Hotter Than Hell

MINOTAUR IN STONE Marjorie M. Liu

I DREAM OF THE MINOTAUR WHEN MY EYES ARE closed. I cannot see him, whole, just fragments: the cold hard sinew of his large hand, the corded muscle of a massive thigh. I glimpse, briefly, the line of a collarbone, the hollow of a straining throat; higher, the curve of a horn.

Minotaur. Son of a wayward queen and a god.

And he wants me to save his life.

The first time I dream of the Minotaur I am curled in a nook on the basement level of the library, the third lowest floor, part of the catacomb, the labyrinth. It is very quiet, deathly so, almost midnight. Security guards roam high above. I do not fear their discovery. At night, they are too uneasy to trawl for bottom-dwellers in the underground shadows of the library’s belly. Spooks, ghosts, ax-murderers in the stacks; I have heard those men tell ridiculous stories.

There is nothing to fear. Books are my friends, have always been my friends, and when I lived homeless on the street I learned to hide in the tall stacks, live in the shadows of musty corners, hidden by the illusion of intellectual preoccupation, studious charm. Now, barely in my twenties, it is a small thing in the evenings, after my tiny job at the library café, to make myself soft and invisible; to blend, to become, to live as an uninvited guest, quiet as a book—and as a book, a dull creature on the surface, but full of the raging wild dark inside the words of my heart.

The café closes at eight. The library doors at nine. By ten, all the stragglers have been rounded up. Thirty minutes later the lights switch off. I know this routine, though I have never seen it. Every night, as soon as I leave the café, munching on some snack I am allowed to take free from the pastry display, I meander down the broad marble stairs, flowing with the public. One more stranger, a slip of a girl, moving neither fast nor slow, sometimes with a book in my free hand. Going places.

People leave me. We part ways as I descend deep into the catacombs. Sometimes a crowd, then nothing at all. It is, I often think, like walking through a door no one else can see—a slipstream gate, from one world to the next—into a forest of stone and tile, where branches are straight as shelves, holding books and yellow brittle newspapers, aisles riding like paths into shadows, the illusion of endlessness, the maze, the winding circle.

Occasionally I find another reader in the labyrinth, but no one lingers. There is a cold air, a sense of oppression. Eyes in the dark. It bothered me once, long ago, but I did not run. I read out loud instead, in a whisper to the darkness, until the cold air turned warm and those eyes lost their power to scare. So that now I pretend I have a friend, one friend, someone who welcomes me home.

I hide my sleeping bag and backpack in the gap behind a row of crusty encyclopedias. The lights do not function in that particular aisle. I move by instinct and memory as I find my belongings and jiggle them free. There is a bathroom nearby. Ancient, also unlit, no door. The toilet works, as does the faucet. I keep a battery-operated lantern just inside, on the floor.

I undress, folding my clothes, putting them aside. I toss my underwear in the sink, and then, cold and naked and barefoot on the ancient tile, I clean up. Wash my short hair under the faucet with cheap shampoo, savoring the chemical scent of lavender and jasmine. Run wet hands over the rest of my body, soaping up, rinsing as best I can. A puddle spreads around me.

When I am done, I drape my wet body in a big floppy t-shirt. I wash and wring out my underwear. Hang the pair on the rim of a toilet stall, then take down another that has been drying there all day, and slip them on. It is an easy routine.

On the night I dream of the Minotaur, I turn off the bathroom lantern and in pure darkness walk back to my sleeping bag. Air dries my body. I lie down, cradle my head on my arm, and close my eyes.

I dream. I dream of a place I have never been, though in the way of dreams, it is familiar. There is sand underfoot and the air is warm and wet. I look up, searching for stars, but all I find is stone. Stone all around. I am in a box, and there is only one way out.

So I take it. I walk across the sand to a door made of bone, smooth and pale and grinning with skulls; a warning, a promise, an invitation. One touch and my hand burns. I flinch, but do not turn away.

I enter an oubliette. A place of forgetting, of never turning back. I know what that is. I know what it is to be forgotten.

