Devouring flame, p.12
Devouring Flame, page 12
Chapter Thirteen
BROOKE raised her eyebrows at the doctor’s overly dramatic (in Hashim’s opinion) entrance. “We’re in the middle of a planning meeting. I don’t believe we’ve—”
“Shit.” Smith smacked himself in the forehead with his palm. “Sorry, Brooke. I forgot to tell you that Evan would be joining us. Everyone, this is Dr. Evan Makori. He helped us out when all the candidates at the Consort Race got poisoned, remember?”
Brooke’s frown faded, but she still looked uncertain. “Thank you for that, Doctor, but I don’t think we’re anticipating any poisoning at this event. At least I hope not.”
“One never does, does one?” Dr. Makori said blandly, resting a hand on the back of Smith’s chair in a far too familiar manner.
“Don’t be a dick, Evan,” Smith said. “Get a cup of coffee from the buffet and sit down.”
“Dear Smith. Always so gracious.” He cocked an eyebrow at Smith. “May I get you something while I’m there? A pound or so of bacon is your standard for this time of day, I believe.”
“No, thanks.” Smith cut a glance at Hashim, his cheeks above his stubble reddening. “I’m not hungry.” At that announcement, everyone at the table except Rion turned and stared at Smith, who scowled, fiddling with his mouse. “What?”
Brooke leaned forward, canting her head at an odd angle so she could see past Smith’s monitor fortress. “You know, it didn’t really register before, but now that I think of it, I haven’t seen you eat anything in two days. Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. Can we get on with the meeting?”
“But—”
“Brooke, seriously? We don’t need to discuss my diet now, okay?”
“Yes.” Dr. Makori smirked as he neatly disposed of a tea bag. “I suspect Smith’s nutritional requirements are being met in an alternative fashion.”
“Evan,” Smith growled. “I told you—”
“Yes, yes. Do carry on.”
Smith cleared his throat, tugging at the neck of his T-shirt as if he were getting overheated. “I invited Evan to come today—”
“Actually, you haven’t invited me to do any such thing.”
“Evan!” Smith cast an agonized, almost apologetic glance at Hashim.
Ah. The good doctor wishes to flaunt his previous arrangement with Smith. This is not acceptable, not if it makes Smith uncomfortable. But why did it make him uncomfortable? Did he imagine that Hashim would hold it against him? A rush of affection infused Hashim’s chest. So endearing. How can he be so competent yet so insecure? Or perhaps he was afraid Hashim would object or be angry?
“Dr. Makori,” Hashim said, “I am deeply grateful for how you cared for Rion, but I’m uncertain of your present agenda. Perhaps you could—as I believe Smith has already requested—stop being a dick and have a seat?”
Dr. Makori had the grace to look abashed. “I apologize. Please, carry on.”
“Maybe I should start out with explaining why Hashim and Rion are with us.” Smith pushed aside his keyboard and sat forward, hands clasped on the table, his face intent. “A couple of days ago, Hashim and I discovered Rion in the middle of the labyrinth, severely wounded after being attacked by several people.”
“You never did explain how you and Hashim happened to be there,” Dr. Makori said, blandly sipping his tea.
“No, I didn’t, and I’m not starting now,” Smith growled. “I will say this, however, in case anybody has any doubts—” Smith’s smoldering glance at Hashim made it clear that he was speaking to Hashim as much as the others. “—I intend to do everything in my power to make sure that Hashim and Rion are safe. Any questions?”
Everyone at the table either shook their heads, or in Rion’s case, simply beamed.
“Not at all, dear boy,” Dr. Makori said. “Do carry on.”
“Anyway, I contacted Evan to treat Rion, and in the process, we discovered that there’s a glitch in the spells in the Vegas Interstices that allows some of the global interrealm laws to be evaded. Rion, Hashim, and everyone working at the Twilight Carnival who wears those decorative wrist guards is indentured to the owner in a way that amounts to virtual slavery.”
