Strongman

by Denise Rossetti

  “Most people call me Griff.”

  “Ah.” A pause. “Fort.”

  “Right.” Feeling even more off balance, Griff cleared his throat and said the first thing that came into his head. “Where’d you get that pasty?”

  The clean-cut mouth twitched amidst the whiskers and Griff wondered what a smile would look like. “From a stall, the one with the red shutters.”

  “Shit, that’s Magrit’s!”

  A dark brow quirked, and for the first time Griff noticed the white scar that bisected it. “Is that a problem?”

  Griff slung his towel over one shoulder. “Well, it’s rumored she washes her hands once a year, but I think that’s an exaggeration myself.”

  Fort shrugged. “She was the only one selling trintri pasties. I don’t eat meat.”

  “Really?” A motto for every occasion. If you don’t reach, you don’t get.

  Griff sucked in a deep breath. His heart hammering, he raised his eyes to Fort’s. And held the stare. “I’m…ah…omnivorous,” he said. “If what’s on the table is willing.”

  The silence lasted an eon. Fort’s face shuttered. “Well, I’m not,” he said evenly. “On both counts.” Something swam behind those beautiful eyes, making them darken like smoke. He inclined his head. “Goodbye, Griff.”

  “Hey!”

  Fort stopped and looked over his shoulder, still all flinty and grim.

  “Where are you staying?”

  That fucking brow went up again. “What’s it to you?”

  “It’s just that—bunking in with the others is pretty shitty, I know—and Fledge is selling her wagon and—” Fuck, he was babbling. And he never babbled. Griff started over. “The bunkhouse isn’t the best, is it?”

  Again that flash of an almost-smile. “No,” agreed Fort. “I don’t know what’s worse, the snoring or the bed bitemes.”

  “Fledge is leaving the Fair, so she’s selling her wagon. She won’t ask much.”

  Now Griff had the other man’s full attention. “Which is it?”

  “The little one nearest the menagerie.”

  “I know it.” Fort thought for a moment. “Hmm. It needs repairs, but I could do that. I’m good with my hands.”

  I bet you are. All the hair rose on the back of Griff’s neck. He had to force the smile. “I’ll introduce you if you like.”

  “When?”

  “Tomorrow afternoon. She’ll be here then.”

  Another pause. “All right.” A final curt nod and Fort turned away, his broad bulk blocking the flood of buttery sunlight streaming in across the floor of the Big Top.

  Shit! He’d gone and Griff hadn’t pinned him down. He sprinted out onto the concourse. “Fort!” he called.

  The other man stopped and looked back, but he didn’t speak.

  “I won’t know what time exactly until I contact her, so I’ll find you. All right?”

  Another nod and that was all.

  Griff watched him stride away. Fort didn’t lumber like Bruise. His gait was long and smooth, soft with power constrained. Spectral fingers skittered over the flesh of Griff’s belly.

  I’ll find you.

  Chapter Two

  Aetherii:

  One of the hybrid races, avian-human. Most authorities believe the Aetherii were created as aerial scouts by the Firsters, using the magical craft referred to in the ancient texts as “gene-splicing”. (See Firsters—Magic) Aetherii are winged and tailed. Plumage and skin may be any color found in Nature. Various other physiological adaptations suit them for a life lived partly on the wing. (See Aetherii—Anatomy)

  Excerpt from the Great Encyclopedia, compiled by Miriliel the Burnished.

  Fort pulled the clean shirt over his head, conscious of Griff’s steady gaze. The tumbler had tracked him to the menagerie tent, where Fort had a bull vran’s enormous clawed hoof propped on his knee while he trimmed and shaped it. He’d been covered in sweat and he stank of vranee.

  As if it was the most natural thing in the world, Griff had strolled beside him to the men’s ablution tent. There he’d waited, leaning against the big central post with his arms folded and his ankles crossed, gleefully recounting the gossip of the Fair, while Fort stripped to the waist and washed up. Did Fort know why Fledge the Story Witch hadn’t been at the Fair the last four months? Twister take him, it was almost beyond belief! Had he heard that the Governing Ring of the Fair had elected Bruise’s mother to be its First? No? And Fort should be aware the Ring had served Magrit with three Warnings for the filth in her kitchen this summer alone.