I stand just within the doorway of the void, and for the first time in my dream, feel fear. A terrible urgent despair, the kind that begs sound—a wail or cry or quick breath—because sound is life, sound means presence, and I could forget myself in this place. I think I already have.

But just as I am about to retreat through the door of watching bones, I glimpse something in the void—a solid curving plane of gray. The round edge of a shoulder, perhaps, holding very still.

“Hello?” My voice is soft. There is no answer, but in the silence I sense another kind of weight, a longing, familiar as the unseen eyes that watch me nightly from the shadows of the basement labyrinth. I cannot turn from that presence; as though a hand wraps around my body, I am drawn across the sand.

I walk into darkness, blind. The shoulder I saw before disappears, but I continue on, helpless. Just a dream, I tell myself. Only a dream.

Except, I can feel the grains of sand digging between my toes, and the air in my lungs is heavy and hot. I feel very much awake, very much alive.

And suddenly I can see again. Not much, just that same sliver of gray; a shoulder, attached to a long muscular arm; higher still, the faint outline of a broad chest, a strong throat. All at a height much grander than my own. I am looking at a giant. A giant made of stone.

I stand very still, staring; then slowly, carefully, reach out. I cannot explain my action. I must touch and be touched, though it is only rock beneath my hands. But I hesitate, at the last moment. I fear, irrationally, that I might be burned—and indeed I flinch as though harmed, because what my fingers find is not cold or stone, but flesh and warm.

I stagger, falling. A hand catches my waist, then my arm; in that grip, profound strength. Terror flutters my heart, freezing my voice. I think, dream, but I cannot wake no matter how loud I scream inside my mind.

A rumble fills the darkness. I reach out. My palms press against yet more skin, a body trembling with sound. Like a thundercloud, sighing in the night. I try to see, but cannot. Try to free myself, and am held closer.

“Let go,” I breathe, struggling.

“No time,” whispers a low voice, rough and masculine. “Listen to me. Listen.”

But he says nothing else and I gaze up and up, staring at shadows gathered around a curving line, hard and tipped and ridged. A horn. I can see nothing else. In the oubliette, where I should find only darkness, gasps of light are playing tricks.

Something grazes my cheek; fingers, perhaps.

“Tell me,” says the voice, quiet. “Tell me what you hear.”

“You,” I whisper, my voice shaking on the word. “Only you.”

I hear a sigh, another rumble that pushes through my body, settling around my heart. A sad sound, old and tired. Again, my cheek is touched. Fingers slide into my hair, warm and gentle. For a moment my breathing steadies and I can think again.

A dream, I tell myself. Then, softly, “You are a dream.”

“A dream,” murmurs the creature. “A dream, if I could so be. Your dream, better.”

“My dream,” I say. “But you are.”

“No,” breathes that low voice. “I am the Minotaur. And this is no dream.”

The hand holding my arm slips away; the body beneath my palms follows. I am left standing alone in the darkness. I feel bereft, lost without that touch which so frightened me. I cannot explain it. I do not want to.

“Soon,” rumbles the voice. “Soon, again.”

“Wait,” I say, but the world falls away, the oubliette spinning fast into a jolt, a gasp—

I wake up.

A week passes before the Minotaur returns to me. I think of him often. Dream or not, I cannot help myself. I feel his fingers on my cheek as I pour coffee. I feel his body beneath my hands as I wrap scones in wax paper. I hear his voice inside my body as I count change for an old man in a suit. Everywhere, the Minotaur.

And when I close my eyes for just one moment, I return to the oubliette, to the darkness filled with thunder, and feel him with me like a shadow pressed against my back, watching and waiting. The longer I wait, the more I want to be with him again. The more I want to understand.

Some dream. I wonder if that is all it is. If there is more, and whether, like Ariadne with her ball of golden thread, I will be able to find my way home again the next time the Minotaur comes for me. And I know he will. I feel it, fear it—am even eager for it—though it sows discontent, unease. For the first time in a long while, I think about my life. Not about the things I do not have, but the people who are gone. Parents. Friends. I had them once, I think, but at some distant time so far past, such people seem more dream than the Minotaur.

