Chaos Tryst

by Shirin Dubbin

  He broke the kiss far too soon but folded her against him. The tension in his body told her he’d gone on alert, his heartbeat wild. He listened out. She heard it too, strange sounds just outside their room. They both stilled and only the flickering faerie lights of their combined chaos moved.

  After disentangling their limbs he walked over to the door. When it stood open a multitude of moans and panting wafted into the room. Maks gripped the doorjamb, disappointment acute in his posture. “Chaos,” he said. “We must go.”

  Out in front of the karaoke parlor, Ari watched Maks pace up and down the sidewalk. The chaos between them disturbed him and she had no idea why. Her parents lived happily together. Surely these bursts of craziness came more from the newness of his and her, um, thing than any real danger. Plus, not a soul had gotten hurt. Double plus, why had the crazy man gotten upset about an orgy? She thought men enjoyed the freaky stuff. She’d wanted to stay in the karaoke parlor and watch the rapturous writhing a while longer.

  “We cannot happen.” He pointed from her to him, then back into the karaoke parlor. “Did you not see them? They were taken by a frenzy.” He cursed. “I am hoping those paired off at least like one another.”

  Ari threw her hands into the air. “They looked happy to me, Maks, and not everyone took part. Some folks walked out. Others seemed to be dreaming.”

  “We have no idea what they feel. Our energies are too strong together. This will not happen again.”

  “But—”

  Corbel jogged up. “Look alert, ganglies,” the goblin said, tipping his sliced hat as though he’d opened with a pleasantry. “The one you want is back.”

  ***

  THREE MINUTES PRIOR

  Rose-colored lights danced throughout the karaoke parlor and the storied folks made love. Couples on the verge finally came together in crashing passion; unspoken devotion poured from throats. Long-time lovers sparked anew while relationships hanging by the barest clinch of a fingernail lost their holds as new ones, true loves, cemented. The entire building blossomed into an anarchy of lovemaking.

  The Russian bear led the female with golden locks out by the hand. As they tiptoed past, those who were not with their lovers and those who were not in love dreamed of the one who was not there or the one who had yet to appear. Not one of the patrons of the karaoke parlor spared a thought for orderly behavior, and no one would regret their actions after.

  Chapter Seven

  KABOOM! Bada-bada-bada-BOOM!

  Maks stared at Ari as though she’d birthed the devil and promptly spanked the child for being evil.

  “After you kill us all I hope to be reborn on another planet. Mars or perhaps Venus,” he intoned dryly. “You are not in possession of a wormhole jumper, interstellar space cruiser, police box or Millennium Falcon, are you? I would dislike wasting a reincarnation only to have to start over again.”

  She said nothing. They had finally caused enough destruction to quiet even her gift for chatter. He batted away the burning debris falling around them and wondered why he didn’t allow a plank to bonk Ari on the head and end his suffering.

  Faebles with soot-smudged faces, a few of them nursing singed wings or tails, fled in all directions as the original Big Bad blew out the fire.

  Colleen walked to the edge of the flaming chasm where her business had once stood and dropped to her knees. She held the doll Ari had retrieved for her against her body. An exact replica of the woman, from the hair—gas flame blue at the roots, gradating to orange and finally to yellow at the ends—to the tapered ears, the doll even mimicked the manic expression on Colleen’s face.

  Ari left Maks and made her way over to kneel beside her mother’s friend. The two women held on to one another as tears rolled down Colleen’s face and disappeared into a grimace so wide and curled it might have been mistaken for a smile.

  Chaos. Everywhere they went. Chaos. Maks and Ari had entered Willow the Wisps, asked for the owner and given her the doll. All fine. Colleen offered Maks a drink and he’d pictured her a saint. He’d needed something to soften the turmoil the returner caused to churn within him.

  Vodka improved all situations.

  There’d been an empty spot at the bar beside a fire sprite with a hefty head start on the path drunken. The fellow had the look of a red leprechaun and partied with as much joviality. Maks liked the fire sprite despite his frequent burps and the gaseous bubbles he emitted. Every species had its drawbacks—fire sprites happened to burp when intoxicated. They’d had a companionable talk, exchanging salacious limericks, until Ari came up behind and touched Maks on his shoulder blade.

