HASHIM hadn’t known Smith for very long, at least not in the sense that they’d spent much time together, but in that space he’d seen any number of expressions on Smith’s rugged face—curiosity, desire, hurt, anger, disgust. But this one was new.
Tenderness.
Smith didn’t meet Hashim’s eyes, but his mouth curved, lips parted, and he touched Hashim’s chest in the very place where Hashim had hidden the gem before his ability to transform into smoke and fire, then reform into flesh had been blocked by Ringmaster’s cuffs.
“So what you’re saying”—Smith’s voice was husky, rough with emotion—“is that I’m part of you now.”
Hashim placed his hand over Smith’s, pressing it against his skin. So warm. Everyone else’s flesh—those he’d dared to touch—felt unpleasantly cool to him. Only Smith, with his remarkable human/fire-demon heritage, had ever matched Hashim’s heat. “Yes. I suppose you are.”
Smith lifted his gaze and there. Flames danced in the depths of his dark eyes, the flames that had made Hashim abandon his duty, his allegiance, and his reason in that resort in the Portland Interstices. “When I touch you, when I taste you, when I’m close to you, I’m complete. I should never have let you go.”
Hashim smiled wryly. “There’s not much you could have done. I had a price to pay for my weakness.”
Smith drew Hashim closer, then stopped, his face screwed up as if he were in pain. He dug his cell phone out of his front pocket and set it on the dresser. “Sometimes technology can be damned inconvenient. Or at least uncomfortable.” Then he fit them together again, hip to hip, tangling his fingers with Hashim’s and pressing their hands over Hashim’s heart once more. “Tell me something.”
Hashim smiled wryly. “You wish me to be like Scheherazade and regale you with exciting tales in exchange for my life?”
Smith jerked back. “No! That’s not—Let me start over.” He took a deep breath. “If I hadn’t knocked on your door that night to check on you, if you hadn’t invited me in, if we hadn’t done… what we did, would you have used the fire gem on the prince?”
Hashim dropped his gaze and let go of Smith’s hand, although Smith kept his own resting against Hashim’s chest. “Which of us knows how far we will go, given the right incentive? I had no reason to do so other than Yashar’s orders and the vague terms of our bargain. I had never met the prince, so he was nothing more than a mythic figurehead.” He wasn’t real to me. Not like you. “But when you walked in and looked at me as if you could truly see inside me—”
“Don’t give me too much credit. I was looking at you because I wanted to be inside you. Just standing next to you was like a feast. I wanted to taste you for real. The day after we were together was the first time in my life that I wasn’t constantly hungry. You filled me up.”
Hashim’s heart contracted, his chest constricted. “I had never met anyone who could take everything I had to give yet still make me feel as if I were the one who was taking.” He focused on Smith’s chest, afraid of what his face might betray. “I had never been outside the clan before. Yashar’s clan is nomadic, so we traveled the Interstitial desert, from oasis to oasis, timeline to timeline. He is a small-minded man, though, so what he asked of me was trivial, commonplace.” He shrugged. “Steal a few goats here. Fix a horse race there. Weight the dice on his throws so that he won more than his opponents. But he never knew when an opportunity would arise, so he kept me close, always in the camp, under his eye.”
“But then he got delusions of grandeur.”
“Yes. He decided that the desert was too small a scope for his obvious genius. The Consort Race seemed like a good opportunity for him to dabble in interrealm politics and extend his reach.” Hashim glanced sidelong at Smith. “He wanted to come with me, you know. To the resort. But the rules forbade it.”
“Thank Lucifer for that.”
“But it was the first time I’d had an opportunity to see what it was like when people worked together for a common goal because it was the right thing to do, not for petty personal gain.”
“Don’t make us sound altruistic. We were being paid.”
“You weren’t being paid to be kind to the housekeeping staff. You treated them as equals.”
Smith raised his eyebrows. “That’s because they are.”