All I have is myself. All I need is myself.

Until now.

I follow my routine before bed. I must. Routine keeps me alive. But after stretching out inside my sleeping bag, I hesitate before closing my eyes. I can feel the library breathing around me; the labyrinth with its endless maze of books like a forest overhead. Wilderness bound, with my back against the ground. I search within my heart for the roots of the home I have made. Look deep inside, for comfort.

I close my eyes and fall into sleep. Fall some more, into the oubliette.

This time, there is no door of bones. Just the darkness and shreds of light, playing against muscles smooth and hard as stone. A dream, I tell myself, but this time I know it is a lie, though not how or why. Nor does it matter. I am here, standing in front of the Minotaur, and the air is hot and the sand is soft and I can feel sweat trickling between my breasts, above my pounding heart.

“You came back,” says the Minotaur, as quiet as I remember, deep and rough and rumbling.

“I didn’t think I had a choice.” I remember his touch, and stand very still.

Shadows shift; light plays over a sinewy shoulder, the edge of a strong jaw. The Minotaur moves closer; a gliding motion, impossibly graceful. “There is always a choice. If you had fought me, in your heart, I would not have been strong enough to bring you here.”

“Here,” I echo. “Where is here?”

“It is a place with no name.” Closer still he moves; I imagine a growing heat in the air between us. “No name, ever. Only, we are at the heart of a maze, a house of halls and riddles. One way in, no way out.”

The Minotaur does not stop moving. I steady myself, refusing to back away. I glimpse only fragments of his body, but that is enough. He is very large. I can see his horns.

“What are you?” I whisper. The Minotaur stops, but not entirely. I stifle a gasp as he takes my hands, his fingers huge and strong. He gently, slowly, raises my arms. I almost resist, but I have been thinking of him all week—perhaps forever—and though I fear him, I have in my life feared more than the Minotaur, and I can suffer the unknown for my curiosity.

“I am a man,” he says softly. “Though I have been made to live as a beast.”

He places my hands upon his head. I close my eyes as he forces me to touch him, and I see with my palms a hard surface, unnatural.

A helmet. A mask, even. Made of bone and steel and hide. A terrible thing; terrifying. I feel straps run down the sides, behind, all around, holding it in place. I cannot imagine wearing such a device.

The Minotaur releases me, but I do not stop. I do not want to. My fingers explore and connect with flesh, a jaw, his lips. A flush steals through me. I pull away, but again the Minotaur catches my hands. His mouth moves against my fingers as he speaks. It feels like a kiss.

“A moment,” he whispers, as his breath flows over my skin. “Just one moment, please.”

I give him his moment. I cannot help myself. I feel in my own heart a pang of longing, a sympathetic echo, and it cuts. I live in my own oubliette, my own labyrinth. I am a forgotten woman, invisible as the Minotaur to eyes beyond this dream. I cannot remember being anything else. I cannot remember being held, ever.

I rest my forehead against his broad chest, pressing close to stand between his feet, seeing him with my body, feeling him lean and strong. I listen to his breath catch, and inhale a scent of sand and rock and something sharper still.

“I did not bring you here for this,” whispers the Minotaur.

“I did not come here for this,” I reply. “I do not know why I am here.”

“A selfish reason.” The Minotaur’s fingers tighten, briefly. “To save my life.”

“I don’t save lives. I barely have my own.”

“You live in darkness. Amongst the books. You go there in the night to hide.”

“You’ve watched me.”

“You know I have. You have felt me.”

“Yes,” I breathe. I have felt him for a long time. My watcher, my only friend in the catacomb darkness, who has always felt more real than imagination should allow. Now, here in the flesh. Perhaps.

The Minotaur loosens his hold, his hands sliding away even as my own fingers trail down his throat, soothing a path along his shoulders. His skin is warm. His hands are warm, as well. He touches me again, palms resting against my spine. I am wearing very little. As is he.