“What?” Brooke’s eyes flashed silver fire. “That’s outrageous. That’s illegal. That’s—”
“Happening right under our noses. Vegas is a nexus and the Carnival grounds are situated so you can’t avoid them when traveling between Intergates. How many times have any of us ridden the roller coaster, grabbed a snack, or played a game or two while passing through? I bet nobody gave a second thought to the cuffs other than as a kind of uniform, a way to identify the Carnival ‘employees.’”
“Lots of people know, though,” Rion said.
Brooke frowned. “They do?”
“Sure. How do you think we ended up there in the first place? My stepfather knew.” Rion nodded at Hashim. “Hashim’s clan sheikh knew.”
Hashim sat forward. “Rion is correct. The nature of the Carnival, and the way Ringmaster acquires his workers, are well-known to a certain segment of the supernatural population. Those who don’t mind skirting the law if it’s to their benefit. Those who respect the law only as it doesn’t inconvenience themselves. Those who value gold and political expediency over the lives of those they consider inferior or inconvenient.”
Brooke slumped in her chair. “Well, now I just feel stupid.”
“Don’t.” Hashim extended a hand toward her, but drew it back, fearing he’d been too forward. “It’s actually to your credit that you didn’t know. But it’s also true that the virtuous and good-hearted are easiest to fool, because they never expect the darkness that lurks in the hearts of villains.”
“Quite.” Dr. Makori set his tea cup down on its saucer with a ching. “But that doesn’t mean that we have to condone it nor fling our hands up and wail at the unfairness while claiming we can do nothing. Smith and I have been doing some research, and what we’ve learned is quite fascinating.” He glanced around the table, his gaze lingering a moment on an empty chair. Hashim blinked. I could have sworn Forrest was sitting there not two minutes ago. “Did any of you realize that the Interstices aren’t just a place?”
“They’re more an antiplace, right?” Brooke asked. “East of the sun, west of the moon, that kind of thing?”
“More than that. They’re a living organism—or rather whole clusters of organisms, like viral colonies. The reason you and your colleagues can effect such stunning changes to some Interstices is because they… well, I suppose you could say that they like to get pretty.”
Smith snorted. “I wouldn’t call this place pretty.”
“This colony is the Interstitial equivalent of the emo Goth cousin. It’s not an accident that it’s been drawn to Las Vegas.”
“Hold it.” Brooke held up her hands, displaying a lovely assortment of piercings on the webbing between her fingers. “I thought the Interstices were just space. Gaps between one realm and the next.”
“That’s true. Perhaps I’m explaining it poorly. The negative space that was left over when the realms were created was the perfect environment for the Interstitial entities to thrive. Eventually, the entities became—” Dr. Makori laced his fingers together. “—fused with the space. Indistinguishable.” He grinned. “I daresay you and your colleagues could manage even more astonishing feats if you found a way to communicate with them directly. Smith?”
“The Interstices—and their entities—are extremely susceptible to spell-casting. Or I guess you could say that they’re a perfect environment for spells. Kind of like a petri dish. The initial spell gets cast, it gets absorbed and integrated into the Interstices, and the entity sustains it without further input from the original caster. In fact I’ll bet that the original casters wouldn’t be able to touch it once the entities latch onto it as part of their identity. The Centennial Feast spell is like that.”
“So the Vegas Interstitial entities decided it was a hoot to watch vampires gorge themselves into a stupor every century or so and—”
“Incorporated the spell into their very fabric.”
Brooke snorted. “I’m surprised the vampires didn’t talk the spell-caster into making it an everyday thing instead of once every hundred years.”
“They might have tried,” Smith said, “but the Interstitial entities have limitations. Think about some of the gigs we’ve had in the past. The Consort Race was a piece of cake to set up because there wasn’t much else going on in the Portland Interstices. But in the more active sites—New Orleans, Amsterdam, Athens—we’ve had to work our tails off just to get Chef’s kitchens installed.”
Rion nodded. “There’s a lot of stuff happening in Athens because they keep the time portal open.”
Brooke goggled at him. “There’s a time portal in the Athens Interstices?”
Rion blinked his big brown eyes. “Sure. Everybody knows that.”