“You see? That is what I mean. In Yashar’s clan, he wouldn’t have acknowledged their presence, let alone offered them kindness or assistance. They would be invisible to him unless they displeased him or made a mistake. It made me realize that that was how he saw me—as a tool, set aside until needed, not capable of wants or needs. Does a hammer protest that it doesn’t wish to hurt the nail? The saw that it would prefer not to cut the wood? Of course not. But for that night, that moment, I wasn’t a mindless tool. I was someone you saw as not only an equal, but as necessary.” Hashim laid his hand along Smith’s face, his thumb brushing the dark stubble on Smith’s jaw. “Do you know what that was like?”
“I can guess.” Smith took Hashim’s hand away from his face and placed a kiss in its palm. “Can I ask you something else?”
“Of course.”
“What would you do? I mean, fuck all these assholes who want to control you, including me. What would you do if your will was your own? If you were free?”
Hashim gazed into Smith’s face, so earnest, so determined, so honorable. “If I were free? I would do this.” Moving slowly, his gaze locked on Smith’s to gauge his reaction, searching for the least sign of revulsion or refusal, Hashim leaned forward into a kiss. Smith’s lips under his were firm at first, then softened, opening so that Hashim could slip his tongue inside. By the first star, his taste! Smith tasted like cedar smelled, like velvet felt. The perfect fuel to my flame.
Then Smith’s hands were in Hashim’s hair, his claws prickling Hashim’s scalp with tender torment. The kiss heating him inside and out, Hashim moaned and wrapped his arms around Smith. They tumbled onto the bed, Hashim pulling Smith down, hard against him, hot against him, exactly where he belonged. Where we both belong.
Suddenly, Smith drew back from the kiss, and Hashim whimpered. “Come back.”
“I will.” Smith smoothed Hashim’s hair away from his forehead. “But I need to be sure you mean it this time.”
Hashim tightened his arms around Smith’s waist. “I meant it last time.”
“You’re not hiding anything from me now?”
Only that this can be the only time, our only chance. But that’s my burden, not yours. He forced himself to meet Smith’s gaze steadily. “Nothing. Although….” He smiled and wriggled a bit, watching the heat build in Smith’s eyes as he plucked at Smith’s T-shirt. “You appear to be hiding far too much.”
Smith shook his head, mouth curving in a wicked smile. “You’re still carrying concealed too. I can tell.” He swiveled his hips, grinding their cocks together, and Hashim whimpered again.
I can’t wait. Who knows how much time we’ll have, how long until Ringmaster changes his mind and summons me, how long before Smith is called away? So, safe in the knowledge that Smith was proof against fire just as he was himself, Hashim conjured just enough flame to burn their clothing away.
“Wha—” Smith glanced over his shoulder at his now naked ass. “That’s… efficient. No residue?”
“Not if I so choose. And I have no wish to make love to you in a bed of ashes.” The ashes are all in my heart.
Smith grinned. “I am so down with that.” He cradled Hashim’s head in one big hand and dove in for a kiss.
Then, as Smith kissed a path down Hashim’s throat, nipped at the curve of his shoulder, suckled one nipple then the other, the heat built and built and built in Hashim’s core. He panted, his fingers twined in Smith’s hair, and when Smith took Hashim’s cock deep into the furnace of his mouth, the heat ignited the very air around them, flames licking up the fireproof walls as Hashim screamed his release.
SMITH lay on his back, chest heaving, Hashim’s hand pressed to his chest. He’d never felt so… so replete, as if he’d never need to eat again. He glanced at Hashim, who lay on his side facing Smith, eyes closed, his sooty eyelashes fanned against his cheek. So beautiful.
He rolled over so they were face-to-face, noting that despite the flames that had tickled the ceiling when Hashim had come the second time (with Smith’s dick in his ass), the bed was still pristine. Damn. This fireproofing is some good shit.
He pressed a soft kiss to Hashim’s forehead, and Hashim’s eyes fluttered open. He smiled, soft and sweet. “Hello.”
“Hi.” Smith twined a strand of Hashim’s hair around his finger. “Your hair is red again.”
