“Yeah.”
“You should have said. We’re giving away free samples right through there.” The creature pointed a long, insectile leg at a revolving glass door.
“Thank you very much,” Keith said. “I’ll be right back.”
Things were going his way. He felt around for the empty flask in his pocket. They’d be back in DC in time to head down to the bar for a drink.
“Keith! Wait a minute—” Gunther called.
Only after he’d stepped through the door did Keith realize he’d been the worst kind of idiot. Behind him stood a seamless wall. In front of him lay a grimy dungeon pit. Above his head was a grate through which he could see the underside of the manta rays sending their searing lights downward.
Attached to the top of the medieval-looking grate was a state-of-the-art webcam. Above him he could hear the murmuring of a restless crowd.
A tinny voice through the speaker said, “Welcome, contestant! Are you ready to go for the gold?”
Chapter Four
“I don’t suppose it would make any difference for me to say that there’s been a mistake. I’m not a contestant.” Keith addressed the camera. From the laughter that rippled from the crowd above him, Keith got the distinct impression that his words were being broadcast on some sort of JumboTron. Keith took out his NIAD ID and held it up to the camera. “I am Special Agent Keith Curry of NIAD on a special operation and I demand that you release me immediately.”
Hoots and jeers replaced the laughter, along with a booing so intense he could feel the vibrations in his chest. His heart pounded, sending his pulse throbbing through his veins.
He had a pretty good idea of what was about to happen. He would be lifted up into the coliseum and then fight... whatever was up there... to the death. He had only two things on his side, his mage pistol and the fact that Gunther would be trying to find him. Whether or not that would be possible, or whether Keith would still be alive when Gunther managed to get to him, Keith couldn’t say. He pulled out his mage pistol and thumbed the safety off.
As he did the camera he’d been speaking into began to move. A small panel opened in it’s back and two sets of dragonfly like wings sprouted from the back. It hovered above him as the grate that covered the top of his cell slid away to reveal open sky. A searing searchlight shot down into his cell and Keith fought the urge to cringe beneath their laser intensity.
The floor beneath him lurched and began to move inexorably upward raising him to the fighting floor. He emerged just off center and got his first full look at the arena. The walls surrounding the fighting floor were not as tall as he’d initially thought—maybe only seven feet but escape over one of these seemed unlikely. Trolls, goblins and God knew what else crowded the ringside seats. Half of those guys had probably been hoping to kill a NIAD agent their whole lives. Here and there the yellow umbrellas of goblin skewer stands dotted the crowd.
The booing intensified and one close-by goblin chucked a full cold-drink at him. Keith dodged. The drink splashed against the ground—he could see the greasy rainbow sheen of an accelerant. Kerosene maybe?
As he was wondering what he might do with this, another trapdoor opened across the arena and a man’s head began to rise from the floor. Enter the opponent. Even from fifty yards away, Keith could see he was pale, slightly built and sported a dishwater crew cut. He eyed Keith with cold curiosity. His gaze landed on Keith’s mage pistol and his eyes widened in terror.
Overhead the announcer called out, “And he’s back! Our reigning champion Paxton—thunder punch—Carter!”
Keith immediately flipped the safety on. His opponent was definitely a human and seemed sane. The fact that he was the reigning champion of this place didn’t mean that the guy chose to fight here of his own free. He could have been abducted and conditioned or maybe he’d just walked through the wrong door. Keith couldn’t kill him, so long as he had any other option. He knew that much. He holstered his pistol.
“Listen, we don’t have to fight each other,” Keith shouted above the hooting of the crowd. “Work with me and I’ll help get you out of here.”
Carter cocked his head in confusion. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out a bright blue can. He held it aloft and the crowd heaved with excitement as he cracked the top and started chugging. One huge screen showed Carter’s face begin to purple and swell as he gulped the liquid down. Muscles all across Carter’s body swelled, while his entire frame expanded to a towering mass.
The other screen displayed Keith’s reaction of steadily growing horror.
Carter let out an incoherent howl, which was picked up by the crowd into a tsunami of sound.
