I glanced up at the bartender, and instantly leaned away from the intensity of his eyes. He was a middle-aged man with luxurious silver hair and a pregnant caterpillar of an oiled and curled mustache, but he looked at me as if I was an ingredient rather than a person. He slid a large glass of dark beer towards Asterion, and the liquid was emitting vapor of some kind like smoke or steam, but I could tell it wasn’t hot. “They got you, old friend,” he said to the Minotaur, smiling slightly.
Asterion grunted and then sniffed at the drink warily. He looked up sharply at the barman. “What is it this time, Flamel?” he asked. “And it’s nice to see you, too. Bastard.”
I looked from one to the other. “The Nicolas Flamel?” I asked, fangirling a little.
The two nodded, not looking at me. I really should have guessed that one from the name of the bar, the Alcochemist. Nicolas Flamel was the fabled alchemist who had figured out how to turn substances into gold. I wondered if his wife was kicking around somewhere—Perenelle Flamel.
Asterion scooped up the strange brew and downed it surprisingly fast. I say surprisingly, because it smoked out of his nose as he did, looking as if it was burning his insides. He set the empty mug down, eyes widening and pupils dilating instantaneously. He finally looked back up, shaking his head. “Much better than turning things into gold.”
I frowned at a distant thought, remembering that Asterion was also pals with King Midas, the man who could turn items into gold with his touch. I wondered if the Minotaur had realized his tendency for making goldsmiths his friends, or if he was entirely aware and had a specific motive behind it. Maybe it was so he could order replacement nose rings on call?
“What’s the game here?” I asked the immortal alchemist.
“A bull-riding contest and to protect your voodoo bride,” Flamel said, grinning through perfectly, pearly white teeth. I blinked in confusion, but he was already pulling out a human-sized, female plush doll like a large stuffed animal. She wore a bridal veil and tasteful lingerie, but she was way too anatomically correct, making her inappropriate to carry around town.
Flamel handed the doll to Gunnar who took it with a frown. “Am I supposed to carry it around with me? Who’s to say I don’t toss it in a dumpster or take it back to our hotel?”
“Firstly, I’m not telling you where our hotel is,” I said, grinning. “Secondly, he’s got a suspicious twinkle in his eyes…” I said, eyeing Flamel.
Nicolas grinned with his teeth. Then he reached out and poked the voodoo bride with a toothpick. Gunnar grunted in surprise, slapping at his own forearm where a tiny droplet of blood had welled up—the same spot Nicolas had stabbed on the doll. “Voodoo,” he reminded us. “And at some point tonight, you’ll have people trying to take it from you, but I’m not privy to the details of that escapade.”
My mouth was hanging open. I hadn’t been privy to details on what we would encounter either. I had merely worked with Alucard on setting up the contacts for various hangout spots in town and where we could go for a fun game and a new drinking rule at each destination. The only stipulation was that the hosts swore on their blood to act in good faith. That way we knew we weren’t walking into a trap, or that we accidentally killed a group of creatures simply trying to play a prank on us. In exchange for their cooperation, we had promised not to ask them for forewarning. That way it was a surprise for all of us, not only Gunnar.
I knew only the vaguest of details on where we were going after each encounter, but our hosts could easily change the destinations if they saw fit. But this… was getting interesting. There was actually a bit of danger to this one.
“How do we know this isn’t a trap?” Gunnar asked, wobbling slightly on his stool.
Nicolas waved a hand. “We don’t want to start a war, that’s why. We’ve all heard about the craziness your crew causes up in St. Louis. The doll can hurt you, definitely, but nothing permanent or serious. Just a little pain.” He said this with an eyeroll, as if asking if Gunnar needed a Band-Aid or a kiss for his owie.
Gunnar looked slightly doubtful, but I slapped him on the shoulder. “They all made blood oaths. We’re fine. Like the mermaids. Fun and pain, but nothing serious.”
“I want to hear more about this other bullshit,” Achilles grinned, reminding us of Flamel’s other admission.
Alucard was snoring on the bar-top, so I glanced up at Nicolas with a questioning look. He smiled with a slow nod. I leaned over to shove Alucard off his chair, depositing him to the floor. “Shark attack,” I said once he jumped to his feet with a surprised grunt.