Hashim shrugged. “It changes color when I channel fire.”
“I saw a couple of little highlights, but not much more during your fire-eating act? Which, by the way, is extremely hot.” Smith kissed him with a hint of tongue. “In more than one way.”
Hashim chuckled. “Normally, I don’t have enough… er… firepower available to me.” He lifted their joined hands so the jeweled cuff was between them. “The cuff spell ratchets it down to just enough for the show.”
“Or to singe a shish kebab.”
Hashim shrugged. “Well, you know. The kebab skewer is first cousin to the fire-eating torch.”
Smith glanced down at their nakedness. “Is incinerating clothing also within that scope.” He cocked an eyebrow, shooting a glance at the ceiling, which displayed more than a few scorch marks. “Or barbecuing your quarters?”
Hashim kissed the back of Smith’s hand. “That’s thanks to you. I suspect without the cuffs, we might have set the building aflame. You feed my inner fire.”
“That’s weird, because I feel like you fed me.”
“Well—” Hashim grinned. “You did swallow.”
Smith laughed and grabbed him, rolling them over so Hashim lay beneath him again. “So did you. On both ends as I recall.”
Hashim sobered. “That is why we are perfect together. We are—what is the word? Symbiotic.”
“Symbiosis isn’t anything I’ve ever heard applied to demons, either my kind or yours.”
“I suppose we are special, then, Smith.” His lips quirked. “Smith. A very short name for a very”—he ran a finger with a hint of claw along Smith’s semihard dick—“long man.”
Giving Hashim some serious stink-eye, Smith toyed with a lock of red hair, which was already fading to black. “You more than anyone know how demons guard our real names. We use labels, descriptions, to keep them secret. But unlike conjured ifrits, apparently, we know what they are. When I was spawned, it was still the age of iron. Blacksmithing was a perfectly acceptable trade for a fire demon, even a defective one. So I took my occupation as my name. It got shortened once I started to work with silicon more than steel.”
Hashim’s forehead bunched in a frown, his hands gripping Smith’s hips. “You’re not defective. You were merely waiting for someone to complement your abilities.”
“Like you?”
He smiled tenderly. “Exactly like me.” He kissed the hollow of Smith’s throat, the angle of his jaw, the crest of his cheekbone, before finally arriving at his lips, teasing with the barest touch of flesh on flesh, until Smith couldn’t stand it anymore and claimed his mouth with lips and tongue and—perhaps—a hint of fire.
Smith pulled back, panting. “Lucifer’s balls. You are fucking amazing.”
Hashim chuckled, vibrating Smith from chest to groin. “And you are amazing at fucking.”
“Ah well.” He grinned. “The right partner makes all the difference.” He kissed Hashim’s widow’s peak. “So.” He kissed his eyebrow. “What does—” He kissed below his ear. “—Hashim mean, then?” He kissed his lips, then gazed down into Hashim’s face.
Hashim stilled, his gaze dropping to the vicinity of Smith’s chin. “It means—” He took a trembling breath. “It means destroyer.”
“What the fuck?” Smith propped himself up on his elbows. “Whose idea was that?”
“Yashar’s. He’s always said his clan hasn’t had a day’s luck since I arrived.”
“From what you’ve told me about Yashar,” Smith growled, “his clan’s luck would improve about a thousand percent if they got a different sheikh.”
Hashim lifted one shoulder, his fingers stroking Smith’s chest. “He holds the master spells over the other wizards in the clan. None of them have the power to break them on their own.”
“Bet they could take him down if they joined forces. Pooled or daisy-chained their magic.”
“Ah, but first they would have to trust one another enough to cooperate. What if one of those with whom they’ve agreed to share should break his promise? They don’t consider it worth the risk.”
Smith rolled off to lie on his back. “Shit, Hashim. You’ve got to get out from under all this. Your clan. The Carnival. Fucking Ringmaster.”
“Believe me, I’d like nothing better.” He propped his chin on Smith’s chest. “But not alone. I couldn’t leave knowing that the others—Rion, Sphinx, Omisan, the other acts—were still trapped here.
