Devouring flame, p.4
Devouring Flame, page 4
Ringmaster laughed again, slapping his knee in an excess of mirth. “Don’t think you can outwit me. Your name could be in plain sight, as obvious as the nose on your face, and you still wouldn’t find it. You now live to serve me, boy. So get used it. You’ll never be free.”
Chapter Five
SMITH slunk along beside Brooke, who glanced around brightly at the seedy midway. “C’mon, Smith. This is perfect. Surely you can see that.”
“All I see is a down-at-heels rube trap that isn’t even trying to be anything but second-rate.”
“So? The vampires will love it. They can feel all edgy and James Dean.” She kicked at a half-deflated balloon in the dust at her feet. “Although we’ll have to do some serious maintenance for our own self-respect. I don’t think this place has been cleaned since it was built.” She wrinkled her nose. “And the fried dough stand has to go. Chef would have a fit.”
“I hardly think the food stands are competition for Chef’s food.”
“It isn’t the competition. It’s the comparison. If he’s in charge of the food, he’s in charge of all of it. Substandard food carts reflect poorly on him.”
“Great. Now we’ve got to rebuild the damn Carnival.”
“No, silly. We’ll sic Hazel and her crew on the cleaning and refurbishing, but I’m putting the upgrades to the games and concessions in our contract with the owner.” Her silver eyes glinted, and she grinned, showing her extra sharp incisors. All the better to eat you with, little fishy.
“You’re determined about this, aren’t you?”
“Absolutely. I want to spend our budget dollars wisely, and I see no reason to do the owner’s work for him. Besides, at the end of the event, he’ll have a renovated park, tons better than it is now. So he can just suck it up.”
“Are you sure?”
“Trust me. Mikos has nothing on me when it comes to contract ruthlessness.” She nodded at the only well-maintained tent on the grounds. “That’s the owner’s place.” A huge guy in the traditional red coat with more gold braid than a dragon lounge singer, loomed by the tent flap.
“Lucifer’s balls, that guy is as big as Chef. He even has the same ears. Do you suppose he’s a goblin berserker too?”
Brooke squinted at him through the dust cloud raised by passersby. “I don’t think so. Where are his tusks? And his other arms? Although I suppose he might be an aitcher.”
Smith shuddered. He did not want to think about a coupling that would produce a goblin berserker aitcher.
Brooke turned to Smith. “Don’t be insulted, okay, but I think it would be best if I handled the negotiations myself.”
Smith raised his palms. “No argument here. But I’m recording the convo, just in case.” He pulled out his phone and synced it with hers so he could control everything discreetly on her behalf.
“Excellent precaution.” She eyed the guy in the coat who crossed his arms and gazed around the midway as if he were a Titan or a Tudor monarch. “I know exactly how to approach that kind of asshole.”
“You do?”
“Mmm-hmmm. Check out his tent. Ostentatious much? I mean, how practical is a cloth-of-gold tent? And that coat?” She rolled her eyes. “He’s all about the money and the image. I’ll have him rolled out like nori before you can say ‘release the kraken.’ Although if you’d like to loom behind me and look menacing, that would be cool.”
“You think I can loom and look menacing while wearing a Leon Redbone T-shirt and a ‘Bite me’ ball cap?”
“You do smoldering intensity better than anyone.”
Smith raised his eyebrows. “I do?”
“Although on anyone else it would look like sulking. I think it’s the fire demon thing.”
“Thanks a lot.”
“Don’t mention it.” She glanced at the tent again, where Mr. Red Coat was disappearing inside. “But facing this guy alone is just plain stupid. He’s got user-and-abuser written all over him. Step inside and meet him, then pop outside to guard the door.”
“You don’t want me to stay with you?”
“Are you kidding? I don’t want to be completely alone with him, but if anyone male is in the room with me, he’ll ignore me completely. Trust me. I’ve handled his ilk before.”
He tipped his cap. “Whatever you say, boss.”
She grinned. “That’s what I like to hear. Come on.”
When she ducked inside the tent, Smith followed. “Good afternoon. I’m Brooke Tidewater from Enchanted Occasions. We have an appointment.”