  Fort gritted his teeth, thoroughly irritated with himself, even as he fought not to smile. The younger man was genuinely funny, with a sharp wit and an even sharper eye for human faults and foibles, but subtle he was not. In his own fashion, he was as bold as any warrior. The way his dark eyes wandered over Fort’s body, over the smooth flesh and the scarred, made the skin over his ribs and belly tighten, the same way it used to as he waited, crouched in the chilly dawn before battle, his sword loose in the scabbard.

  “You should shave it off, you know.”

  Fort paused, hands on his laces. “Sorry?”

  “This.” Griff reached up so quickly, his fingers brushed across Fort’s beard and away again almost before he registered the fleeting contact. “The whiskers.”

  On reflex, his hand flashed out and gripped Griff’s wrist. “Stop that!”

  “Stop what?” Griff cocked an insolent brow. “It doesn’t flatter you, truly it doesn’t.” He made no effort to free himself from Fort’s crushing grasp, but his eyes sparkled with amusement. And something deeper, infinitely more disturbing.

  A shiver ran straight up Fort’s spine and back down to his balls.

  Gods, why was he letting the little shit get to him this way? Griff had obviously come to some crazy conclusion about him, but despite the bigotry of Fort’s upbringing, manlove didn’t bother him. Hell, he’d been a mercenary long enough to allow each his own. Their business.

  A finger at a time, he loosened his grip on the tumbler’s wrist.

  Their business. Never his.

  He let out the breath he’d been holding. “I thought I’d made myself clear,” he said evenly. “I’m not interested. I never was and I never will be.”

  “Griff’s motto.” The younger man grinned, revealing a crooked tooth at the front. It made him look like a handsome bunrat. “Never say never.”

  Ruler God! Enough was enough!

  Before he’d realized he was going to do it, Fort had grabbed a fistful of the tumbler’s shirt and hauled him close. He thrust his face into Griff’s and growled, “What part of ‘no’ don’t you understand?”

  Griff hung in his grip, completely relaxed and apparently unafraid, though the pulse fluttered under his jaw. His smile grew wider and the golden stubble on his cheek glinted in the filtered light. It caught his dark eyes and ignited gold flecks. “The part that’s saying ‘yes’?” His knuckles brushed the front of Fort’s trews, featherlight, and his breath puffed against the other man’s chin, warm and sweet.

  Fort’s cock gave a single, hard, hungry twitch. A startled grunt punched out of him and he dropped the tumbler as though the man had self-combusted in his hands. “Touch me again and I’ll kill you,” he grated, still reeling with shock.

  Griff tucked his shirt back in. He shot Fort a glance from under his lashes. “A simple no would suffice,” he said with dignity.

  “Are you deaf?” bellowed Fort. “What do you think I just said?”

  “There’s no need to shout.” All lithe, compact grace, Griff sauntered to the tent flap and drew it back. “Never say never. Griff’s motto.” He lifted his chin, a glinting challenge in his stare. Fort could scarcely believe his nerve, the bastard!

  Stepping onto the concourse, Griff tilted his head to indicate their direction. “C’mon then.”

  The short walk back through the Fair to Fledge’s wagon was accomplished in a chilly silence. As they skirted the menagerie tent, a
woman’s laugh rippled to meet them, throaty and breathless and full of sensual promise. Griff stopped so suddenly Fort would have mowed him down if the tumbler hadn’t dug an elbow into his midsection.

  He snapped out a curse, but when he looked over the other man’s head, the words strangled in his throat. A small, curvy woman stood in profile to them, gazing up into the face of the most astonishing figure Fort had ever seen. Holy Lufra, it had to be an Aetherii, because huge, night-dark wings rose above the man’s shoulders, gleaming blue-black in the afternoon sun. An Aetherii! He’d seen the winged men before, but rarely and always in the far distance, circling high above enemy positions as they scouted. Their business was with haut-generals, not with lowly captains.

  As for the woman, she was pretty enough, with lustrous brown hair and honey-toned skin. Before either Fort or Griff could speak, she stepped straight into the circle of the Aetherii’s arms. They closed about her and his tail stroked up her spine and slithered over her shoulder. A tail! Gods, a tail! Immediately, she turned her head, rubbing her cheek over the wicked feathery tip, crooning something under her breath. The Aetherii bent his handsome head.