  “We should probably get out of here, Maks. I’m late for the drop-off to the Grand High Oni and I’ve got some explaining to do,” she’d said.

  Without doubts Wendell’s temper would not be easily allayed. But who cared? Wendell did not possess such lovely eyes—tempting as a sip of cognac. Nor was the Grand High Oni’s touch electric. Ariana Golde’s touch, however, brought Bear to the surface, the hunt in him hungry to have her. A match. Good. Need her. Bear had whined and Bear was not given to whining. Maks had fought the compulsion to draw Ari between his legs and press her against his…ahem, so he hadn’t turned to face her.

  “Are you ready?” she’d asked, peering around him. “Tonight is flying past like that.” She’d snapped her fingers to punctuate the last word. In that same moment the fire sprite burped.

  Maks wouldn’t have countenanced such a perfect storm if the grapevines had told him. The domino chain of events was too screwed up to call serendipity. He’d had to create a new word: fubar-dipity. The term would evoke the utter madness of the night when he related the tale to his brothers—if Ari’s antics allowed him to live beyond the rising sun.

  At any rate, Ari’s hand on Maks’s back had channeled their magick. It surged through them and erupted from her thumb and index finger in a single spark of chaos. Snap. Burp. Maks had downed his vodka to ease the oncoming assault of Murphy’s Law. The shimmering bubble of gas floated toward the returner. The spark struck the bubble. Nothing happened for less than a millisecond, perhaps two, but fire sprite burps were flammable. All storied folk knew this.

  He’d yelled “Get out!” in Russian. Any creature with an inkling of self-preservation took his meaning and hauled ass whether they spoke the language or not. Over his shoulder, Maks saw the bubble implode, the spark of chaos encased inside it. The memory of how their magick coalesced in his home quickened his getaway pace, and he slung Ari over the opposite shoulder.

  KABOOM! Bada-bada-bada-BOOM!

  Maks rubbed his eyes to chase away the memory. He could now warm his hands by the pit—a dead ringer for the entrance to Hades—they’d created. Damn her and him along with her.

  “I could use a hand here.”

  Maks followed the voice to the brink of the pit. A broken pipe jutted out of the side of the chasm, and from the pipe dangled the fire sprite.

  “Hello.” The fire sprite waved before he realized the folly of the action and hugged the pipe to his neck. “Mind snatching me outta the jaws o’hell?” he said.

  Maks dropped down onto his belly and reached into the pit. The sprite reached back but neither could grasp the other. Soft footfalls terminated at Maks’s side. “Corbel, Trajan, help Maks out,” Ari said. “And stop ignoring him, by the way.”

  Both goblins scrambled to the edge and leaned over the pit at a forty-five degree angle. Trajan tsked, throwing the hanging end of his scarf over a shoulder. Corbel said, “We’d rather you order us to commit seppuku. Wouldn’t we, Trajan?” Trajan answered with a stiff nod, arms folded in defiance.

  Maks pushed up onto his knees and prepared to unleash Bear. Ari spoke first. “Ritual suicide, huh?” She crouched down in front of the goblins, seemingly relaxed. “I’ve got no problems with that. How about a running leap into that hole?” Ari jerked her head toward the pit. “Hades seems like just the place for you two.”

  The needle on Maks’s Arian-o-meter sw
ung sharply to “like.”

  The goblins tucked, tumbled and climbed down to help the sprite.

  “She might need anger management, Corbel,” Trajan shouted loud enough for all to hear. “We was hopping to it. What is we, heathens that don’t know our place?”

  “Right again, Trajan,” Corbel said, huffing. “You’ve got a knack for verisimilitude.”

  Adept as squirrels, the henchmen didn’t slip once as they scampered down. Maks assumed the skill helped with acquisitions. Gods, he’d surrounded himself with thieves and he was beginning to like them. All three of them. He proved himself his mother’s son to greater and greater degrees.

  Reaching the pipe, Corbel straddled it and scooted out toward the dangling fire sprite. The poor fellow had begun to sweat. Fire sprites did not burn or become overheated. Fear of death alone caused the moisture to break out across the ruddy complexion.

  Trajan slid along the pipe behind Corbel. When they were both in place the later took the sprite by the wrists and flipped him overhead.

  “Easy,” Maks growled.