Keith did not feel good about his chances of convincing Carter to cooperate with him—who knew if he spoke English, or had even stepped foot on Earth in his entire life? For an instant Keith reconsidered his mage pistol, but he knew that he couldn’t just murder this stranger, not when he’d been the one who’d stumbled into the tournament. That left Keith only one option other than getting beaten to death.
Carter charged Keith, his massive feet kicking up plumes of sand as he bounded across the coliseum grounds. Keith took off, beelining it away from his opponent.
His high school gym teacher had called Keith “the Cheetah,” and though that had been many years and a lot of grilled cheese sandwiches ago, he retained his basic instinct to run and run fast. Maybe if he could evade Carter long enough, the sports drink would wear off—or Gunther would figure out a way to get him out of this place.
As Keith sprinted ahead of Carter, missiles rained down on him from the surrounding stands. Drink cups full of gasoline, naphtha or blood splashed at his feet. Fat wads of spit peppered the sand where he’d been. Having been a queer kid in a conservative town, he’d long ago perfected his technique of eluding a speeding loogie.
Though he didn’t know how long he could keep ducking and dodging at a full sprint. Cramps already nagged at his gut and his breath felt raw. He heard Carter growling and gasping as he closed the distance between them. Keith stole a glance back. Carter scrambled after him like a huge purple tick—his face contorted in an incoherent grimace of rage.
A flaming meat skewer sailed down. Keith dodged and the skewer splashed down into one of the numerous spills of kerosene. The ground ignited in flames, and acrid black smoke drifted through the twilight. Carter recoiled from the fire for a moment, but then he let out another infuriated roar and charged.
Keith coughed on the sickening scent of burning meat and something else . . . something eye-watering but distinctly familiar. Big Mama Tooth’s Fiery Butt Sauce—Gunther loved that shit. There was always a bottle in Keith’s refrigerator.
The condiment was manufactured in a facility in San Diego by a member of the trans-goblin community. Keith had toured the factory once and needed a hazmat suit to survive the free-floating cloud of atomized capsaicin, because the pepper sauce had been so hot it might as well have been weaponized.
Inspiration surged through Keith. He sprinted for the nearest yellow umbrella. As he neared he spotted the familiar green bottle with the purple cap. His breath caught in his throat, eyes burned. He leaped, propelling himself straight up the wall separating him from the surrounding crowd—and more importantly, the food vendors. The plump brownie beneath the yellow umbrella gave a startled squeal as Keith hit the wall hard and flailed out.
Straining, Keith’s fingers just brushed the bottle of Big Mama’s and sent it tipping into his hands. He felt Carter’s fist swat across the back of his jacket. He tumbled forward. Carter’s weight slammed into him and they both skidded across the sand.
Whirring camera-flies whizzing around them, jockeying for the best shot of what would be Keith’s demise. The crowd chanted, “Blood, blood, blood.”
Keith ripped the cap off the bottle and squeezed with all his might. A thin green stream of sauce landed squarely in Carter’s mouth, then splashed upward, spraying his eye. Shrieks of pain replaced guttural rage as the now-bl
inded Carter clutched his own face, stumbling sideways.
The crowd’s shouts for blood didn’t diminish. The vibrations of their pounding feet shook the sand. Keith barely heard the familiar rat-a-tat-tat of an automatic weapon firing close by.
Carter thudded to the ground, his entire backside thick with a peacock tail of tranquilizer darts.
Through the drifting haze of sand and smoke Keith caught sight of Gunther still rising from the coliseum floor. Gunther flipped some switch on his weapon and a huge plume of blue fire sprayed up—a mage flame of immense power. It radiated cold. A spell spoken into a flame that big could take out a huge section of the building. Tendrils of frost shot through the sand at Gunther’s feet.
The camera-flies zipped over to hover before Gunther’s face.
“Welcome, contender!” the announcer, whose bony white goblin face Keith could now see broadcast on one massive screen. “Are you ready to go for the gold?”