  Lufra, Fort could barely breathe! Thank Goddess for loose working trews. He cleared his throat.

  The Aetherii’s head jerked up, skewering them with a cold, indigo gaze, but the woman turned, smiling widely. “Griff!” She held out her hands and the tumbler bent to bow low over them, bestowing an impudent kiss in the center of each palm.

  “Ah, Fledge,” he said. “You look lovelier than ever.”

  He leaned forward to whisper in her ear, his voice perfectly audible, “I see why you’re not coming back.”

  She smiled, glowing with happiness.

  The expression on her vivid little face was what made her beautiful, rather than any particular arrangement of features, Fort decided. Nonetheless, she was a cozy little armful. Somewhat younger than his usual type, but—

  “I am Janarnavriel the Noir,” said the Aetherii and the shock of his dark tenor thrummed in Fort’s head. The bell-like timbre of it contrasted oddly with the chill menace radiating from the winged man’s stance, his face.

  Instinctively, Fort clamped a hand on Griff’s shoulder and shoved the tumbler behind him. He’d dropped a hand to his belt before he realized he wasn’t wearing a blade. No matter, he’d do it barehanded if he had to, though… He assessed the width of the winged man’s shoulders, the muscle in the thigh beneath the neat breeches. Shit, and he’d thought Griff’s body was a poem!

  The woman gave the Aetherii a steady look. “Stop it, Jan,” she said. “Griffid’s an old friend and this must be—?”

  She smiled at Fort and his balls contracted. The soft leather breeches she wore molded her tight little bottom in the most delightful fashion. Really, it had been far too long. “Fortitude McLaren.” Gingerly, he folded her small hand in his big one. “I hear you want to sell your wagon.”

  The Aetherii’s tail looped over his wrist and jerked his arm away with astonishing strength. Fort stiffened, holding the dangerous blue gaze. The air thickened.

  “C’mon,” said Griff hastily. He tugged at Fort’s other arm. “You’d better have a look inside.”

  Fort grunted, but he allowed Griff to nudge him toward the steps of the van. Once through the door, he straightened, grateful for the foot of headroom. The space was so small, a single glance was sufficient. Everything was well-used, shabby, old. In fact… He smoothed his fingertips over the worn patina of a wooden cupboard, examined the dovetailed joints in a hand-carved window frame. Hell, every item of furniture, the wagon itself, was antique. This was the kind of workmanship you no longer saw.

  He wanted it. What’s more, he was going to have it.

  Griff’s body blocked the doorway. Still preoccupied, Fort gripped the tumbler by the shoulders and set him aside. Reaching the door, he leaned against the frame. “How much?”

  Outside, in the shade cast by the little wagon, Fledge broke off her low-voiced conversation with the Aetherii. She frowned, her fingers creeping up to stroke the unusual strand of pearls around her neck, soft gold spheres alternating with satiny black. “Well,” she said slowly, “to be honest, I don’t really know.”

  “It needs work,” said Fort blandly. “A lot of work.”

  “Three gold marks?”

  A rush of wind plastered her loose shirt against pert, round tits. Fledge and the Aetherii looked up and smiled simultaneously, like the dawn of twin suns. From the corner of his eye, Fort caught sight of enormous tawny wings churning the air as a second Aetherii hovered above the wagon.

  “You’re giving it away, chick,” said the newcomer, dropping lightly to the ground and hauling Fledge hard into his arms. “Twelve gold marks and cheap at the price.” Then he bent his head and kissed her in a leisurely fashion, one long-fingered hand clasping her bottom.

  Fort’s astonished gaze raked the man up and down. He’d never seen a creature so impossibly, perfectly gorgeous, male or female. The Aetherii shone, from his glorious hair, shot with apricot, amber and russet, to his sumptuous plumage and elegant boots. His blood bubbling, Fort struggled for calm.

  Gods, he was human, he’d had the occasional impure thought about a man before. He’d wondered… After all, beauty was beauty and he loved fine things. There were men in the world as spectacular as any woman and this was one of them. On the other hand, Griff wasn’t. But there wasn’t any doubt this new awareness was all the tumbler’s fault, bugger him.

  Ah, shit! His palm itched with the urge to slap his forehead. What the fuck was wrong with him? Fort McLaren didn’t think like this, wouldn’t think like this.

