Vimes felt the breath on the back of his neck, nothing more—no sound; damn, the bastard was good. He wheeled, pinned his would-be attacker to the wall by the neck, heard a little chuckle: hey, all in good fun, eh?…
"What do you want, Carcer?"
"What's any man want, Duke, haha?" The demons sneered, pleased with their own wit.
"Don't mess me about," Vimes growled. "I've dealt with you twice already. It's been a long day and I don't want my work following me ho—back from work, I don't want a fight, I don't want anything except a cigar and a cuppa. Bugger off." He released Carcer more roughly than strictly necessary.
"Oh, I don't think so just yet, Mister Vimes." Carcer stepped closer. Vimes preserved the space between them and hit the other wall. This had to be the smallest alley in The Shades. "I got something for you. Something I figure we wouldn't want our men to see."
Visions of silver cigar cases floated behind Vimes' eyes. "Yeah? Hand it over and hop it. I'm sure you've got important things to do for the Particulars. Places to go. People to torture."
"Nah. This's better."
Vimes didn't care for the look in Carcer's eyes. It wasn't the usual devilment; something a little more complicated, though no more pleasant. "Give it to me, Carcer."
"Give you what, Mister Vimes?"
"Dammit, Carcer, I'm warning you—"
"You really want what I got, Mister Vimes?"
"Stop playing, Carcer. I won't tell you again."
"Well, all right, haha, if you're sure…"
Vimes held out his hand, expecting to feel the weight of his cigar case in it. Instead he felt dry, callused fingertips against his palm, grabbing and sandwiching both his hands together. Then the man's other hand was at the back of his neck, fingers twisted in the hair that wanted cutting—Sybil wanted him to let it grow, but he'd always been more comfortable with the-shorter-the-better—Carcer's feet were on his toes, Carcer's body was pressing him into the bricks, Carcer's mouth was on his.
Vimes' mental processes screeched to a halt.
Everything seemed to have gone black and ringing. The lips against his were cracked and rough, insistently devouring again and again, murmuring words that didn't reach his ears. His toes were going numb. The heat from Carcer's hand was unbearable; sliding slowly down his neck, down his spine—
His brain whirled back into action. Knee up, hands then head forward, and Carcer was stumbling back trying to clutch his skull, stomach, and groin simultaneously. He made an unusual keening sound.
"Do me a favor, Carcer," said Vimes from the alley entrance through gritted teeth. "Next time you want to give me something, make sure it's your wrists in cuffs."
And he was gone.
"That didn'tseem… to go well," said a voice from the shadows, punctuated by the rattle of a cane.
"Shut up," said Carcer, too busy wiping tears from his eyes to be surprised.