I open my eyes and tilt back my head, trying to see the Minotaur. I cannot. The fleeting light is gone. His face is lost. I am afraid that I am lost, as well.

“Why me?” I ask him. “Why?”

The Minotaur stands very still. “Because you know this. You know this pain. You know what it is to have no one. To be…no one.”

My heart hurts. “And so? Because of that you think I can help you?”

“I hope,” he says simply. “I hope you will understand. I hope you will have compassion.”

“No. This is not real.”

“It is real to me.” The Minotaur pulls me tight against him. “And I think it is real to you. More real than the life you have left behind.”

It is true, but I will not say that. “And this? Your life?”

“This is no life. Not here, in this place.”

“You are confined?”

“A prisoner.”

“Why?”

“For living. For breathing, for being. Much the same as you, I think.”

“I’m not locked up.”

“Are you not?” The Minotaur’s hands tighten against my back. “I think we are the same, you and I.”

I close my eyes. “I am alone, that’s all.”

“Alone,” he echoes. “This place would be sufficient, if I was not alone.”

“So you brought me here to stay with you?”

“No.” The Minotaur’s voice is rough. “No, I would not ask that of anyone. Only, there is a world beyond this darkness, and I would see it, find it, live within it.”

“You might not like that world,” I tell him. “You might want to come back to this place after you’ve seen what you want.”

“Like you?” says the Minotaur softly. It is impossible to know his meaning, to dare divine those two words. All I know is that I wish to echo them, to say, like you, or to add another word: I.

I like you, I want to tell him. I do not know why, but I do. And I am crazy for it. All of this, crazy.

But the Minotaur is right. He has chosen well. I understand him. Or at least, part of him. The rest is mystery. The rest is insanity.

“I need to sit.” I slide out of the Minotaur’s arms to kneel unsteadily in the sand. The odd shadows of light are still gone; the darkness is profound. I cannot see myself. I am only voice, thought, sensation. But I feel the Minotaur crouch beside me, and savor the contact of his knee against my thigh, the heat of his sigh. Touch is a lifeline in this place. A reminder.

“How long have you been here?” I wonder if I could survive in the oubliette, alone.

The Minotaur rumbles. “Years. Centuries, even, though time moves more slowly in this place. I suppose millennia have passed in your world.”

“And how do you live?”

“There is water and food. Magic sustains the rest.”

I look toward the sound of his voice. “Magic.”

“It is what brought you here.” The Minotaur touches my hand. “The first time was the hardest. This time, easier.”

I feel numb. “You have magic. You should be able to leave this place on your own, without me. There is nothing I can do for you.”

“So you are an expert on such things now.” His tone is light, but I protest anyway, embarrassed. The Minotaur touches my lips with his fingertips. The contact startles me into silence.

“I meant no harm,” he says. “And if you do not trust me, if you still believe this is all a dream, so be it. I cannot force your heart to change.”

The Minotaur pulls way. I reach out, blind, and catch his wrist. I feel bold and foolish.

“Dream or not,” I whisper. “I don’t want to be alone.”

I hear his breath catch, and I listen for more, listen hard. There is nothing else beyond the two of us. A strong arm drapes over my shoulders. I do not flinch. The Minotaur surrounds; he lays me down against his broad smooth chest until we stretch close, entwined. I have never been held in such a way. Never been touched so gently. It startles me.

“You need to leave soon,” he rumbles. I try again to see his face. Nothing. I reach for where his jaw should be, but I find the mask instead. My fingers glide along a curving horn, wicked and cruel.

“Why?” I ask, then forget my question as his large hands trail up my sides, beneath my shirt. I am surprised at the pleasure I feel; even more, when my own palms glide down his throat to his chest. There is cloth over his groin, but nothing else. So much skin.

He swallows hard. “You do not want to become trapped here.”

No, I do not. But that does not stop me from inching up his body, savoring his long lean muscles, touching him with my hands, gentle and curious. Curious about him, about myself.

“What are you doing?” whispers the Minotaur hoarsely.

