Hotter Than Hell (9 page)

“There are always risks,” he admits. “Risks for the unwary. It is the labyrinth, after all.”

“I’ve always thought of the library as a labyrinth,” I tell him, and the Minotaur makes a rumbling sound, splashing warm water over my arms and rubbing his wet thumbs across my cheeks.

“All places of paths and knowledge are part of the great maze,” he says. “Some more so than others. Your library is one of them. The veil between worlds is weak there. Weak enough even for one as untalented as I to reach through.”

“Why just reach? Why not step through entirely? Escape, if that is what you really want.”

The Minotaur’s hands still. “I am bound here.”

“No.” I think of all that has passed between us, what little he has told me. “No, not completely. You brought me here to save you. That’s what you said.”

The Minotaur remains silent for along time. Not until I press my fingertips against his cheek does he make a sound. His sigh is warm.

“I should not have brought you to this place,” he murmurs. “Not the first time, not the second, and not now. Selfishness begged it. Despair and loneliness. But I know better, and better means keeping you safe. You must not free me.”

“I must,” I whisper. “You know I must.”

Again, the Minotaur says nothing. He washes me and I do the same for him, discovering in the process a terrible slash across his shoulder.

“It is already healing,” he says quietly. “I cannot die here. The king forbade it.”

“He controls this place?”

The Minotaur’s laugh is bitter. “No one controls the labyrinth. It is beyond spells and magic, beyond anything that can be controlled by mere men, or their counterparts. But that does not mean that those who come here are so free. The flesh is weak.”

I kiss his shoulder. “Not so weak.”

“Against you, powerless,” he murmurs. “I never imagined such a thing. Not in any dream.”

“Why?” I kiss him again, at the base of his throat. My breasts rub against his chest and his hands snake down to cup me tight against him. He is hard, and I feel a moment of astonishment at how ready I am for him. I hook my leg around his hip and he takes me in one long slow movement. I groan.

“Because I am a monster,” whispers the Minotaur hoarsely, moving inside me with delicious strength. “I have always been so, since the beginning.”

“No,” I murmur, and cry out as he gently squeezes my breast.

“There is a legend native to your age and time,” he says, breathless as he thrusts hard—once, twice—then slows his pace, drawing me out. “The Minotaur in the labyrinth, a beast of sacrifice and blood. Child of a queen and a God.”

I have trouble speaking, thinking. The Minotaur leans against the edge of the hot spring; I move against him, riding his body, and manage with some difficulty to say, “I know that myth.”

The Minotaur grabs my hips, thrusting up, dragging me down. Again and again he does this. I lean into him, wrapping my arms around his neck as we bury ourselves in each other with such force I feel stolen by pleasure, near death with it, as though my heart surely cannot beat one more moment at such a frantic rhythm.

I break first, my body clutching around the Minotaur in such brutal waves that all I can do is writhe, breath rattling with pleasure. I expect the Minotaur to follow, but before my body is done he turns me and thrusts again, still hard, hot, only now I am bent at the waist with nothing to hold on to but his hands on my hips as he pounds into my body with quick sharp strokes, faster and faster, frantic. I come again and again, helpless to stop him, unwilling to stop him even though the pleasure is too much. His hands move; he touches me, stroking, and I am rocked into one final climax that the Minotaur finally joins, his voice rumbling into a bellow.

We drift in the hot water—spent, exhausted—until, finally, the Minotaur pulls me to shore and we lean against each other, breathing hard in the silence of the labyrinth. For the first time in my life I feel truly satisfied—comfortable and safe—though those feelings do not last long. I turn my head, brushing my lips against the Minotaur’s arm, and say, “You were telling me something.”

He kisses the top of my head. “I was.”

“And?”

“And you are not easily distracted,” he rumbles, sighing. “So. You know the myth. You know what else is part of it.”

“Death,” I say. “The deaths of young men and women.”

“That part, at least, is true.” The Minotaur drags in a deep ragged breath. “The king thought to use me as a weapon against his enemies. So he made me a monster. Fitted me with the helmet, took away my name by magic so that I would know myself as nothing else, and then enchanted me into the labyrinth. He wanted fear and so he made it. In me.”