Brooke’s eyes narrowed. “I didn’t. What—”
“Brooke,” Smith said. “Stay on topic here. Back to Vegas, okay?” She heaved a sigh but waved for Smith to go on. “All Interstitial spells are zero-sum constructs, limited by the power of the Interstitial entities themselves. The Centennial Feast spell takes a lot of juice. The energy to sustain it has to build up over a century, which is why vampires can’t just show up here any time they’re in the mood for a burger and fries.”
Brooke drummed her fingers on the table. “Fine. But what does that have to do with, you know, illegal slave trafficking?”
“I’m getting there. Mikos was really careful to limit the menu for the Feast, remember?”
“Yeah, because Chef would have gone ballistic at the original list.”
“I took a look at it. It wasn’t only the menu items that he limited, it was the amount of food we agreed to prepare.”
“So?”
But Hashim got it. “Every time a vampire consumes solid food or some liquid that isn’t blood, it drains the spell’s reserves. Is that it?”
Smith smiled at him, warming Hashim from his toes to his scalp. “Exactly. Either Mikos understands the Interstices more than any of us—which is entirely possible. He’s a smart guy, and he’s built this company on Interstitial manipulation. Or else it’s instinctive. I’m betting on the former. He limited what we’d prepare because he wanted to make sure we succeeded—that the spell wouldn’t be stressed beyond what it could handle during the twenty-four hours of the Feast.”
“What would happen if the spell couldn’t handle it?” Brooke asked.
Smith squinted one eye. “I don’t know the specifics, but I’m guessing it would fail. Vampires would no longer be able to eat, with predictable unfortunate results—”
“Ewww!” Brooke wrinkled her nose.
“But all other spells within the Interstices would be affected too. The Interstitial sides of the big hotels might sustain damage, for instance, similar to an earthquake.”
Hashim leaned forward. “And the spells that keep us chained would be weakened too.”
“Exactly. Feast Day is the one day for the next hundred years when we have a chance to free all the people under Ringmaster’s control. All we have to do—” Smith’s gaze raked everyone at the table before landing on Hashim. “—is overload the spell.”
“But—” Rion’s brow wrinkled. “You said there could be an earthquake. Couldn’t other people get hurt?”
“That’s why I’m here,” Dr. Makori said. “Smith and I will be working both ends—”
“Evan….” Smith’s tone held unmistakable warning.
“Technological and magical, to make sure the scope is limited to the Carnival grounds.”
Rion nodded, ears flattening in relief. “Okay. Good. I wouldn’t want anybody else to get hurt.”
“Wait a minute.” Brooke suddenly straightened in her chair. “If you want to overload the Feast Day spell, does that mean—”
“Yep,” Smith said, staring straight at her. “Everything—and I mean everything—is back on the menu.”
“Oh no.” She flung up her hands. “I am not giving that list to Chef. Even Mikos couldn’t face that.”
“Come on, Brooke. This is important.”
“Important, yes, but I prefer my head attached to my body, thank you.”
Hashim raised a tentative hand. “I will do it, if you like. Cooks like me.”
“This one might like you too much—as an ingredient,” Smith muttered.
“No,” Brooke said. “Remember? Chef said he never cooks his colleagues.” She bit her lip, glancing apologetically at Hashim. “And this might be a way to cover for Hashim’s presence if Ringmaster asks any questions. He can be the… the kitchen liaison.”
Smith glared at her. “There’s no such thing.”
“There is now. It could be the safest place for him.”
“Safe? In the kitchen? With Chef?”
Hashim leaned forward. “Truly, Smith, I don’t mind. I have a fiery temper too, in case you’ve forgotten.” By the flare in the depths of Smith’s eyes, he had not, which made Hashim unreasonably smug. “We’ll get along fine. Although I’m curious—what is his name? Chef what?”
“Just Chef,” Smith said. “Goblins don’t disclose their real names.”
“Are they like demons? Their names are their weakness? A way to control them?”
“No. They just say nobody without tusks can pronounce them.” Smith clicked something with his mouse and a printer in the corner began to spew out paper at an alarming rate. “We’ll go tell him now. Tessmacher, do you want to come with us?”