“I don’t know,” I admit. “I don’t know about any of this. Except, I am here…and I want to know you.”

“Then know me,” he murmurs. “Be the first to try.”

I hesitate, listening to the echo of his words, his pain. Something comes over me—the darkness, a cocoon—and within it I find myself a stranger, as strange as this man who calls himself Minotaur.

Magic, I think. Dreams and magic.

I touch him. The pulse of his throat is quick, his hands raw and hot. When he turns us on our sides the sand is gritty and soft, climbing into my clothes, rubbing my skin. I am blind in the oubliette, but my fingers are not, and I find again his jaw, his lips, and press close enough to taste his breath, to taste him.

I kiss the corner of his mouth. I capture his sigh with another kiss, this time on his bottom lip. The edge of the mask rubs against my cheek and brow; bone and hide protrude over the Minotaur’s nose. More wolf than bull, I imagine.

I stroke the hollow of his throat with my finger. “Who did this to you?”

His chest rumbles. “I am the child of a queen, but made out of wedlock and a bastard, still. To protect herself, my mother made a bargain with her lover to hide me away so that her husband, the king, would never know of her betrayal. It was done as she asked—the king was gone away to war. Though as such things happen, upon his return he discovered the truth. The king was a sorcerer, and my mother’s choice to deceive him…poorly conceived.”

I try to make sense of such a story. “So you were alone, then? No one cared for you?”

“I had a tutor, an old man who raised me. A nursemaid, too, though she was taken from me when I had no more practical use for her. A good woman. I learned not to miss her.”

“And this?” I tug gently on a horn.

“An act of power,” says the Minotaur grimly. “And fear.”

He rolls me on my back before I ask another question. His mouth hovers over mine, hands cradling my face. He kisses me. It is a deeper kiss than what I gave him, and I am taken off guard by the slow heat of it, the pleasure. I am unfamiliar with intimacy, but my body responds as though born to it. I rise up against the Minotaur, clutching his back.

He tugs on my nightshirt—we part long enough for him to drag it over my head—and then I have no time for fear or regret as he strokes my breasts, fingers sliding over my nipples, at first tentative, then with more confidence. I moan against his mouth, hooking my leg around his waist, rubbing against him. I am wet between my thighs, pleasure clenching in my gut like a delicious fist.

The Minotaur overwhelms. I could not fight him off even if I wanted, and I do not. I have been alone too long, and this—no matter how strange—is an opportunity not to be lost. I might hide from the world, but I am a survivor—I take what I need, what I want, what I desire. Only, I have never desired this. Not until now.

His loincloth strains hard between my thighs. I writhe, savoring the luscious friction of his erection stroking my own wet heat. I reach down to touch him. His skin is soft and hot, throbbing, and he breaks off his kiss to push hard and long in my hand. I squeeze, gentle; a pulsing rhythm. The Minotaur groans and slams his fist in the sand. He pulls out of my grasp.

“You will finish me,” he says, and then it is my turn to dig my hands into the sand as his fingers slide between my thighs, entering me deep. His mouth follows, tongue running swift as he sucks and licks, and a moan tears from my throat as I twist in his arms. He captures me. Hooks my legs over his shoulders.

And then, when I am almost on the brink, his mouth and hands disappear and I feel the heat of his body poise above me. He does not need to ask. I spread my legs wider. The Minotaur pushes inside, and though his size might have predicted discomfort, all I feel is delicious warmth so unexpected, so overwhelming, I am momentarily paralyzed with pleasure. Stiff with it, even as he is stiff, the both of us shaking. He is hard and hot; I feel mounted, pinned, like a puppet on the head of a spear, except this is flesh and blood and dream, and there are no strings attached to my body, no master controlling my actions.

One giant hand presses against my thighs, tugging them apart. The Minotaur slides deeper, but only just. And then his hands move again, but only to push my legs together, tight. Squeezing him inside me. Holding him like a vise, even as he begins to move, to draw out, just as slowly as he entered.