“Then we’ll get them out. We’ll get them all.” Smith ran a fingertip along Hashim’s eyebrow before easing out from underneath him to sit on the edge of the mattress. “We’ll bring Ringmaster down and this whole shitshow with him.”
Hashim scrambled up beside him. “How?”
“I don’t know. But I’ll find a way.” He smiled at Hashim, cupping a hand around his neck to draw him in for a kiss. “It’s what I do.”
Hashim gazed at him, so much trust there in the depths of his eyes that Smith’s heart turned over. “I believe you. And so far as I am able within my… indenture confines, I will help. You have only to ask.”
“Excellent.” Smith glanced down at himself. “Maybe you could start with getting me some clothes, because I’m not crazy about parading through the grounds wearing nothing but my Doc Martens. Although I suppose I should be glad I wasn’t wearing them in bed, or I’d be barefoot.”
Hashim grinned. “I don’t know. I think you naked would improve the Carnival sights to an enormous degree.”
Smith snorted and stood up. “I’m not putting myself on display for a bunch of vampires, thanks, whether they’re off blood rations or not.”
“What do you mean? Aren’t vampires always on blood rations?” Hashim climbed out of the bed, all smooth brown skin and taut muscle. Smith’s mouth watered. Don’t get distracted. Not if I want to fix this for good.
“Always, except for one day every hundred years. That’s why we’re leasing the Carnival grounds. We’re staging the vampires’ Centennial Feast along with their annual convention.” He scrunched up his face. “Gotta tell you, not looking forward to it.” Especially since I’m pretty sure a bunch of them nearly killed your best friend. He caught Hashim by the waist and pulled him close for a kiss. Which was a mistake because his cock started to perk up again. Focus, damn it! I’ve got work to do. “I need to rendezvous with Brooke before she sends the flower fairy IRT out to find me.”
Hashim sighed. “It’s just as well. Who knows when Ringmaster will think of something else he wants me to do?”
When I’m through with him, Ringmaster won’t have a thing to say to you or anybody else.
Hashim pushed aside a calico curtain and pulled a bundle of white linen off the shelf. He shook it out to reveal a pair of the loose trousers he’d worn when Smith arrived. “These are all I’ve got.”
“I can’t take your last pair of pants.”
Hashim rolled his eyes. “I mean they’re the only sort of pants I own.” He held the curtain aside to reveal two neat stacks of similar fabric. “They’re Ringmaster’s idea of an exotic costume, at least for me. He thinks I need to look exotic to pull in the tip.”
“The tip? You mean money above the admission charge?”
Hashim chuckled. “The ‘tip’ is the crowd that the outside talker entices to enter the sideshow. The bally act—which is me—is the teaser, but the outside talker still has to convince the tip to buy tickets. Once they’re inside the tent, then they get hit with extra added attractions.”
“For an extra added fee?”
“Of course.” He held out the pants. “Take them.”
“Those’ll never fit me. I’m way broader than you.”
“That’s the beauty of these trousers. They have no waistband. You gather them to fit under the sash.” He flapped the pants at Smith. “Put them on and I’ll show you.”
“Oookaaay. If you say so.” Smith took them dubiously. “They’re gonna look kind of pornographic without underwear, though.”
Hashim smirked. “Consider it my compensation for lending you one tenth of my meager wardrobe.”
“Serves you right for cremating my jeans.” He grinned as he pulled on the soft trousers. “Not that I’m complaining about the results, mind.” Hashim was right—the pants were so loose that Smith had to bunch the fabric in his hand to keep them from falling around his ankles.
Hashim opened the top drawer of a small pine dresser and pulled out a length of purple silk. He stared at it for a moment. “No. Purple is not your color.” He dug around in the drawer for a moment, then extracted a crimson sash instead. “Yes. This is much more the thing.” He stood in front of Smith. “Hold them up evenly, your hands on either side of your body.”
“Like this?” Smith stretched the fabric to its limits.
