifically, but you needn’t be unduly concerned, provided I can get him to more sanitary facilities. I’ll transport us to my clinic, where—”
“Clinic?” Hashim glanced sidelong at Smith. “Where is it?”
“The San Francisco Interstices.”
Hashim shook his head. “You can’t. He can’t leave the Vegas Interstices.”
Both Dr. Makori’s eyebrows shot up this time. “At all? Not even to return home?”
“No. But there’s an infirmary near the Interstitial side of the Bellagio.”
“Yes. I am aware. Very well, I will transport us there.”
I can’t go. I can’t leave the grounds. But I can’t tell them. Not now. Hashim shot Smith an apologetic smile and edged around him, outside the circumference of the nearly complete ritual circle.