I shudder, a moan escaping from between my clenched teeth. The Minotaur’s own breathing is harsh, though he is gentle as he thrusts, his large hands holding me close in a careful embrace. I wish I could see his eyes, and press my lips against his throat, feeling in my pounding heart a wild ache that reminds me of my first time in the library labyrinth, held safe within the darkness of a new home. I do not want that feeling to end.

“More,” I whisper, and the Minotaur rumbles with pleasure. He sits up, holding my hips tight against him as he rises to his knees. I tip backward, head and arms resting against the sand, bound by flesh still large and hot.

The Minotaur is strong. He holds me flush against him and thrusts hard, driving into me with a strength that is both pain and pleasure. He is in complete control as he moves my body, rutting with a ferocity that makes me cry out, the tips of my toes digging into the sand. I try to move with him, but give up, letting him set the pace as he holds and pulls me with raw hungry strength. It is a punishing rhythm, but so is my desire, and the gathering pleasure inside my body is so devastating I lose myself when it breaks, arching violently, breath rattling in a silent scream as I come in his arms—as he comes in mine—sinking us down at the last moment to move against each other in the sand.

We keep thrusting, savoring the aftershocks, fighting for breath—so tangled that as the Minotaur turns us, I remain pressed against his body, one leg hooked over his waist, fingers digging into his hard shoulder. I do not want to let go. Neither does the Minotaur, if his hands are any indication. He cradles my body, holding me as I have never been held; as though I am wanted, needed, desired. His breath ruffles my hair; his lips trace a path down my flushed cheek.

“I did not dream,” whispers the Minotaur. “I did not dare.”

“You brought me here.” I am still breathless, muscles limp and warm. “You must have thought something would happen.”

The Minotaur touches my face. “Not this. Truly.”

I close my eyes. “Not an optimist, then.”

A short gasp of laughter escapes him. “No more than you, I think.” He runs his fingers through my hair and I sigh at the simple pleasure of it, the warmth and strength of his fingers.

“There were others, long ago,” he says quietly. “Women who came to me as a novelty, a freak to be bedded. But never for more. Not like this.”

“You think this is more?” I press gently. The Minotaur shifts in my arms and places his hand over my heart. 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 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 with anyone.

He touches my shoulders. He is shaking, but he does not tell me to stop, and I take the invitation, going further, deeper, using my hands and mouth, feeling him ignite as I push closer to some indefinable edge. His hips thrust, again and again, and a low shuddering moan escapes his throat, building as I suck hard.

The Minotaur pulls away from my mouth as he comes, though I still hold him with my hands, savoring his violent release as though it is my own. His breathing is ragged, harsh, and when he grabs me up in his arms I feel a new weakness in his body; tremors in his muscles, in the breathlessness of his kiss, that makes me desire him even more.

“Why?” he murmurs. “Why do you want me? Why did you want to come back?”

“I don’t want to be without you.” The words slip free so easily it frightens me.

The Minotaur’s breath catches. He cradles my face between his hands. I cannot see his eyes, but I am sure he can see mine. “Why? Of all men, why me?”

I wish I could see his eyes. I wish it so badly. “Why me?”

The Minotaur exhales slowly. His arms slide around my body. He holds me close and whispers in my ear. “Because I wanted you. Because I wanted your help, but I also wanted just…you. To touch you, once. I have watched you for so long.”

I cannot speak. He stands and lifts me into his arms. “There is something I must show you.”

He carries me through the darkness. I listen to his heartbeat and the shuffle of sand. The air becomes warmer, humid. Nothing of the harpies.

The Minotaur walks for a long time. The oubliette is larger than I expected, or else we have left that place and his entire home is made of darkness. He finally stops, though, and lowers me to my feet. I stay within the circle of his arms and he says, “In front of you.”

I kneel. I reach out and touch water. Hot water. I lean closer and steam bathes my face.

“A natural spring,” says the Minotaur. “Take off your clothes. I will wash away the blood.”

“And you? It was your blood, after all. You’re hurt.”

