Strongman

by Denise Rossetti

  “Why, you devious bastard!” said Fort, with genuine admiration. Hastily, he grabbed pebbles from his box to shore up his defenses.

  Gradually, the hum of conversation around them resumed.

  “We will leave both Mirry and Fledge out of this discussion.” Flags of color flew on Jan’s sculpted cheekbones.

  Fort nodded. “Fair enough.” He glanced up from the board. “You’re a lucky man, Aetherii,” he said, meaning it.

  Jan settled his wings. “You have no idea how lucky,” he murmured, his tone like a dark silver bell. The tension in his cold handsome face smoothed away and the fire left his eyes, to be replaced by a banked warmth that looked very like happiness. Peace. The slightest of smiles curved his lips.

  Fort caught his breath, something curdling inside him. He stared down at the lines of stones because he couldn’t bear to see what he didn’t have. What he would never have.

  The Aetherii positioned more white pieces, boxing him in on the board, cutting off potential escape routes. “You’re exactly what I need, McLaren. Balls, brains and experience. Impeccable credentials.” A dark brow quirked. “Your move.”

  “You checked up on me.” Fort frowned down at the clusters of pebbles, calculating probabilities. Hmm. Definitely a trap. Time for a calculated risk. He took control of a line, formed a wall.

  “Of course.” Jan motioned to the serving girl and as he did so, his sleeve fell back, exposing an ugly scar circling his wrist. Glancing back at the board, he lifted a brow. “You play a dangerous game, Brother.”

  “Don’t call me that!” The words were out of Fort’s mouth before he could call them back.

  Jan’s eyes glowed with interest and Fort knew he’d blundered. “How long did you wear the manacles?” he asked in an attempt to retrieve the lost ground.

  The Aetherii paused, his hand over the board. Fort hid the glint of evil satisfaction in his eyes by focusing on the wench’s bountiful tits as she brought Jan a tall glass of gaeta juice. A picture came to mind. Two bull vranee, locked horn to horn, battling for dominance. He very nearly laughed. Sweat trickled under his collar and his blood sang. Lufra, he hadn’t felt so alive since the time Griff had—

  Shit.

  “Long enough,” said Jan. His face had shuttered again. “But I made her pay.” His gaze lifted, blazing. “She’ll never beat me. Not then, not now.”

  A woman? It had been a woman? Fort raised his brows. “A sore spot, Aetherii?”

  The other man’s beautiful lips compressed. “We all have them.” He set his pebbles down with decisive clicks, shooting Fort a narrow glance. “Would Griffid Ringman be interested, do you think?”

  Fort wrapped his fingers around the box of black stones. “No.”

  “Really?” Jan’s voice was very dry. “Perhaps I should ask him.” He lifted his glass and swallowed, watching Fort over the rim.

  “Griff wouldn’t— He’s not— He’d get himself killed.”

  “You underestimate him, McLaren.” Jan smiled without humor. “Last year, when the Fair was in Sere, he was attacked by thugs, three of them. They thought he was drunk.” A shrug. “Perhaps he was. He didn’t tell you?”

  Mutely, Fort shook his head.

  “He killed two. A dagger through the throat for one, the second to the heart. And he broke the third one’s wrist.”

  I’ll take you on one day. Naked. Winner takes all.

  Fort caught his breath. His heart thumped once, painfully hard.

  Jan said, “You think it’s funny?” and Fort realized his teeth were bared in a wild grin of anticipation.

  “No,” he said, sobering. “No. It’s not even a surprise, now I come to think of it.” He added a stone to a new wall, sacrificing the gains he’d made without a blink.

  “Hmm. Reckless.” The Aetherii tilted his head to one side in a gesture like a raptor considering its prey. “You’d make a good pair, you and Ringman.”

  Ruler God, he knew!

  Panic clawed at Fort’s guts, but when he shot a glance at the other man, there was nothing sly in his face, only intelligent calculation. “What do you mean?” he managed.

  “You complement each other. I think you’d work well as a team.”

  Gods, Griff would love it! He could see the tumbler now, sloe eyes snapping with interest, as they’d sat in Bruise’s hay wagon, arguing about Ten Nations politics. The younger man relished the very thought of court intrigue, political power plays, and he’d been astonishingly insightful. Ay, Griff’s charm and complicated mind, coupled with his own knowledge of strategy and of men… The Aetherii was right, damn him to the cold hells.