His eyes narrowed, but Nicolas was already pouring him one of those smoking beers. To be honest, I was inclined to simply ask for one, but that might have been alcohol-induced bravery. “Ah, Betty,” Nicolas said reverently, pointing at an enclosed ring in the far corner of the bar where a pristine, golden mechanical bull was currently being ridden by a vampire. Nicolas slid Alucard his penalty beer as the rest of us watched the bull hurl the vampire into the low wall surrounding the ring. He jumped back to his feet a moment later, chuckling as he shook his head at his fellow vampire pals. Then Betty emitted the angriest mooing sound I had ever heard—much scarier than any moo I’d ever heard Asterion bellow.
From the look on Asterion’s face, he realized he needed to step up his mooing game.
Alucard pounded his beer in one pull, gasping at the end as he stared down at the empty mug, his eyes also instantly dilating like Asterion’s had. What was in that stuff?
Alucard extended his fingers, inspecting them with an incredulous look. “I think I can feel my cells vibrating.”
Nicolas nodded matter-of-factly. “Infused with more vitamins than a human body can process, but with supernatural beings it’s practically an energy drink for your soul. Kills colds in their tracks, helps increase your alcohol tolerance, and often obliterates the chance at a hangover in the morning.” He met my eyes. “But with this being a bachelor party, I’m not making any promises. You five look like you’re ready to set some new records in the Alcolympics.”
I grinned eagerly. “We’re Beerlympians,” I said, agreeing with him.
Nicolas cocked his head, scratching at his chin. “That’s… actually not a bad name for this beer…” he said thoughtfully, eyeing the empty stein. He promptly licked his finger and wrote Beerlympian on the tap for the keg where he had pulled our beers. I blinked in astonishment to find the word permanently etched into the handle, but the rest of my friends were busy staring at the bull. Nicolas noticed my attention and winked at me.
Alchemists were pretty damned cool. Maybe I would hire him for a few side projects…
“That’s it?” Alucard drawled, turning back to Nicolas. “We just have to ride the bull?” I frowned at the gleaming mechanical bull that was wildly rocking back and forth, tossing a shifter to the pads below. Gunnar was poking a finger at his voodoo bride’s boobs, chuckling every time he felt the same sensation on his own pecs. It was kind of masturbatory in a way.
I reached over and grabbed a tight fistful of the voodoo bride’s boob and he almost fell off his stool with a shout. I burst out laughing. “Quit fondling your doll or we’ll start fondling her, too,” I told him.
Nicolas cleared his throat to get our attention; we turned to find him grinning at us like a loon, leaning over the bar. “It looks like the other team is running late, so you have a few minutes to get a practice run or two in. Your top three members will form a team to compete with your challengers, and whichever group has the most cumulative seconds astride Betty wins. The losing team has to fulfill a dare from the victors.” We frowned thoughtfully, sharing long looks at his sinister smile. “If anyone lasts eight seconds or longer, every member on the other team has to drink one of these…Beerlympians,” he added with a low laugh. “And every time one of your teammates falls before the eight second mark, each of you must drink a Beerlympian. Even those not competing,” he clarified.
I realized that he had placed fresh Beerlympians bef
ore each of us, and that none of us had noticed him do it. “I think what he’s trying to say is that we are going to be hammered in about eight seconds,” I told my friends, neatly summarizing Flamel’s game.
Gunnar grinned competitively. “Cheers, gents,” he slurred slightly, lifting his mug. “This one should be a piece of cake after the mermaids. I think it’s obvious I should be on the team. Me and my voodoo bride will last longer than eight seconds. Easy.”
“Famous last words,” I muttered, grinning. Alucard burst out laughing at the double entendre.
Nicolas pointed at Betty and we all turned to watch a shifter climb onto her back. He was a large, strong son-of-a-bitch, his back about as wide as a billboard. He lasted about two seconds before being thrown entirely from the ring. I blinked in disbelief. Betty hadn’t thrown the vampire that hard. Nicolas chuckled. “Betty matches her rider’s strengths, otherwise any big son-of-a-bitch could just walk in and outmuscle her.”