The little bwci hadn’t said a thing during the whole meeting, barring that one whimper. At the moment, he was slumped so far down in his chair that only his wide green eyes and quivering brow tufts showed over the top of the table.
Hashim smiled at him. “You needn’t if you don’t want to.” Tessmacher’s gaze slid toward Brooke. He didn’t answer, but he disappeared under the table completely. “I’ll take that as a no.” Hashim stood. “Shall we go, Smith?”
“Smith!” Brooke called as he collected the stack of paper off the printer. “We’re not done here. I need you back ASAP.”
Smith cocked an eyebrow at her. “If you’d rather speak to Chef yourself….”
“No! Just hurry back.”
“Okay, boss.” He held the door for Hashim, closing it after them when they stepped into the hallway.
“Is Chef really so frightening?” Hashim asked as they navigated the crew still working to set up tables in the banquet hall.
“Actually, I think he’s a big pussycat. But he’s a bit of a drama queen, and when you’re a goblin berserker, ‘drama’ can get a little extreme.”
Hashim grasped Smith’s arm and pulled him to the side of the room, out of the way of a pair of golems rolling a heavy oak tabletop. He laid his hand against Smith’s cheek. “Thank you. You said you would find a way to help, and you have. Even if it doesn’t work—”
“It will,” Smith said fiercely. “It has to. I won’t accept anything else.”
“And that’s why I’ll deal with Chef for you. I told you I’d do anything you asked. You’re not just saving Rion and me. And since you’re saving all of us, I think we should ask everyone else to pitch in too, don’t you?”
“You think they’d want to?”
Hashim grinned. “To overthrow Ringmaster? They’ll fight for the chance. Although—” He bit his lip. “Not Rion. I don’t want him anywhere near the fight. He may be as big as a food cart, but—”
“He’s a gentle soul. Innocent. I get it. Don’t worry. I’ll take care of him.”
Hashim smiled softly and pressed a chaste kiss on Smith’s lips. “I know you will.”
Smith stroked Hashim’s hair as he kissed him back. “Ready to face Chef?”
“I can face anything with you.”
“Excellent. Because we’re about to stage a Carnival coup, and for the first time in my life, I’m in the mood to raise a little hell.”
BEFORE he opened the swinging doors into the kitchen, Smith grabbed Hashim’s hand. “If it’s too much, let me know. I’ll get you out of here in a red-hot minute.”
“Don’t worry so much.” Hashim kissed his cheek. “Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve been able to truly fight back?”
Smith blinked. “No. How long?”
Hashim gave him a cheeky grin. “Actually, that would be never. But I’ve always wanted to give it a try.” He slipped inside.
Smith followed quickly, nearly running into Hashim, who stood just inside the door, staring around the vast kitchen in awe. Smith had to admit it was impressive—the line of ranges, the acres of gleaming prep tables and well-seasoned cutting boards, the thicket of copper and cast-iron pans hanging from ceiling racks.
“This is remarkable. Your team transformed the pump house and fire pit into this? How long did it take?”
Smith shrugged. “Couple of days. We do this so often, it’s kinda automatic now.”
“Tessmacher! Where the fuck is the saffron?” The bellow shook the floor and rattled the pans. An instant later, Chef—all eight feet of him, not counting his white chef’s toque—came bursting out of the walk-in refrigerator, two of his hands full of some kind of herb, the third brandishing a sauté pan, and the fourth closing the refrigerator as gently as if he were rocking a baby’s cradle.
Chef definitely had his priorities.
He froze when he saw the two of them by the door. “You are not Tessmacher.”
“Nope. Sorry. He’s hiding in the conference room.”
Chef’s brow clouded, and he bared his teeth. “Why would he be hiding?”
“I wouldn’t know.” Smith rested his hand in the small of Hashim’s back. “This is Hashim.”
Chef sniffed. “Ifrit. I remember you. You didn’t like my maqaniq. I prepared those sausages expressly for you.”
Hashim bowed, his palms pressed together. “I never had a chance to sample them, Chef. The poison prevented my having the pleasure. I’m certain they were delightful.”
“Hmmmph.” Chef squinted one eye. “Another smooth talker.”
