Free Hotter Than Hell by Kim Harrison, Martin H. Greenberg

After a long moment, I do the same to him. I cannot help myself.
    “Yes,” he breathes. “I know it.”
    I try hard to think of a response, but before I can, the Minotaur stiffens and pulls away.
    “What,” I begin to ask, but his large hand claps over my mouth and my heart begins to pound all over again. The Minotaur is so very quiet, I would not know he was there if he did not touch me. I try to do the same, hardly breathing, and after a moment I hear a distant sound. It is a cracking note, like a whip—or a sail kicked by a sharp breeze.
    Then, suddenly, a woman screams; a bloodcurdling howl that twists like a sour wind, so bitter the sound becomes a taste inside my mouth: like ice dragged over by filth, or candy doused in gasoline.
    The Minotaur stands, dragging me with him. I do not resist. I stare blindly into the darkness, my fingers tight around the Minotaur’s hand.
    “You must go,” he whispers.
    I shake my head. “I thought you were alone. Who was that woman?”
    “Not a woman. A harpy. More than one. And they have caught your scent.” The Minotaur embraces me, an act that feel so desperate, so lost, fear cuts my heart, stealing my breath.
    “I should not have brought you here,” rasps the Minotaur. “Forget me when you leave this place. Please.”
    “No,” I protest. “No, I won’t.”
    But I hear that odd crack split the air—again and again—and in my head I imagine wings snapping, like bones breaking, and the taste of those rising howls makes me bend, gagging.
    The Minotaur touches my hair, my cheek, and then slips away, leaving me alone and blind. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. I hear the harpies coming, but do not run. I do not know how, in this place.
    “What about you?” I call into the darkness.
    The Minotaur’s voice drifts like a ghost. “They will not hurt me.”
    He is lying. I know it. And I see, suddenly, sparks of red in the darkness, glowing like the embers of hot coals. A deep fire, slow burning. It takes only a moment to realize I am looking at eyes.
    The harpies scream. I flinch, stumbling backward, and for one brief instant glimpse against that hateful light the outline of a man. A man wearing the horns of a bull.
    And then the harpies are there with us, the air stirring foul with the beat of their wings, and the Minotaur steps in front of the creatures with his arms outstretched, shielding me with his body. I watch, horrified, snatching glimpses of bulbous breasts, stringy hair, talons sharp as knives. The Minotaur bellows a word I do not understand, then staggers, grunting. I hear flesh rip, and something hot and wet spatters my face. I scream—and the world disappears. I bolt upright in my sleeping bag, skin slick with sweat. The sudden silence bears down upon me like anchors stuffed in my ears, and all I can do for one long moment is sit, staring, listening to my heart rage and rage. I lick my lips and taste something metallic. Touch my face. My fingers come away dark with blood.
    My body is sore. My nightshirt is gone.
    I throw back the sleeping bag and grab clothes. I dress quickly, heart pounding, staring into the darkness of the stacks, the labyrinth.
Not a dream
, I tell myself, fighting to hold on to that belief. It would be easy to forget, despite the blood and the aching. It would be easy to do as the Minotaur asked and pretend my time with him was nothing but fantasy. Everything about this, fast as a dream from beginning to end.
    But I refuse. There is no explanation for what has happened, what I have allowed myself to become in so short a time—but I am changed now. I cannot turn back. Only, finding the Minotaur again will be difficult. Returning impossible if he does not want me, if he is hurt…
    I stop myself from thinking. Stay simple. Crouch in my bedding and close my eyes, willing sleep. If that is what it takes.
    Nothing happens. Worse, I cannot feel the Minotaur in the shadows. My watcher, who has been with me from the beginning of my