The guy stood in the middle of the tent, not giving an inch. “I am Ringmaster.”
And you’re not a pretentious asshole at all, are you? Everything in the tent was over-the-top for tent living on Carnival grounds. Heavy teak furniture. Glowing Persian rugs. Mounds of tasseled silk pillows. Brooke had been right on the money about this guy.
She held out her hand, staring pointedly at Ringmaster—seriously?—until he finally shook it. “This is my… associate, Mr. Smith.” She gestured to him. Smith grunted and tried to look smolderingly intense. “He’ll wait outside while we conduct our discussions. Smith?” She nodded to him.
That’s my cue.
Ducking outside, he activated the remote recording program on Brooke’s phone, then stood in front of the flap, arms crossed, working on his smolder. It must have worked to some extent because the carnival-goers wandering from attraction to attraction glanced at him nervously and scurried past.
As he watched the ebb and flow of guests, he could see Brooke’s point about the Carnival as vampire entertainment. Why should EO have to build up more infrastructure than they had to? The vampires could feel hip, ironic, and superior while indulging their inner adolescents. It was perfect.
After only half an hour or so, someone poked him in the back. He stepped aside and Brooke emerged, followed by Ringmaster. Smith stifled a snort every time he even thought that name.
“Thank you, Ringmaster. I trust you’ll begin to implement the necessary upgrades immediately.”
He scowled for a moment but patted his pocket as if already imagining it filled with gold. He inclined his head. “Of course.”
“Thank you.”
“Would you and your… associate care to have lunch in our award-winning café while I check on those last details?”
“That would be acceptable.” She raised her pierced eyebrow. “As your guests, I presume.”
He bared his teeth but forced his mouth into a semblance of a smile. Scary. “Naturally. I will join you there within the hour.”
“Excellent.” She turned her back on him. “Come, Smith.”
Smith figured the muscle wasn’t required to be polite, so he didn’t bother to take his leave of Ringmaster. Snort. He followed Brooke to the café, one of the few moderately permanent structures on the grounds.
She kept up a steady gait until they were inside, out of sight of Ringmaster. Double snort. Then she executed a little hornpipe jig and grinned up at him. “Everything I asked for—and I asked for a lot. Let’s sit down and I’ll tell you.”
A gnome, wearing the same decorative gauntlets as all the other carnies, led them to a table by a window. They sat down and accepted menus, but Brooke set hers aside immediately and leaned across the table.
“We’ve leased this whole place for the duration of the convention. We can hold the ball here if we lift the flaps of the sideshow tent and let the party spill out into the grounds. Ringmaster is shutting the place down to random visitors at five o’clock tonight to start the upgrades.”
“What sorts of upgrades are we talking about?” Smith checked out the menu because he was starting to feel the effects of an energy drop. He’d exhausted his supply of beef jerky while they’d been touring the spot for the kitchen and banquet facilities.
“He’s getting rid of the greasy food carts and replacing them with things that don’t look like they’ll give everyone ptomaine, repairing all the signage so it doesn’t look so Bates Motel, and making sure all the structures are sound so we don’t risk vampires being flung into the air from the top of the Ferris wheel or around a sharp curve on the Nine Circles of Hell roller coaster. He didn’t seem nearly as resistant to it as I thought. In fact, he looked almost as if I’d given him a present.” She scowled. “I should have offered less for the lease.”
“Is it within the budget?”
“Well within.”
“Then you did good, kid.” He held up his fist, and she bumped it with hers. “Now let’s eat. I’m starving.”
She grinned and picked up her menu. “Think they’ll be able char your hamburger to your satisfaction?”
“Even Chef has trouble with that. I think it offends his sensibilities.” Sometimes it offended Smith’s as well. What would it be like to order a rare steak? Or maybe even a vegetable lasagna? Sometimes being a defective fire demon sucked.
“Hey.” Brooke was peering over Smith’s shoulder. “I know that guy. Isn’t that the ifrit who bailed out of the Consort Race?”