“Then we will wash together.” There is tension in his voice. He shows no hesitation, though, when he helps undress me. He holds my hands with care as I step blind into the hot water. It feels good, though I cannot help but think of the harpies. I mention them again as the Minotaur slides into the water beside me.

“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.”

But I cannot ask, because the Minotaur suddenly screams, back arching so deeply I hear his spine crack like the wings of a harpy. He falls to his knees and the skulls whisper, “Hold him. Hold him tight.”

I scramble to the Minotaur and crash into the sand, flinging my arms around his heaving chest. I press my cheek above his pounding heart and hold him with all my strength. He groans my name, but his voice—full of pain—shifts into a howl. I cry out with him, terrified, and then cry out for another reason entirely as the warm skin beneath my hands suddenly becomes fur. The Minotaur writhes; I glimpse his hands, long fingers shedding skin and nail to become claws. I almost forget myself—almost let go—but a voice inside my head whispers, hold on, hold on, and I do not loosen my arms.

The Minotaur fights me. He is large and strong, but I squeeze shut my eyes and dig my nails into his back, chanting his name, holding on with all my will. I am afraid of him—afraid for my life—but I think, faith, and do not waver.

The fur shifts, gliding into scales. A smaller chest; I almost lose him, but I regain my grip and hear a hiss, feel a tongue rasp against my cheek. The Minotaur struggles, flopping wildly, dragging me down into the sand and rolling on top of me. I cannot breathe, but I wrap my legs around the Minotaur—his entire body, one long tail—and hold my breath, screaming inside my mind.

Another shift—feathers—a body smaller, still—but I grapple and pull and hold—and then again—leather, tough—a beast as big as the room—but I take two handfuls of a mighty ear, shouting as my arms pull and my joints tear. Battered and bruised, I fight to keep him. Fight, too, for my life.

Again and again he shifts—an endless struggle of creatures I cannot name—until, suddenly, it is simply the Minotaur again, the man I know. He slumps within my arms. I do not let go. I am too afraid, and my fear is good. A moment later I feel another transformation steal over the Minotaur. This time, stone. Stone that takes me with him.

I do not understand at first. Only, my body feels heavy, as though gravity is pulling down and down. I hear a scraping sound, like rocks rubbing, and see from the corner of my eye the Minotaur’s skin go gray and hard. I remember the first time seeing him, some ghost light playing tricks, the curve of his shoulder resembling stone. This time it is no illusion.

“Save yourself,” whisper the skulls. “Let go.”

Let go, my mind echoes, as I watch with horrified fascination as stone crawls up the Minotaur’s body, over my own, encasing both our legs in a dull hard shell. I feel as though I am being dipped in concrete. I feel as though I am dying. I gaze into the Minotaur’s face, looking for some sign of the man I am risking my life for. His eyes are closed. He is unconscious.

“Let go,” whisper the skulls. “Let go and you will be free.”

It is not too late. I could pull away. But I look again at the Minotaur and remember his voice, his touch, the feeling of home in his arms, and I cannot leave him. He is all I have, all I want, and to lose him, to lose that part of myself I have given him when for the first time in my life I belong—

The stone creeps. I press as close as I can, hooking my arms around the Minotaur’s neck. I kiss him, hard, and after a moment I feel him stir and kiss me back. I smile against his mouth. Taste tears. Mine.

The Minotaur murmurs something I do not understand. I do not let go. I keep kissing him, even when he begins struggling, protesting, trying to push me away from the contagious gathering of stone. I hang tight, ignoring him. He has been betrayed by magic—both of us have—but I will be his champion to the end.

The stone rises. The Minotaur and I stop moving. We are locked together, and all I can do is tilt my head, to kiss him. I look into his eyes—blue like sky—blue with grief—and try to smile.

“Not what you expected?” I say, and the Minotaur makes a choking sound that I cut off with a kiss. One last kiss.

The stone covers my face. I go blind.

The next time I learn how to see again, I find myself cradled in strong arms. I am being carried. My feet dangle, my head lolls, and I feel sick to my stomach. I struggle to be put down. Just in time. I bend over, gagging, eyes streaming.