  “I’ll think about it,” he said.

  For the first time, Jan smiled, and although it was an expression of grim satisfaction, it lit his face with pale beauty. His eyes shone indigo as he slid the final white stone into place. “Game over, McLaren. Concede.”

  Relaxing, Fort spread his legs under the table and threw an arm over the back of the seat. “You don’t have anything left, do you, Aetherii?” Taking his time, savoring every second, he dipped into his pebble box and withdrew the two pieces he’d been keeping in reserve.

  Keeping his face studiously blank, he set them in the gap he’d left in the wall and sat back to watch the effect.

  Janarnavriel the Noir surveyed the board, and his inky brows drew together. “Rip the—” he lifted his head, his eyes wide, “fucking Veil!” A ripple of some strong feeling passed across his perfect features. Fort couldn’t tell what it was.

  Abruptly, he sat back, grinning like a boy, so extraordinarily beautiful Fort blinked. “I should tell Mirry, but I won’t. Gods, I’d never live it down. Do you know how long it’s been since I lost a game of Black and White?” He shook his head, the lamplight sparking blue-black gleams from the hair cloaking his shoulder. “And you had to nerve to call me a devious bastard…”

  His hand shot out, clamping over Fort’s wrist with the easy, uncanny strength of his kind. “Work for me, McLaren.” His eyes blazed like the blue at the heart of flame. “I need a counterpart among the Grounded, a second-in-command.”

  Fort shook himself free. “I thought you wanted spies, informants?”

  Jan grunted a negative. He dug in his belt pouch. “You’re too good for that. Here.” He tossed a small square of polished black wood onto the game board. It was incised with gold lines. “A chit for The Shuttered Lantern. When does the Fair move on?”

  “A few days. We travel toward Mother’s Hearth. Why?”

  Jan drained his glass of juice. “Hssrda are massing on the border between the Empty Lands and the territory of the Children of the Mother, but not even the warrior scouts of the Mother can pin the bastards down. They strike like the scum they are then fade like mist, taking their captives with them.” He hissed with frustration. “The Winged Envoy has allied the Eyrie with the Children and they’re asking for our help.”

  Fort shrugged. “Send an aerial scout then.” Hssrda. Before he could prevent them, the memories returned, vivid and sickening. The slave camps, the stinking pits…

  The Aetherii shot him a dark look. “I’ve done that. There’s nothing to see. I want to know why.” Rising with casual grace, he placed two gold marks on the table.

  Fort’s brows rose.

  “Find out for me. And when your contract with the Fair is up, come back to Valaressa. I’ll be waiting.”

  Shoving his seat back, Fort stood, looking down at Jan. “I’m not even sure I like you, Aetherii,” he said, his mind racing. He purely hated Hssrda. Filthy, hideous, slaver scum. By Lufra, perhaps…

  “Doesn’t matter a shit. Will you do it?”

  Fort almost laughed. If Jan but knew it, he had him by the balls. Already, his brain was churning, sorting facts from gossip, drawing a mental map of the terrain, assembling all he knew about the Hssrda. Lufra’s tits, he loved a good puzzle!

  He pulled in a breath. “Yes.”

  “Good.”

  When Jan offered his hand, Fort
grasped it the warrior’s way, forearm against forearm. Wisely, he didn’t attempt to squeeze. Any piss-up-the-wall contest of strength was a forgone conclusion. No Grounded human was as strong as an Aetherii.

  Wait ‘til he told Griff!

  Ah, fuck.

  Something in his face must have betrayed him. Jan stepped back, letting his hand drop and Fort turned, suddenly needing to be away from that raptor’s gaze.

  “McLaren?”

  “What?”

  The Aetherii seemed to hesitate. “Whatever’s eating at you, you won’t find the answer at The Shuttered Lantern.”

  Fort clenched his jaw. “How the hell would you know?”

  “I’ve had my own…” Jan bared his teeth, “demons.”

  Tension cramped in Fort’s shoulders, his neck. “So?”

  “Solitude worked for me. And the high places. You could do worse.”

  Fort literally couldn’t think of a word to say, so he grunted something that could have passed for a farewell and took two steps toward the door.