Smith slumped down in his chair. Don’t look. Maybe if you don’t look, if you don’t catch his eye, he’ll go away. “I wouldn’t know.”
She glared at him. “Of course not, if you don’t even bother to look. Turn around, can’t you and—Oh. Never mind. He just ducked into the kitchen.”
Hashim worked here? I thought he was just part of the sideshow. “Maybe we should head back to headquarters.”
“No way. For one thing, Ringmaster is meeting us here within the hour. For another, I fully intend to stiff him for our lunch. Besides, you’re looking gray around the edges. Order a chunk of hamburger charcoal. In fact, order two. Ringmaster’s paying.”
UNTIL he’d spotted Smith sitting by the window, Hashim had been almost thankful for the shift in the café. With his life in tatters, it was easier to pretend in front of strangers. He could smile at customers, keep track of their orders, all while inwardly beating at the bars of his new cage. He’d barely stepped inside the kitchen since he’d arrived, certain Omisan would be able to tell something was wrong.
Dushara take it, what was Smith doing here, sitting in Hashim’s section with the undine from Enchanted Occasions? What was her name? Something appropriately watery—Brooke, that was it.
He couldn’t face them. Not today. Not with the knowledge of his bondage weighing him down. He tapped the other server on the shoulder.
“Gorthu? Would you be willing to swap table nineteen with me? I’ll take two of yours in return.”
Gorthu narrowed his eyes in suspicion. Gnomes had real trust issues and being indentured to Ringmaster didn’t help matters. “Why? Are they assholes?”
“I don’t think so. I just—”
“Hashim!”
Hashim winced at Ringmaster’s bellow. “Yes, Ringmaster?”
Ringmaster glared at him from the kitchen doorway. “I warned you. No shirking, so get out there and wait tables. All of them.”
Hashim gritted his teeth. “Yes, Ringmaster.”
“Balls,” Ringmaster muttered. “I forgot the—” He dug in his coat pocket and held out a folded note. “Hashim, run this up to Zorish at the front arch.”
“Am I to do that while serving all my tables?”
Ringmaster growled but shoved the note in his pocket and stormed out the back door. The kitchen staff, who had all frozen in place, heaved a collective sigh and got back to work.
“What’s up his ass today?” Gorthu muttered as he plated a salad.
“Don’t ask.”
“Look, if you still want me to take nineteen for you—”
“No. I better do as he says.” Much as I hate to give him the satisfaction. He straightened his shoulders, shook back his hair, pasted on a false smile, then headed into the dining room. Before he could lose his nerve, he marched over to table nineteen.
Brooke grinned at him, but Smith sank lower into his chair, his eyes hidden by the bill of his cap.
“Hello. I’m Hashim, and I’ll be your server today.”
Brooke held out her hand. “Hashim, it’s so good to see you again. Brooke Tidewater from Enchanted Occasions.”
“Ah, of course.” He shook her hand, which was cooler than a human’s and much cooler than his own.
“You remember Smith, don’t you?” Hashim nodded at Smith, who simply grunted and hid behind his menu. Brooke glared at Smith, and from the way he flinched, she must have kicked him under the table. “Don’t mind him. I think his blood sugar’s low. Could you bring him a burger—no, wait, make that the beef kebab—super well-done, right away?”
“Of course.”
“And an extra large water for me, if you don’t mind.” She flicked her fingers at the window. “The dust is a little much, don’t you think?”
He pretended to chuckle. “I’ll be right back with your order.”
He scurried back to the kitchen. Smith was determined to pretend Hashim didn’t exist, was he? Shouldn’t Hashim be happy about that? He’d just gotten the news that everything he’d thought he’d known about degradation and powerlessness was nothing. Why should one more person—a person who had a real reason to hate him even though the cause was accidental—why should that tip him over the edge into flat-out fury? It wasn’t as if Smith could do anything about the situation.
But I can blasted well do something about how I feel about it.
Hashim may have no real power over his destiny, but he’d resist in any way he could.
Even if it was just with savage lunch service.
“Omisan, I need a well-done kebab. Could I jump the queue?”
She looked up from the stove. “VIP?”