“So you killed,” I say carefully, because to utter those words feels almost as terrible as the crime. The Minotaur, though, makes a low sound—frustration, maybe—and I feel him shake his head.

“I did not,” he says in a hard voice. “Or rather, I did not mean to. The young men who found me attacked with all their fear and fury, and I was forced to defend myself. The girls I did not touch, though I tried to help them. They ran from me. They ran into the darkness of the labyrinth and hurt themselves on the rocks, or were killed by the creatures who inhabit the maze.”

“How long did that go on?”

“Years. Until the king was murdered by his enemies. His death sealed the gate into the labyrinth. At least, that particular gate.”

“With you in it.”

“Forever. Though the king, in a fit of humor before his death, left me one chance of escape.”

“Ah,” I say. “And is that where I come in?”

“If you wish,” he says slowly. “But it will be dangerous.”

“Harpies?”

“Worse.” The Minotaur holds me close. “The king’s own magic.”

I close my eyes. I try to make sense of what he has told me, but it is no use; his words live like a fairy tale inside my head, indistinct, but full of simple truths—a prince, cursed, trapped in the heart of a tangle—and I, the poor woman lured to his aid. A golden goose will be next, I think; mice who talk, or a woman with hair as long as a river.

“Is there light here?” I ask the Minotaur. “Real light? Any at all?”

He hesitates. “There is. It is part of something I would have shown you later.”

I frown. “Show me now.”

The Minotaur sighs, and pulls himself from the water. I follow, stumbling in the dark. The air is cool on my wet skin. I shiver, and suddenly find myself draped in heavy furs, soft and warm. I hug the hides close to my body and listen to the Minotaur move through the darkness.

Then, light. A blue light, flickering and pure. It has been such a long time that I find myself momentarily blind, and I shield my eyes even as I try to see the Minotaur. He stands before me, so very still, and I cannot look away from the hard lines of his body, covered in scars, or higher yet, his face.

What little I can see of it. The mask is as horrific as my fingers told me it would be, though it covers only the upper half of his head; the bridge of his nose and scalp. All bone and fur, with giant horns stretching like arms in the air. I can see the straps holding it in place, cutting into his skin.

I also see his eyes. I move close, staring. Blue, I think, though it is impossible to say. Just that there is a soul in them, a soul I have only heard and felt until now, and I want more of it, so much more. I want to look into his eyes and hear him speak. I want to know what he sees when he gazes at my face, what he feels when he touches me, when he is inside me.

The Minotaur moves, and that is enough to break the spell. I look down at the source of light in his hands, and find a round mirror, complete with silver frame and handle. Light flees the glass, flickering wildly, and when the Minotaur tilts it toward me I see another world—blue sky, trees, mountains bathed in snow and sun.

“I found it years ago,” says the Minotaur softly. “I used it to see the worlds beyond the labyrinth. And there are many. Worlds upon worlds, gathered like beating hearts, warm and fine.”

I stare at the mirror. “You left me in the dark on purpose.”

The Minotaur glances away. “I thought you would fear me, otherwise.”

“You could have tried.”

“No. I did not dare.”

I fight for words. “You thought I would be disgusted, didn’t you?”

He goes very still. “And are you?”

“You can ask me that? After everything?”

He opens his mouth—stops—and his eyes turn somber. “Forgive me.”

I sway close, but do not say what I feel—
you do not need to fear me, only trust me, please, before I lose my nerve in the light
—and instead point at the mirror. “Is that how you watched me?”

“Yes.” The Minotaur tears his gaze from my face and holds up the mirror. An eagle soars; I hear music from beyond the glass. A flute, lilting and delicate. The image shifts; suddenly there is darkness again, cut with electric beams and men in uniforms standing over a sleeping bag. I watch them nudge my belongings with the tips of their shoes, and feel in my heart a pang.

“I could send you home again,” says the Minotaur quietly. “You are not of this place—not yet—and as such you are permitted to leave. The labyrinth does not hold every heart.”

“Doesn’t it?” I look him in the eyes. “How did you bring me here?”