The crowd quieted. Gunther dialed back the mage flame and let the gun hang from his shoulder by its strap. He then unsheathed his scimitar and held it aloft.
“I am not a contender. I am Gunther Heartman, son of Agnes of San Francisco. This man belongs to me.”
A brief moment of consternation rippled through the crowd. The announcer leaned out of the frame, then returned, nodding. “So be it. Let’s hear it for the Heartman Clan.” A baffled cheer erupted through the crowd. The announcer went on, “Unfortunately, Special Agent Keith Curry forfeits the gold, as no kill was made. Better luck next time, NIAD!”
A door popped open in the side of the arena.
Gunther made straight for it, but Keith doubled back to snatch up Carter’s discarded can.
As they strode from the arena, the announcer called out the contenders for the next fight and the crowd again roared and cheered their favorite. Gunther reached out and caught Keith’s free hand in his own. Together they descended a newly exposed staircase that led down to a set of plain double doors. Those opened out into the ticket lobby. The big, beetle-like ticket agent ignored them as they walked out to the crooked street.
They made it all the way through the NIAD portal, across the streets of DC and into their apartment before Gunther turned and hugged Keith to his chest.
“I can’t believe you did something that dumb,” he murmured into the top of Keith’s head. “I mean, seriously? Free samples?” Gunther pulled him closer and Keith relaxed completely into his arms.
“I know,” Keith murmured back. “I fully acknowledge that I just made a huge mistake and I am very grateful to you.”
“Why didn’t you just say you were a Heartman right away?” Gunther demanded.
“It didn’t occur to me,” Keith said. “And I’m not a Heartman. I’m not in the clan.”
“But you are allied to us. You have a pendant. Next time remember to state your allegiance.” Gunther drew back, hands on either side of Keith’s face. “It’s a goblin market. You’re protected by a goblin clan. Use that, please.”
“I don’t think there will be a next time,” Keith said.
“Of course there’ll be a next time, baby. You get into trouble. That’s the best thing about you and the worst. That never changes.”
The truth of this cut a little too close. Nobody likes to have his weakness brought to the fore. Keith stepped out of Gunther’s arms.
“At least I got this.” Keith held up the can. “There’s still about a teaspoon left, so maybe it will have been worth it?”
“I sure hope so.” Gunther’s phone chimed and he glanced at it with a pained expression. Keith could see text after text rolling up the screen. He caught sight of the words “Seven Moon Coliseum” and shuddered internally.
“News travels fast in the goblin world,” Keith said.
Gunther gave a grim nod. “You go shower first. I’ve got to explain this all to Mom.”
Keith nodded and trudged upstairs to the bathroom. There, submerged to his chin in the bathtub, he finally had a chance to examine Carter’s can.
The product was called Critical Mass! and bottled by the Mage Technica Bottling Company, a subsidiary of Blissco based in the Grand Goblin Bazaar. A brief glance at the ingredients yielded several dodgy-sounding active additives.
Keith shifted and the water sloshed around his aching body. Gunther would be pissed if he found out Keith was still working on the case this late, but seeing as Gunther never managed to get off the phone with his mother in less than ninety minutes, Keith figured he had some time.
Keith’s fluffy orange tabby, Cheeto, hopped up onto the side of the bath and started to paw at Keith’s shoulder, hoping for attention. Keith had rescued Cheeto from a manufacturing facility a couple of years before. The cat had been only partially socialized then but had blossomed into an affectionate, if somewhat destructive, housemate.
He followed Keith from the bath to the bed, where he curled up next to Keith’s stomach. The bedroom was the only room in the house that Keith had decorated, and he’d done it specifically to give himself an opulent, soothing context to view Gunther within. Though if he’d known he’d eventually live with a cat, he would have passed on the silk wallpaper. Cheeto’s orange fur did provide a nice accent to the gray and silver environs, however.
Wrung out from misadventure, Keith was already dozing when Gunther arrived, freshly showered, for bed. Keith’s eye snagged on the curve of Gunther’s shoulder. The guy had been custom made. Transformed by mages in utero to be beautiful and strong and nearly human. Bone-white skin stood out starkly against the dark gray silk wall. He was taut, sexy and tired-looking.