  “Wait.”

  Fort looked back over his shoulder.

  The Aetherii stood with his hands on his hips, all dangerous, glowing beauty. “Where the fuck…” his chest expanded and his wings arched behind his shoulders, “is your second blade?”

  Fort blew out a breath. “I’m not carrying one,” he said blandly.

  “It was a bluff?”

  Fort nodded.

  An appalled expression flickered over Jan’s face. “Fuck the Veil!”

  Fort laughed outright, a deep rumble of amusement. He was still laughing when he walked out into the Valaressan night.

  Chapter Eight

  The most pleasant, relaxing way to see Valaressa is to hire a scull and view the sights from water level. Given that the city is built on the mile-wide leaves of a gigantic sea plant, this mode of travel allows the traveler access to each fascinating area—from the Noble Leaf with its fine palazzos to the Leaf of Gems where fine jewelry is sold.

  “The Kingdom of the Leaves of the Sea: a traveler’s guide”, 2nd ed., Miriliel the Burnished, 10354 ATF.

  Griff hauled the fitted costume shirt off over his head and absentmindedly used it to towel his chest. He’d got through last night’s performance on sheer professionalism. The slightest lapse in concentration under the Big Top could spell disaster, so despite the fact that Leo had told him Fort had gone whoring to Valaressa, he’d clenched his jaw and poured all his energy into ferocious, single-minded concentration. Narrow focus. Fuck Leo and his mouth that ran a mile a minute.

  After it was over, the applause ringing under the canvas roof, Cizmar had made a point of telling him he’d never seen anything like it and could he do it again please? Tossing the shirt aside, Griff huffed out a grim laugh.

  Apparently not. Tonight, it had been a different story. For the first time in all the years, he’d been so erratic he’d actually frightened Katahaya, she of the iron nerve. When the audience had screamed, it had been with genuine terror.

  Fort had returned in time for his usual shift this morning, looking exactly the same—big, dark and brooding. Griff had heard his parade-ground bellow more than once, shouting orders as the roustabouts began striking tents and loading nonessential items onto wagons.

  If only he could sort out the tangle inside him. Shit, he was a mess!

  No sexual experience had ever been so perfect, so overwhelming, as Fort’s hard, calloused palm enveloping his cock, Fort’s deep voice controlling his orgasm, the big body pinning him down. And Twister, all the older man had done was kiss him, touch him…own him. Griff hadn’t been at all sure he’d survive the pleasure-pain of that magnificent cock pounding into his ass, but gods, he’d been willing to try!

  He sank down on the edge of the bed, his eyes burning. Outside, the Ten Nations Fair settled slowly into night silence, the crowds trickling back over the bridge to Valaressa, their hearts and their purses considerably lighter.

  He’d still been catching his breath, savoring the pleasure, relishing the drying, sticky mess of their combined seed on his belly, when Fort had turned away, his chest heaving, staring at a point in the air as though he gazed into the darkest, coldest pit of hell. All the blood had drained from his face until he was white to the lips, sweat beading his brow. Then he’d lurched to his feet and walked away without a word.

  As if he was revolted.

  Griff’s guts turned over. Well, that certainly put things into perspective. Griffid Ringman didn’t go where he wasn’t wanted. And outside the tavern tent… For a single wonderful instant, he’d thought he’d seen naked longing leap in Fort’s eyes. Gods, he was a fool! Because he’d been wrong, so wrong. Fort hadn’t been able to get away fast enough.

  Twister, his head hurt! Come to think of it, he ached all over, as if he’d been beaten with sticks. Stumbling a little, he rose to heat water for roberry. He had some pellets of godspeace somewhere. Good for every kind of pain, the apothecary had said.

  Griff’s lips twisted. What about the pain that wrapped its steely fingers around your heart, your pride? What about sickness of the very soul?

  He ripped the lid off the pillbox with a vicious twist and green pellets scattered across the floor. Cursing, he dropped to his knees. With the movement, rage swept through him like a flash fire. So fucking what if he wasn’t good enough? He had nothing to apologize for, no reason for shame.

  Fortitude McLaren could fucking go to hell.

  Someone knocked at the door. Two firm, brisk raps.

  Growling under his breath, Griff glared at it. Then he rose and wrenched it open. “What?”