“I willed it.” He holds my gaze with a heat that reminds me of his hands on my body.

“To free you from the labyrinth? You could have found another.”

“You and no other,” he says firmly. “There was never any choice. Not for me, once I found you.”

He has already said as much, but those are not words I tire of hearing. I touch his waist and slide close, until I must crane my neck to look at him. His jaw is strong, his skin smooth. And his eyes, caught behind the mask of bone, are most certainly blue.

I kiss the Minotaur. His arms wrap around my body, pulling me off the ground, and as my feet dangle and the furs drop away I realize something awful: I cannot imagine being without him. The Minotaur is part of me now. And I am part of him.

A scream cuts the air. We both flinch.

“Don’t send me away,” I say. “Promise.”

He gives me a hard look. “If you are truly set on helping me, we must go now.”

I say nothing—just nod—and the Minotaur presses his lips against my forehead—one quick hard kiss, full of something more than mere desire. He takes the mirror in one hand, grabs me with the other, and we run. I have no clothes, but forget to care as the air behind us cracks like a whip. Distant, but close enough. I remember how fast the harpies move.

“What do I have to do?” My voice is breathless. I almost trip and the Minotaur hauls me close. He says nothing and I ask again, tugging on his arm. His jaw tightens, and for a moment I see him as others might: the cruel mask, the horns, the giant body hard with muscle. Dangerous and powerful. A beast.

“I must have a champion,” he rumbles, and his voice returns my heart and mind to its proper place. “I, who have slain so many.”

“A champion,” I say, but there is little time for more. The harpies grow louder, their shrieks violent and sickening. I fight the urge to gag, struggling to focus only on the Minotaur and myself.

He slows, and by the light of the mirror I see a familiar sight: the door of bones through which I entered the labyrinth, my first time summoned by the Minotaur. The skulls grin, bones polished and white, but as I near I see dark liquid trickle from the sockets of their eyes, and I know in my gut it is blood. The Minotaur’s own eyes are hard as flint as he looks at the bones. His mouth tightens into a thin white line.

“Beyond that door is the site of the gate the old king used to usher in his sacrifices. It is the gate through which I entered, and it is the only gate through which I can leave.”

“I thought you said it was sealed.”

“Sealed, yes. But the labyrinth is not bound by doors. Nor would I be bound, if the curse upon me was lifted.”

The harpies are nearing. I glance over my shoulder into the darkness and the Minotaur says, “Also trapped, put here by magic through the wiles of some ancient priest. Perhaps another legend, in your time.”

“Can they be killed?”

The Minotaur shakes his head. “Harpies are immortal. So much in the labyrinth is.”

I reach for the door. The Minotaur stops my hand. “One last chance. You could go, if you want. Back to your home.”

“I have no home,” I tell him, and haul open the door. Just in time; screams split the darkness and I glimpse red eyes, glowing like pincers left too long in flame. I dart into the room—the Minotaur follows—and together we close the door, leaning hard against it. Bodies slam into the barrier; my entire body shakes with the impact. Beneath my ear I hear faint laughter, more than one voice. The skulls on this side of the door are also leaking blood. My skin is smeared with it.

“So comes the Minotaur at last,” they whisper; like ghosts, mouths unmoving. I back away, staring, and again hear laughter, faint voices drifting high and lilting.

“Oh,” they whisper, and I feel the dead staring, staring so hard. “Oh, a woman now, heart so full. Not like the others, Minotaur. Not like
them,
those screaming butterflies in the oubliette.”

“Enough,” says the Minotaur. “You know why we are here.”

“The king’s gift,” they murmur. “Ah, girl. You are dead as you stand. There is no heart full enough for this man. No woman brave enough to hold a Minotaur.”

I do not understand. I glance at the Minotaur and find him pale, mouth drawn tight.

“No,” I say, knowing well enough that look on his face, the defeat. “No, whatever it is I have to do, I am strong enough.” I step up to the door and look straight into the eyes of a skull. “Tell me what I have to do to free him.”

“You must hold him,” they say.

“No,” protests the Minotaur. “There is more.”