I eyed the bull doubtfully, and then lifted my glass to the others. “Slowest chugger goes first?” I asked. Everyone shook their heads, all pointing at Asterion in unison.
“I think it’s fairly obvious who should go first,” Achilles said with a grin.
Asterion simply downed his beer. “Let me show you how it’s done,” he growled, wiping his Minotaur goatee—which was smoking from the Beerlympian foam, making him look menacing.
We grinned excitedly, pounding back our own beers as we watched Asterion make his way over to dominate Betty. I stared down at my Beerlympian in awe, licking my lips and waving at the vapor drifting out of my mouth. Alucard was blowing smoke rings with his, giggling gleefully.
I felt like crying.
It was so delicious I didn’t quite know what to do with my hands. I realized I was rubbing at my lips, marveling at the sensory overload like I had just popped ecstasy. That’s when I really took stock of the strange feeling Alucard had mentioned—the slight tingle to my skin as if I had recently chugged a pre-workout drink and felt strong enough to take on the world or lift every weight at the gym.
Nicolas was already pouring us another round, obviously having no faith in Asterion. I frowned at that. Nicolas apparently knew him from back in the day, so should have been a believer. After all, what kind of mechanical bull was a match for the Minotaur?
Nicolas sensed me watching him and glanced over his shoulder. “Just watch. Daedalus made Betty. Asterion doesn’t stand a chance.”
My eyes widened. The man who had made the labyrinth that had trapped Asterion in the first place had resorted to making mechanical bulls? It was well-known in the supernatural community that to say Daedalus made something was akin to saying it was the most structurally sound creation ever erected.
Which meant…
I turned to check on Asterion.
He was already lying on his back, staring up at the ceiling with incredulous eyes. I checked the timer on the wall.
He hadn’t lasted even two seconds. Betty let out a triumphant moo, mocking the big bull god.
“Shit,” I said, accepting the new drink Nicolas slid my way. “Betty made the Minotaur her bitch.”
Achilles grunted, staring at his fallen friend with disbelief. “I have a feeling she’s about to make us all her bitch. Who did you say we were competing against again?” he asked distractedly, scanning the patrons as if to scout out our challengers.
Nicolas smiled. “You’ll know when they arrive.”
I frowned at his tone, not liking it one bit. “You guys want to double down on Asterion or give Betty a slap and tickle yourselves? We still need to pick our top three before our…challengers show up, and I think a few practice runs will do us some good.”
Their lack of confidence was overwhelming. As was the laughter of those in the bar.
None were louder than Nicolas Flamel as Asterion tried—and failed—again. Achilles rolled up his sleeves, storming off to give it a go.
Chapter 6
All in all, we got in three practice rides each before returning to the bar, surprisingly drunk and ridiculously thirsty—yet fully functional, thanks to Flamel’s Alchemy beer. It really was a marvel. I felt ridiculously drunk but I wasn’t a sobbing mess or anything—like the Beerlympian had given us all the benefits of being wasted without any of the consequences. My skin still tingled faintly, dancing with energy but not in a jittery over-caffeinated fashion.
Flamel had turned beer into the equivalent of liquid gold.
Despite that, none of us had performed even remotely as well as Asterion had on Big Bad Betty. We were hotly debating who was going to form our competitive bull-riding team—most of us angling to get out of the team—when the front door of the bar slammed into the wall with a concussive bang.
I turned to see a trio of leather-clad warrior princesses standing in the open door. Those patrons close to the door had wordlessly picked up their drinks and changed tables deeper into the bar. Some were even pressed up against the wall, averting their eyes.
I frowned, ignoring Nicolas’ dark chuckle as I studied the three strange women.
“Where are our fuzzy little man-peaches?” the one in front demanded in a low, booming tone. It was still feminine, but tough like a drill sergeant.
Their dystopian-chic armor, and the many, many blades tucked into the little fun folds and curves of their bodysuits, definitely announced that they meant business. The two that hadn’t spoken were taller than the leader, but very different from one another.
