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

time in this place, is gone.
    I roll to my feet and stare into the unlit stacks, the endless aisles, the labyrinth. I listen with my heart, but still cannot find that quiet presence. Cannot find, inside my head as I close my eyes, that warm shadow pressed against my back. It makes me hurt. It makes me remember loss, something I have not felt in years. Abandoned once, abandoned again. Though the reasons, this time, are different.
    I walk into the darkness, leaving behind my belongings, the evidence of my existence. In doing so, I abandon routine. I do not care. I enter the labyrinth blind, hands stretched to trail across the spines of books, taking turns as they come, winding deeper and deeper into my own oubliette. The catacomb maze is endless, but so is my desire, and all I can think of is the Minotaur.
    Somewhere distant, sound comes to my ears. I stop cold, listening, and from very far away catch the faint glimmer of a flashlight. Men, speaking. Entering my home.
    “Heard a scream,” says a low voice. “Like someone dying.”
    “Easy enough down here,” replies another. “Goddamn, it’s creepy.”
    I close my eyes, listening. I know they will find my belongings. Once they do, my life is over. My luck, the one time I am not careful.
    Nothing to lose. Your life was already over. Over the moment you began believing in the Minotaur.
    I search my heart for regret, but find none. Not yet, anyway. I turn and walk away, slipping deeper into the stacks, the labyrinth. The voices of the men fade quickly, as does the light they shine. I try not to think of them. I walk for a long time, each step a breath of memory—my childhood, my abandonment, my desperation—how afterward, the isolation and solitude of the library was a balm, sweetness.
    All of that, my life, leading to this moment. Searching for a fantasy that should not exist. That perhaps does not exist. Not anywhere but my heart.
    After a time, I stop. If the security guards are searching for me, I have not heard or seen them, and I must rest. Close my eyes, for just a moment. I sit on the tile floor, my back against the books, and think of the Minotaur. Remember him holding me, kissing me, moving inside my body. Warmth spreads through my muscles, making my eyelids heavy. I curl into a ball. Think of that low rumbling voice, and close my eyes.
    Perhaps I fall asleep. Either way, when I open my eyes there is sand beneath me, darkness all around.
    I sit up. I am not afraid. Not for myself.
    “Hello?” I whisper.
    “Hello,” rumbles a familiar voice, soft and low and startling close. “Hello, again.”
    I close my eyes, fighting down a smile. “You’re alive.”
    “Yes.” I do not hear the Minotaur move, but his large warm palm suddenly presses against my cheek. “I heard you calling for me. I felt you. I could not say no.”
    “The harpies?”
    “Gone. For now.”
    I touch his hand, holding it to my face. “I’m covered in blood. Your blood.”
    “A small injury,” he says, and a moment later I find myself scooped off the ground, cradled in strong arms that hold me close against a broad hard chest. The Minotaur carries me. His presence feels like an old friend. My friend, if I allow myself to imagine him as such. And I do.
    I kiss his collarbone. I kiss the smooth skin just below his shoulder. I run my tongue over the hard nipple near my cheek.
    The Minotaur stops walking and hoists me higher in his arms. Bends his head and captures my mouth in a long hot kiss that makes me sigh. He sinks to his knees and sets me on the ground, still kissing me, his hands fumbling over my clothes. I brush him aside and curl close, reaching beneath his loincloth to touch him. The Minotaur shudders. I slide even closer. I take him in my mouth.
    He is so thick I wonder how he ever fit inside my body, but I love the hot feel of him beneath my tongue—love even more giving him pleasure—because it makes me feel like part of him, and that is something I never imagined, not