“You could say that.”
She nodded to the one of the line cooks, who trotted over to the walk-in refrigerator. “One of Ringmaster’s specials?”
I sincerely hope not. “I couldn’t say.”
She grinned at him, baring her needle-sharp teeth. “Perhaps I should spit on it anyway. A little anaphylaxis could be just the thing to spice up the afternoon.”
“Don’t worry.” Hashim returned her grin. “I’ve got that part covered.”
He returned to the dining room and snagged a pitcher of ice water from the beverage station, then walked over to table nineteen with the largest tumbler from the shelf. He set it on the table with a smile for Brooke, refusing to look at Smith.
“This is the largest glass we have, but I’ll leave the pitcher, shall I?”
She gave him a friendly smile. She’d always been nice to him. To all the candidates, even the Pure undine who’d been so dismissive of her. Sort of the way Smith was behaving to Hashim right now. “Thank you.”
“Your kebab will be out shortly. I asked them to put a rush on it so you can be on your way.”
“Oh there’s no rush. We have to wait for Ringmaster to join us in any case.”
Hashim’s grip slipped on the handle, and he slopped water onto the table. They’re friends with Ringmaster? I can’t even— “I beg your pardon.” He whipped the towel out of his apron pocket and blotted the table. At least it hadn’t spilled into their laps. Although if they’re in league with Ringmaster, perhaps I should douse them with an entire bucket.
Brooke wouldn’t mind. She’d probably welcome the moisture since the Vegas Interstices was as desert-dry as its Earthside counterpart. For Smith, though, it would be as excruciating as it would for Hashim. Good.
No. Bad. But he couldn’t help it. He’d thought these people were decent, hardworking, and honorable, taking pride in a job well-done. What am I thinking? They’re paid to deliver what their client wants, and if their client is Ringmaster, they’ll do whatever he asks.
Hashim’s blood curdled at what Ringmaster might ask for. Did Enchanted Occasions have a code of ethics? Were there some jobs they’d refuse if the requirements were too distasteful or, in Ringmaster’s case, cruel bordering on criminal?
He wasn’t sure he wanted to find out. Hashim might be angry at Smith for not giving him a chance to explain, for dismissing him now as if he were nonexistent. But knowing that Smith was no better than Ringmaster would hurt him in ways he wasn’t prepared to name.
It might very well break my heart.
Which was ridiculous. Resist.
He collected his sopping towel, the spill more or less taken care of. “Your order will be out soon.” He forced himself to look at Smith—or rather the top of Smith’s cap, since he still hadn’t looked up. “Can I get you something to drink? Coffee? Tea?” He forced a customer-service smile. “Tabasco?”
Brooke snorted into her water, and Smith finally looked up. Something Hashim couldn’t identify flitted across Smith’s strong features, his square jaw tightening under the stubble that had felt so glorious against Hashim’s thighs. Stop it!
“Thanks. I’m good.”
I wish you were. “I’ll be right back, then.”
He wound through the other tables, purposely ignoring anyone’s attempts to catch his eye, and burst into the kitchen. The kebab was still on the grill. He snatched it up.
“Hashim!” Omisan slapped his arm. “You’ll burn yourself. And that’s not done yet.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll finish it off myself.” If I don’t finish him off first.
He strode back into the dining room and straight to table nineteen. “Your kebab, sir.” He held up the skewer with his gaze riveted on Smith’s stony face, pursed his lips, and exhaled fire onto the meat, igniting it, turning it into an approximation of his fire-eating brand. When the flame was well established, he held it out. “I believe you asked for it well-done?”
Chapter Six
“HASHIM!” Ringmaster’s roar shook the windows and made Smith grind his molars. “What are you doing?”
Hashim flinched—as did the rest of the diners, and who could blame them? Way to promote a pleasant dining experience, asshole. Get much repeat business?
Lucifer’s balls, Smith never wanted to see that look on Hashim’s face again—bleak, that’s what it was. Hashim had screwed him over, but nobody deserved to be bullied like that. If that Ringmaster poser behaved like this in public, what would he do in private?