Then I remember. I fall to my knees.

A hand touches my shoulder. I turn. Find the Minotaur crouching beside me. He is not wearing the mask.

It startles me. For a moment I do not know him, but then I look into his eyes and they are the same soul, same heart. I touch his mouth with trembling fingertips, and he captures my wrist, holding me gently. His hands are the same, as well. Strong and warm.

“How?” I murmur. “I thought we were dead.”

“We were,” says the Minotaur, a hint of wonder in his voice. “You gave your life for mine.”

I sag against him. We are still naked. I run my hands over his body, searching for injury. Explore his face, studying the unfamiliar lines, the dark curl of his hair. He is a handsome man. But then, I thought so before ever seeing his face. Before he was anything but a presence in the dark.

I trail my fingers down his neck, following the red imprint of the former straps. The Minotaur watches my eyes. There is such tenderness in his face I want to lower my head and weep. I think I might do so anyway.

“How?” I ask again.

“I was a monster,” says the Minotaur, “and the king did not think it possible that anyone would ever care for me. Not enough to do what you did. The fact he even allowed one chance to lift the curse was meant more as punishment than hope. To break me with the futility of my existence. Because who…who would ever love a Minotaur?”

“I do,” I say quietly, and he shuts his eyes, shuddering.

“You had faith,” he whispers. “You believed in me, or else you would not have held me.”

“It was difficult. I thought you would kill me in the process.”

“I almost did.” He opens his eyes. “I became the creatures I transformed into. Only your touch kept me centered. Only you. If you had let go…”

I stop him. I do not want to think about what might have been. I glance around, noticing for the first time that we are in some kind of building. The stones are dark and smooth with age, and there are pillars rising to a vaulted ceiling that is elegant in its massive simplicity. The silence is heavy. We are alone. But there is light—streams of it cutting through holes in the upper segments of the high walls.

I look at the Minotaur. “Where is the labyrinth? How did we escape?”

“The labyrinth is where it always is,” he says gravely. “It is everywhere and nowhere. But we were able to leave because you freed me. And as you know, I have…some skills of my own.”

I shiver. The Minotaur helps me stand. “Come. There are clothes nearby.”

“How do you know?”

“Because this is home.”

I raise my eyebrows. “Home has been empty a long time. There won’t be anything left to find.”

The Minotaur smiles. “We shall see.”

But before we begin walking, I lean in for a kiss. A soft kiss that becomes urgent, fierce. I remember fear, desperation, my decision to die, and such memories will never leave me. They are another darkness, another labyrinth, and I want the Minotaur to steal me away. To save me.

And he does, his own calm face breaking into a mask of grief and desperation. He pushes me up against a pillar, his breathing unsteady, tears shadowing his eyes. He kisses me so deeply I feel him in my soul.

The Minotaur takes me. He is hard and I am ready and he slides so easily into my body I wonder how two people could fit so well and still be separate hearts.

I say as much, later. Later, when my legs are still wrapped around him and we lie on the cold stone floor. The Minotaur smiles. I can still see the outline of the mask, the mighty horns resting like a crown. Fit for a prince, I think. A prince of the labyrinth.

“We are two pieces of a puzzle,” says the Minotaur. “You and I.”

“So where do we go now? What do we do?”

The Minotaur points. I narrow my eyes; a moment later I see the silver mirror resting close by on the stones. Set there earlier, no doubt, when I was ill.

“Anywhere,” he says simply. “We go anywhere.”

I think of my library, my home in the darkness, my routine. My old life, safe and quiet. I am not naïve; anywhere will not be easy. But I look at the Minotaur, curled around my body, staring at me with his shining eyes, and I know that he is not naïve, either.

And I would rather face a life with him, no matter the danger or difficulty, than rest easy by myself.

I take his hand. “Have we really left the labyrinth?”

“I think we are making our own,” says the Minotaur. “It will be an adventure.”

“I hope so,” I reply.

And it is.