  He’d pretty well got his breathing regulated when his eye fell on the newcomer’s tail, intertwined casually with that of the first Aetherii. Jan, she’d called him.

  There could be no mistaking the sexual intent of that lingering, feathery caress, as explicit as fingers wrapped around a man’s erection.

  All the breath whooshed out of his lungs and his balls clenched. At his elbow, Griff muttered, “Sorry. Should have warned you.” He gripped Fort’s biceps, as if to steady himself. Automatically, Fort slipped an arm around his waist.

  Just as quickly, he let go, swearing. But the impression of Griff’s muscular rib cage, his alien, masculine hardness, burned on the skin of his palm, a hot, ghostly presence.

  “Ah…five gold marks,” he managed, hoping he still made some kind of sense. “Lufra knows I’m not made of money.”

  “Why, you’re Feolin!” Fledge turned in the tawny man’s arms, her smile blinding.

  “No, he’s not,” said Jan. “His Bondmate was Feolin. McLaren might swear by Lufra, but he’s Straight Church.”

  Ruler God! Fort felt everything in him close down, until he reached the chill, calm center that was his battle-self. He rocked on the balls of his feet, flexed his empty fingers. “And how would you know that?” he asked mildly, dropping the words into the silence with cold precision.

  At his side, Griff sucked in a hissing breath.

  “The same way I know you and the Brethren parted ways more than twenty years ago. And why…” Jan held Fort’s stare, in no way diminished because he had to look up a couple of inches to do it. “I had you investigated as soon as we heard from the tumbler.”

  Fort shot the other man a dark glance.

  Griff spread his hands, shrugged. “I didn’t know, I swear.”

  “Veil-it, the Valaressans awarded you a King’s Medal for Valor!” the golden Aetherii broke in. “Not to mention a Royal Bonus for cleaning the Hssrda out of The Hollows. Don’t cry poor with us. It doesn’t add up.”

  “I’ve retired,” said Fort.

  The corners of Jan’s severe mouth turned up the slightest bit. “That is not particularly apparent.”

  “Let me go, Mirry.” Fledge shook free of the shining Aetherii’s grip. “And be quiet, both of you.” She frowned at the two winged men, now wearing identically pissed-off expressions.

 
Her wide brown eyes examined Fort’s face, feature by feature. He found he was holding his breath. Eventually, she laid a small hand on his forearm. He thought he heard a deep voice grate, “Veil-it, Fledge!”

  “You’ll look after it, won’t you?” she asked. “It’s all I have left of my Da.”

  “I haven’t had a place of my own since I was a lad.” Fort covered her hand with his own, pressed briefly and let it go. “Yes, I’ll take care of your wagon. Make it shine again.”

  The brilliance of her smile made him blink. Why ever had he thought her ordinary? “Seven gold marks? Is that all right?” she said.

  Protests burst from the Aetherii. “Chick!”

  “Listen, Fledge!”

  She ignored them.

  “It’s worth more than that,” said Fort, kicking himself inwardly, but unable to stop the words tumbling out of his mouth.

  Fledge grinned. Gods, she was a darling! “I know, but even with that awful beard, I can see you have nice eyes,” she said. “Seven marks.” And she held out a small hand.

  “Done!” Fort’s smile widened. Suddenly, he felt lighter than air. He took her hand in both of his and raised it to his lips. His beard was awful?

  “That’s enough.” The one she’d called Mirry slung an arm around her shoulders. Fort could have sworn she winked at him as the winged man drew her away.

  “Bring the money to the Winged Envoy’s palazzo sometime in the next couple of days,” said Jan, tossing Fort a key that he caught one-handed. “I’ll have the signed deed ready for you.” He patted the other winged man on the curve of his taut, rounded ass. Squeezed and released. “C’mon, Mirry. I need to get back.” Another bold caress. “And why were you late? Fledge was worried.”

  They began to walk in the general direction of the Big Top, the girl sandwiched between them. She gurgled with laughter. “Me? It wasn’t me who was worried!”

  Jan paused and looked over his shoulder, his tail flicking to and fro. “McLaren!”

  “What?” Fort met his level blue stare.

  “I like a man with nerve. Let me know if you need work.” A last curt nod and the Aetherii turned away.