The woman on the left was the tallest and looked to be in her mid-thirties with wavy, golden-blonde hair, as thick as a goose-down comforter, that hung freely down her back. She had a single, thin braid down the left side of her jaw and wore a natural smirk on her narrow face. Her eyes reminded me of storm clouds.
The other barely looked to be in her mid-twenties and maybe weighed a hundred pounds, soaking wet. Her sandy-blonde hair hung in a short braid that cut off abruptly at the base of her neck, as if bunched together and then cut with a blade. Her features were more reserved and thoughtful—analytical rather than emotional.
The leader, who had introduced herself by asking for the man-peaches, had a spiked mohawk that ended in a blonde tail down the back of her neck and she had faint blue runes tattooed under her eyes. She was shorter and more heavily-muscled than her girlfriends. The chest of her armor was unfastened and tucked beneath the leather was a fan of throwing knife hilts that concealed most of her cleavage. I considered it a subtle hint that she didn’t approve of peepers; the thought made me suddenly erupt with laughter. Her raptor gaze locked onto me and her eyes narrowed.
I glanced over upon hearing a breathy gasp from Achilles. He was staring at the trio like it was either the second coming of Zeus or as if Aphrodite herself had slid into the bar on velvet slippers and dental floss to ask if anyone wanted to maybe Netflix and definitely bone.
“I’ll be her fuzzy little man-peach…” the legendary Greek warrior whispered reverently, his dilated eyes locked onto the leader. Alucard frowned over at him, noticed my equally surprised look, and finally shrugged with a bemused smirk.
Her friends were grinning expectantly at our squad, and then one of them pointed directly at us. They strode over, owning every single step along the way as if entering the gates of a smoldering city they had just vanquished. They stopped in front of Gunnar—who had placed his voodoo bride on his lap, wrapping one possessive arm around her shoulders while his other fist held his beer stein in a casual grip. He showed not one iota of concern, only revealing an expectant twinkle in his eye as he smirked in their general direction.
The leader’s grin grew wider and she dipped her head respectfully.
Asterion folded his arms. “I feel like these princesses showed up to the wrong tea party.” I held my breath, ready to go down swinging as his words registered.
But the leader belted out sudden laughter, her allies grinning from ear to ear as they nodded approvingly at Asterion. I let out a slow, relieved breath. I’d
anticipated that the unexpected jibe from our most courteous member would have resulted in a lot more flames, screaming, and bloodshed.
She wiped at her eyes and slapped Asterion’s beefy bicep good-naturedly. “Let’s put these boys to sleep,” she said, turning to Nicolas. “Pour us a round, Flamel.”
Unsurprisingly, Nicolas was already sliding three mugs towards the women.
The three stepped up to the bar, and the scent of oiled leather, hot metal, and horseflesh was as thick as perfume around them. It wasn’t necessarily a bad smell, but it was definitely pungent. Like a blacksmith. Achilles loomed over the top dog’s shoulder, taking an indiscreet, big whiff like a creep. The warriors downed their beers in one pull, wiping their mouths with their sleeves, not even commenting on the vapor. Then the head bitch blindly flung her stein behind her, striking Achilles in the jaw.
It shattered over his face and he blinked rapidly. He managed to not lose his balance and didn’t show any sign of pain, despite the fresh cuts on his face. The leader turned to look at him as if she had only just now noticed him.
He locked gazes with her, eyes as fiery as if he was challenging her to a duel. “I’m going to ride Betty like my life depends on it,” he promised in a throaty growl. “And after that I’m going to kiss those plump lips of yours. Understood?”
She nodded very, very slowly.
He turned his back on her and began walking towards the bull, rolling up his sleeves in the process. “Get off your ass, then. I don’t feel like waiting for that kiss,” he growled from over his shoulder.
I raised my brows, literally speechless. I locked eyes with Alucard who was slowly shaking his head at Achilles’ back, as amazed as I was. Gunnar and Asterion gave stiff nods and hopped off their stools to join Achilles—apparently volunteering for the remaining team openings.
Last Call: A TempleVerse Anthology Book 1 (TempleVerse Anthologies) Page 18