“Not quite so tight, but that’s the idea.” He positioned the sash at Smith’s waist, passed the ends around his back twice—while pressing a kiss to Smith’s belly with a wink—then tied them in some magical hidden knot in the front. He tucked the ends in, then folded the top of the pants down and hid them somehow behind the folds of the sash. “There.”
Smith looked down at himself. “How did you do that?” He swiveled his hips a couple of times, the soft fabric whispering against his skin. It was almost like wearing nothing. Which is what I was trying to avoid.
Hashim grinned. “Practice. Although if you want to believe it’s magic, I won’t argue.”
“All right.” Smith kissed him again with the unfortunate result that he was suddenly wearing a tent. He stepped back, frowning down at his groin. “This could be awkward.”
Hashim patted his cheek. “Just think about baseball.”
“Have you never considered how ridiculously phallic baseball bats are? Stick a couple of balls next to the knob—which, by the way, is suggestive all by itself—and what have you got?”
Hashim laughed. “All right, all right. Think about vampires, then.”
“Ugh.” That did it. Instant deflation. “Thanks a lot.”
“You asked for help.” Hashim widened his eyes in totally false innocence. “I wouldn’t want you to be self-conscious as you stroll across the grounds, bare-chested, wearing thin linen drawers and no underwear.”
“You’re all heart,” Smith said dryly. He grabbed his boots and shoved his feet into them, tucking the pant legs inside. “I’ll be back as soon as I can. It might not be for a couple of days, though, because we have to get the operations center set up before the convention starts on Wednesday.” He finished lacing up and glanced at Hashim, who sat huddled on the bed, still naked, his arms wrapped around his middle, looking so lost that Smith squatted in front of him and cradled his face. “I’ll fix this. I promise. And demons always keep our promises.” He smiled. “That’s what gets us into such trouble.”
Hashim nodded. “I trust you. But I’ll miss you.”
“I’ll miss you too. But it’ll all work out.” He retrieved his phone from the dresser. “You’ll see.”
I hope.
Smith slipped out of the room and clomped down all three flights of stairs to emerge into the perpetual twilight of the Vegas Interstices. As he strode across the grounds, a couple of Hazel’s staff stared at him, big-eyed. Yeah, not my usual garage band grunge.
Thank the infernal host that he’d taken his phone out of his pants before tackling Hashim on the bed—and that he wasn’t wearing his headset today. He didn’t have time to replace any equipment, especially now that he had an alternative agenda. He punched in Brooke’s speed dial.
She answered on the first ring. “Where have you been? The appliance vendor screwed up the order for the prep tables, and Chef is about to explode—and trust me, we don’t have time for that kind of cleanup, let alone how far it would put him behind schedule.”
“I had an emergency.” Or two. “Where are you?”
“I’m in the kitchen behind the banquet room.”
“On my way. Be there in five.”
He made it in three. Brooke was frowning at her tablet in between barking out terse instructions to the golems who were installing the six salamander-powered ranges that Chef insisted on. When Smith stopped next to her, she did an almost comical double take.
A slow grin spread across her face. “New look, Smith?”
“Shut up. I need some intel. How much did we shell out on behalf of the vampires for use of the Carnival?” Brooke swiped a finger across her tablet and showed him the screen. His jaw sagged. “You’re shitting me.”
“Nope. You can say what you want about entitled sentient ticks, but they never quibble over price.”
“For that much, I’d say we haven’t just rented the space, we’ve subcontracted the entire staff. Which means—” He grinned, slow and evil. “—we get to assign them wherever we see fit.”
“Where are you planning to assign Ringmaster?”
Smith scowled, bunching his fists. “I hear the Ninth Circle of Hell has a few openings.” He forced himself to relax his hands before his claws poked holes in his palms. “Mostly I want him out of the way. He can lounge in his tent and count his money.” Smith tapped the tablet. “He’s got enough that it should keep him busy until after the Feast. In the meantime, I’ve got some research to do—starting with where I can find some decent pants.”