Strongman (2 page)

Griff opened the box with steady hands, revealing half a dozen throwing knives nestled in dark velvet, their narrow blades gleaming balefully in the filtered light.

“Go!” he called and Cizmar set the wheel spinning.

Without ceremony, Griff picked up the first knife and threw it, seemingly without taking aim.
Thunk
! It quivered next to the girl’s ear.

The breath clogged in Fort’s lungs.

Griff’s hands blurred.
Thunk
,
thunk
,
thunk
! Between her spread fingers, next to her hip, her other ear.

Ruler God, surely he’d stop now? Fort dropped his hands to the edge of the bench and gripped.

Thunk
! Under her arm.

Thunk
!

7

Denise Rossetti

Where had that one gone? He couldn’t see any blood.

The wheel slowed. Cizmar put out a huge hand and stopped it.

Fort choked. The tumbler had put the last blade right between her legs, a fraction of an inch from that sweet cleft.

Gods, the man had balls! Come to think of it, so did Katahaya. He returned his attention to the woman with surprised respect. Whatever her morals, and he had to admit they were none of his business, she’d just displayed a cold-blooded courage the likes of which he’d seldom seen.

Well, he’d had enough of mud and blood and stinking death, hadn’t he? He’d wanted a different life and by all the gods, he’d got one! With a rueful shake of his head, Fort rose, brushing crumbs from his shirt.

“You’re new.”

His head jerked around. The tumbler stood a few feet away, toweling the sweat from his face and neck with a rough cloth. The deep, scooped neck of his sleeveless vest exposed an expanse of muscled golden skin dusted with light brown hair. His dark, thoughtful gaze was very direct, the sloe eyes as sharp and pointed as his knives.

“That’s right,” said Fort.

Behind the towel, Griff shivered, sweat chilling on his skin. The man’s voice matched the size of him, a subterranean rumble.

This close, his eyes were a clear, limpid gray, with a darker ring around the iris and creases at the corners as though he’d watched a lot of lonely dawns. Griff had no doubt his stare could turn icy enough to flay flesh from bones. He tilted his chin and grinned his cockiest grin, the one that combined charm with arrogance, just for the hell of it. He stepped forward, offering his hand. “Griffid Ringman.”

“Fort McLaren.” The roustabout moved in, brushing Griff’s hand aside, clamping their forearms together the soldier’s way. Warm calloused fingers gripped Griff’s flesh near the elbow while under his own palm he felt the heat and solidity of iron-hard muscle.

“What, your mother named you for a fortress?” Ostentatiously, he let his glance rove over the other man’s body. Broad and tall and muscled, with a fine proud carriage.

The big man moved his head sharply and the light picked up a dusting of silver at his temples, a sprinkling of gray in his close-cropped beard. So he was older. Quite a lot older. But he didn’t move like a middle-aged man and he kept himself nice. Very nice.

“No.” The grip fell away. “It’s Fortitude. Fortitude McLaren.”

Oh fuck. Only the Brethren had names like that. Straight-laced, sanctimonious pricks.

Griff resisted the urge to step back. “You’re Straight Church?”

The cool gaze didn’t shift from his. “Not for a long time.”

“Griff?” Cizmar loomed at his shoulder, several inches shorter than McLaren, but a touch wider.

8

Strongman

Griff waited a couple of beats before he turned his head and broke the connection.

“What?” His pulse drummed in his ears.

“One more time. C’mon, the girls are waiting.”

“All right.” He gave the big man what he hoped was a dignified nod. “Good to meet you, McLaren.”

“Likewise.” Something flickered in those calm gray eyes, but it was gone so quickly Griff couldn’t tell what it was—amusement, heat, disapproval. All three? Without another word, McLaren turned and strode out of the Big Top, into the welcoming sunlight. He didn’t look back.

“
Griff
.” Cizmar’s sharp elbow in the tight coil of his gut recalled him to the matter at hand.

* * * * *

But the next day, Fort McLaren was back again, this time with a ripe gaeta fruit that he peeled and quartered with a long knife. He ate tidily, but rapidly, the way a soldier would, the dark juice staining his lips with a ruddy sheen. Watching him lick one finger after the other like a temple cat, Griff almost lost his grip on Katahaya and she swore, clutching at his shoulders with desperate fingers. McLaren’s eyes flickered and his lips twitched, but the expression passed so quickly, Griff wondered whether he’d imagined it.

After that, he came off and on, always at the lunch hour. Griff got into the way of looking for his bulky shape in the shadows, that thoughtful, considering gaze. When their eyes met, McLaren would nod an acknowledgement, unsmiling, and Griff’s belly would clench with dark excitement.

Shit, it was stupid! Not like him at all. It was women he preferred, all honey and soft gasps, wet satin gripping your cock. His male lovers had been in the nature of experiments—lusty, deliciously brutal, but soon over. There hadn’t been many of them.

But McLaren was like an itch under his skin, something he couldn’t scratch. Griff found he was hanging on the Fair gossip, fascinated every time the man was mentioned. It seemed he had neither friends nor lovers, though the roustabouts afforded him wary respect, even Bruise. The women of the Fair, on the other hand, preened and smiled and speculated.

A couple of times, he’d even dreamed of McLaren, though he couldn’t quite remember the substance of his dreams. He’d woken twisted in the sheets, his cock in his fist, strange, erotic fragments racketing around inside his skull.

Twister, it was driving him crazy and the gods knew patience had never been his long suit.
Don
’
t die not knowing
. Griff’s motto.

Now he watched Fort McLaren take a seat on the aisle so he could stretch his long legs. Hell, what did he have to lose? His lips twisted. Fort might kill him, but at least he’d
know
. Griff rolled his shoulders, his blood bubbling. Shit, the big bastard was 9

Denise Rossetti

welcome to try! Because as the days passed and the tension increased imperceptibly, he’d grown more certain there was something building between them. The gods only knew exactly what. But it was ripe with potential, swollen like the summer gaeta fruit Fort devoured every day, primed to explode with their own dark juices.

And he was insane. If he was wrong… He gave a mental shrug.

The moment Cizmar let the troupe go, Griff reached for his towel and drifted toward the first row of benches, his guts fluttering with anticipation and apprehension.

McLaren rose and stretched. He gave Griff his usual nod as he walked past, a half-consumed pasty still in his hand.

“McLaren.” Griff reached out, then let his hand fall to his side. “Wait.”

The big man stopped, so close Griff could see the pulse beating in the strong brown column of his neck. “Ringman?” A brow arched in query.

“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.”

10

Strongman

“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
.

11

Denise Rossetti

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.

12

Strongman

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?”