  Trajan caught the sprite by the ankles and hoisted him with perfect balance. Maks gripped sweaty fingers, Trajan kept hold of the sprite’s ankles, and Corbel grasped Trajan’s feet. As Maks lifted, the trio of three-footers rose from the hole in a chain, the ugliest set of head-over-end paper dolls ever constructed.

  Maks set the chain down. Trajan and Corbel pimp walked—there was no better description of their we-rule-the-night strut—over to Ari. The sprite sprung to his feet and wrapped himself around Maks’s leg. Clutching and whimpering ensued. Uncomfortable in a magnificent way, Maks looked to Ari for help.

  “Um, Mister Fire Sprite, sir. You’re making him uncomfortable with your head that close to his bits.”

  The sprite leapt away and straightened the scarlet vest he wore beneath an orange jacket with glittering red pinstripes. He sputtered an apology for his decidedly unmanly behavior and stroked his baldpate. “Fark-o-flaming.” The fire sprite turned a ruddier shade. “I’ve lost me bowler.”

  Ari patted the fellow on the back and cooed consolingly. “There’s an all-night haberdashery on the corner of Peters Creek and Sirens Mill Road. You could have a new hat in an hour or so.”

  The fire sprite lit up. He kissed Ari’s hand, shook Maks’s and hightailed it out of there.

  Ari watched the sprite go. Maks watched only her. Ariana Golde was lovely, kind and funny, also a horrible singer but crafty. His Arian-o-meter went off, blinking and dinging as though he’d struck the jackpot, the needle swinging well past “like.” Maks gave the device a mental kick and it shut down with a dissatisfied whir.

  “How do you like that one, Trajan? We do all manner of acrobatics to save him and we don’t get no kisses.”

  “Was you wantin’ kisses, Corbel?” Trajan’s sharp features lent him the look of a grinning cheese wedge. “Your proclivities is always been questionable.”

  “Well, he wore his hat nicely.” Corbel grumbled, pushing his own bear-ravaged cap back off his face. “I could’ve used a trip to the haberdasher’s and wedda had nice tête-à-tête.”

  Trajan chortled and danced his jig. “Which head was you wanting to touch, Corbel? The big one or the little one?”

  Maks snorted. Nicely done. Ari burst out laughing at Trajan’s risqué translation of head-to-head. “Back in the bag, you silly buzzards,” she told her henchmen. They went without complaint. Trajan threw an arm around Corbel and happily poked his buddy’s ribs along the way.

  “You know what, Corbel? You’ve gotta get rid of the stinging itchies if you want to keep a man.”

  “How would you know?” Corbel looked genuinely puzzled.

  Maks thought the answer would be common sense. One could not give a lover the stinging itchies, AKA nasty goblin’s disease, and expect them to stick around past breakfast, let alone to form a lasting bond. Apparently the obvious did not come to Corbel so easily. As Maks understood it one would rather have the fleas of a thousand wolves take residence in one’s pubic hair than deal with the stinging itchies. Maks did not know for sure but would ask Mitya when he returned home.

  “I’ve got a girlfriend. That’s how I know,” Trajan said, continuing his discussion with Corbel.

  “I haven’t set eyes on her.” Corbel stepped into Ari’s bag and disappeared.

  “You ain’t never seen lady parts neither.” Trajan followed. “Don’t mean they don’t exist.” Zzzup. The zipper sealed.

  Ari turned a disbelieving gaze on Maks, her eyes wide, her lips twitching. He wanted to kiss her so badly he made fists of his fingers enough times to realize the calming exercise had lost effectiveness. His inability to restrain himself precipitated a flood of annoyance.

  “You could have killed us all.”

  “No one died or was even injured. It’d take a lot more than singeing to take a Faeble down.”

  “And what will Colleen do now?”

  The returner paused and Maks could see she felt badly about their blowing up the pub. “I don’t know,” Ari said, exhaling slowly. “But she kissed my cheek and she doesn’t seem to be that upset. Look.” She pointed to where Colleen stood in conference with a pair of Faebles in navy suits and red ties. “Those insurance incubi look more worked up than she does.”

  Colleen wore a heavy pink blanket and the same maniac expression she’d had just after the explosion, while the pair of incubi huffed, indignant as victims of a double cross. Maks smelled a large payoff via accidental fire insurance.