  From two steps down, Fort’s clear gray eyes stared straight into his. “May I come in?”

  Griff didn’t shift. “Why?”

  Fort’s expression didn’t change. If anything, it grew more wooden. “I want to speak to you.”

  Griff shrugged. “So speak.”

  The other man’s jaw set. He thrust an object into Griff’s bare stomach, not gently. “Here. You should have this.”

  Reflex made Griff grab it before it fell. He looked down. “This is your harp,” he said slowly. “The one you got from Barnaby.”

  “Yes.”

  “I already have one, you know.”

  “Yes, but you can play and I—” Fort stalled. A dull tide darkened his cheekbones, clear to see even though he stood in the shadows.

  Griff raised a sardonic brow. “Buying me off, McLaren?” he asked, knowing Fort would do no such thing, but intending to wound and not caring. “I’m worth more than a secondhand harp, I think. Don’t you?”

  Fort’s eyes flashed. He raised a chin as hard as a granite cliff and glared down his nose. “Don’t flatter yourself,” he said. “I—” He broke off and nodded at something over Griff’s shoulder. “The water’s boiling.”

  “Shit!” Griff shoved the harp in Fort’s general direction and leaped for a cloth. By the time he’d removed the kettle from the brazier, it was too late. The door had closed with a decisive click and Fort loomed at his elbow.

  His heart thudding so hard it hurt, Griff kept his face turned away and his hands busy with brewing the roberry and setting out the cups.

  Two cups. Fuck.

  When he reached up to put one back in the wall cupboard, a long arm reached over his head and plucked it from his hand. Fort’s smell surrounded him, the spicy soap he’d used, the fresh linen of his shirt, the warmth of his skin. Griff froze, his guts tangling in a spiky ball.

  Pulling in a breath, he spun around and Fort took a swift step backward. He must have shaved before he’d come, for his strong jaw was smooth, healthy with a fresh outdoor tan.

  Something savage shot through Griff. Holding the big man’s eye, he snarled, “Did you enjoy your whore?”

  Every trace of animation disappeared from Fort’s face. He could have passed for a statue. “Not especially.”

  “Really?” Griff poured a single cup of roberry. His hands didn’t shake, he noted abse
ntly. “Tits not big enough?”

  Fort stalked over to the bed and laid the harp in the precise center of it. Playing for time, thought Griff, the blood thundering in his ears. The other man straightened, all bleak and flinty, the way he’d been when they’d first met. “What do you want to know, Griff? Every detail of every fuck?”

  Griff’s fingers tightened on his cup. “Yes.” Twister, it was going to kill him. “You owe me that much.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Then why did you come here, Fort? To take up where we left off? To apologize?” Griff nodded at the harp on the bed.

  Fort glared and another dull flush raced up his neck and over his cheeks. He braced his feet apart and clasped his hands behind his back. Parade-ground rest. “I ran into Jan the Aetherii at The Unbridled Vran.” The words emerged clipped and angry, as though he hated the feel of them in his mouth. “We played a game of Black and White. When I won he gave me a chit for The Shuttered Lantern.”

  Griff’s jaw dropped. “What? But it’s—”

  “I know.” Fort gave a grim smile. “They offered me my choice. The girl turned out to be a Child of the Mother, a member of the King’s Bodyguard. Moonlighting.”

  “And the other choices?”

  “Why?”

  “Tell me, damn you!”

  Fort pressed his lips together. “Two experienced courtesans, a blonde and a brunette. Three…young men. Also experienced.” His icy stare challenged Griff to make something of it.

  Griff curled his lip. “Let’s get back to the warrior whore. How original. Describe her.”

  The big man shrugged. “Tall for a woman. Muscled. Small high tits. Light brown hair. Dark eyes.”

  Griff’s heart began a slow, slamming beat. He wished he could see her, stand at her shoulder before a mirror. “And then?” Burying his nose in his cup, he gulped, the brew hot and bitter on his tongue.

  “Fuck, forget it!” Fort brushed past him and reached for the door, but the younger man snagged him above the elbow. He dug his fingers in.

  “What did you do? Did you fuck her?”

  Fort clamped a hand over Griff’s wrist and pried him off. “I had her bathe me, give me a massage.”