“How’s your mom?” Keith asked.
“She was really hurt at first, but got better when I told her we hadn’t eloped behind her back and that this whole thing was part of a Food/MED case.” Gunther sat down on the edge of the bed and shed his damp towel.
“Why would she have thought that we eloped?”
“Well, you know how I announced that you belonged to the clan, in front of everyone?”
“I don’t think I could have forgotten so soon,” Keith replied.
“Well, technically you’re only allied with us, because you haven’t formally petitioned to become a member of the clan.” Gunther reached out to pet Cheeto, then gently shifted the cat sideways so he could lie down.
“Yeah,” Keith said. “That’s the reason I never say I’m one of you.”
“Mom thought we’d eloped to avoid having to go through the formalities.”
Keith blinked. He and Gunther had mused about getting married, sure. That would be a matter for the Washington, DC, justice of the peace. But to join the Heartman (shortened from “Beating Heart of Man”) Clan through marriage a petitioner had to prove themselves worthy by bringing the clan a gift that displayed great heroism.
According to tradition, the mother-in-law would lift the gift in her shining white claws and freestyle a poem based on the matrimonial hopeful’s exploits, which would be noted down in the family history.
Because of the goblin predilection for reciting these poems at family barbecues, Keith had already become familiar with the staccato tunes to many Heartman favorites, such as “Song of Blood Wing,” wherein the eponymous heroine slew a great, giant red eagle, then used its feathers to fashion her own functional glider.
He’d also learned “Ice Dragon Lullaby,” which detailed the marriage quest of Gunther’s paternal grandfather, who, after strangling an ice dragon to death, had been moved to arts and crafts. From the creature’s silver hide he’d made a shield to deflect the breath of any dragon; from its claws, knives that could pierce even the flesh of other goblins; and from its jawbone, a harp to play bedtime songs for his children. He, and the harp, were both given the clan name Bone Song.
Keith had seen the harp. Even today the silver wires strung across the dragon’s teeth were imbued with the cold of the frozen mountain slopes of the sidhe realm and stayed frosty even in July.
Keith doubted his life of food inspec
tion would ever lead him to venture forth and vanquish a foe worthy of commemoration in extemporaneous verse and/or provide a priceless family heirloom. He’d barely managed to make it out of the Seven Moon Coliseum alive, and the only prize he’d won there was a dirty old can.
It sobered him, though, to realize that Gunther clearly hoped for Keith to someday join his family, despite being wildly unsuccessful at remaining a member of his own family in the past.
The guy loved him—no question about it. But was he worthy of that love?
Maybe?
On a good day?
But as long as Gunther kept offering it, he’d take it.
He reached and drew Gunther down for a kiss. The eerie glacial scent of blue mage light residue still clung to his skin. But Keith had to acknowledge, if he was honest, that this added to his sex appeal.
Gunther returned his kiss with odd self-consciousness, as if embarrassed. Keith didn’t know why. Had Gunther’s mother said something? Impossible to know, and Keith knew from experience that Gunther wouldn’t tell him.
Better to just pull him down into the blankets where he’d feel comfortable and start to administer the kind of nice, relaxing low-key hand job that Gunther preferred on a day when his adrenaline levels had already been ratcheted up into the red zone.
Gunther was not, by nature, an aggressive guy. It’s what made him good at policing. He could wield force, if necessary, but it wasn’t his go-to. Given the choice he’d rather not use violence. Even in a gladiatorial arena, where he could have crushed his opponent and won a fat pot of money, he chose to talk his way out.
After a minute the tension went out of his shoulders and he rolled to face Keith, hands curling around Keith’s own forcibly demure, yet eager to engage, dick. He gave himself up to the singular pursuit of friction maintenance, trying to outlast Gunther while knowing he never would. In a battle of self-control, Gunther would always win while Keith pushed eagerly and single-mindedly ahead toward completion. It was just the difference in their natures.
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