  Ari was right. He knew this yet could not agree with her. He had to find the means to drive a wedge between them. Smells good. Tastes better. A match. Maks shook himself mentally. He did not have the self-control to stay away from her much longer and who knew what they’d catapult into deep space the next time they touched. He turned his back on her. “We got lucky. Still, do not touch me again.”

  Far too concerned with mastering the howl and desire of the hunt within him, Maks didn’t sense her approach. He only felt her arms slide under his, her hands clasping his shoulders, her cheek against his spine. Good.

  “I can’t promise you that, Maksim.” Her smooth as honey tone soothed him. So sweet. Maks snarled and closed his eyes, relaxing into her embrace. “But I can promise you other things,” she said.

  Mating by moonlight. Cubs. Dancing.

  “What do you promise me, vorovka?”

  Another feminine scent filled the air and a voice as crisp as summers in the Hamptons broke into his thoughts. “I can promise you’re not going to like this.”

  Maks opened his eyes in time to see the punch coming but not to deflect it. He staggered back from the blow and shook his head but managed to push Ari further behind him. The Grand High Oni’s younger sister stood before him. She held up her red-skinned dukes in a boxer stance. Maks keyed in on her oval cut sapphire ring to regain his senses, as a contingent of ogres bounded in from the shadows beyond.

  “Bitsy, did you believe I would go down so easily?” Maks assumed his own stance. This was an opportunity to work off his frustration.

  Bitsy grinned. “Magick ring, Maks.”

  “You—” He felt woozy. Everything went wrong side twisted. The cobblestone greeted his rear as he slumped down into Ari’s arms.

  “Maks,” his vixen-vorovka cried out to him.

  “Do not worry.” He barely understood his own slurred words. “I am—”

  “Sleepy,” Bitsy said. “Rock-a-bye, Maksy.”

  Maks did not open his eyes when he awoke. Nor did he move. Instead he allowed his sense of smell to speak to him of the oni compound: sand and edamame—ogres ate soybeans until the scent leached from their pores—and mountain air. There were several ogres in the vicinity and—wait—yes, most importantly, he and Ari had been brought there together. Her honeysuckle scent calmed him.

  Touch told him he rested on a stone bench with his feet in the sand he’d smelled, likely Wendell’s rock garden. Pain made it evident two sides of his jaw would
be sore for the rest of the night, the underside from Ari’s kick and the left from Bitsy’s sucker punch. Odd how he chose to stay away from women and yet they would surely be his death.

  The smoky perfume of incense drifted to Maks. Water trickled over stone a few yards away while Wendell spoke to Bitsy.

  “Where is this reek of goblin coming from?” Wendell asked in his John Wayne burr.

  “I think it must have come in with the returner.” Bitsy said, overblown disgust underscoring her words. Neither sounded particularly angry, so Maks decided he could open his eyes without the threat of attack and further assess the situation.

  Wendell and Bitsy stood in the middle of the rock garden. The sister waved to Maks. Three sticks of incense were clutched between her fingers. Her brother nodded a greeting but continued to rake parallel patterns into the sand. Maks curled his lip at them both.

  Where was Ariana Golde? He searched the courtyard, his gaze falling on the ogres who had accompanied Bitsy as they went about their duties.

  The mountain the ogre compound had been carved from and the gentle waterfall at its base formed a backdrop to the square yard. He did not see the returner. Urgency spurred him. Where? Finally he looked down and found her at his feet. She’d been knocked unconscious, a bump forming over her right eye.

  Maks fell to his knees beside her and pushed her shoulder pack out of his way. The rise and fall of the returner’s chest kept his chaos from erupting. She lived. His fingers touched the bump and judged it minor. Maks nodded. Good. She was well, if slightly battered. With more care than he figured she warranted, he lifted her and laid her on the bench. There was sand on her cheek. He brushed the granules aside with the backs of his fingers. Pausing to stare at her slack face, he tweaked her chin. Damn her.

  Rising, Maks shuddered but kept Bear at bay, and turned to face the oni royals. The hunt and Bear roiled within him; bloodlust tinted his vision. The look on his face must have been a terrible thing. Bitsy raised her hands. “She forced me to knock her out, Maks.”