Manannán mac Lir-known variously as musician, Sidhe, demigod, Prince of Annwyn, Guardian of Celtic Magical Creatures in the Human World, and several other names not generally polite to utter in mixed company-squinted through the gray shadows shrouding his bed and his life. The lilting echo of last night's concert had been overwritten by a repulsive coda of expensive whisky and cheap sex.
It was an epilogue that kept repeating, ad nauseam, like a scratched vinyl record.
On a sigh, Mac swung his legs over the edge of the mattress and stood. The room swayed a bit, but settled down quickly enough. Truth be told, his head was abominably clear. One benefit-or curse-of not being human was that authentic Scots whisky drunk far too quickly in far too great a quantity didn't plague him come morning.
He glanced at the bed. Authentic Scots women, on the other hand ...
He plucked an empty glass tumbler from the carpet and set it on a gateleg table with the remains of the late supper he'd shared with ... He frowned at the bed. Maired? Rebecca? Kathleen?
Scowling in earnest now, he showered and dressed himself in clean faded jeans and a fresh sea-green T-shirt, then sat on an overstuffed ottoman and laced up his Doc Martens. Decent once again, he considered the sleeping woman.
Shobhan? Martha? Elizabeth?
Bugger it all, he had no idea. The lass was a real beauty, though, with quite a lot of red-gold hair. Her young body was supple and smooth-all over, as he remembered it. She'd had a backstage pass to his Inverness gig, the last show of a six-month world concert tour that had gone on about two months too long. She'd been with friends, two equally nubile young birds. Mac had allowed his loyal-if slightly slack-brained-roadie cousins to talk him into balancing the ratio. It'd been entirely by accident this particular girl-Edwina? Frances? Sonia?-had ended up in Mac's lap.
The other two lasses were upstairs, warming his cousins' beds. Full Sidhe as they were, Mac was certain Niall and Ronan had not wasted a minute of the night pondering the uselessness of their long, lazy, sex-filled lives. As for his own bird? He'd done his duty by her, of course-Mac was half Sidhe, after all. She'd been more than pleased. But he had hardly felt a thing.
Mac leaned over and shook her shoulder. Abruptly, so she wouldn't take the contact as an invitation to more sex. "Come on, then, love. Up with you."
Blue eyes blinked open. "Mac?" Her pretty forehead creased. "You're dressed."
"'Fraid so, love. It's full morning."
He strode to the window and shoved open the curtains. His nameless lover's hand shot up, blocking a brutal stab of sunlight. "So soon? I thought we could ..."
"No. Can't." He made a circuit of the room, retrieving skirt, knickers, sweater, bra. Stilettos. Fishnet stockings, a bit ripped. Had he done that? "I've got an appointment."
He sent a meaningful look toward the door.
Denise? Nancy? Priscilla? pretended not to notice. Stretching like a cat, she shrugged off the bedcovers. Naked as a jay, she gifted him with a brilliant smile.
He tossed her clothes on the bed.
Her bottom lip pushed forward. "You could cancel."
"I appreciate the offer, love, but no. I couldn't possibly miss this meeting." Not least because there wasn't one.
"I'll wait. When you get back we can-"
"I won't be back. Not any time soon. I'm leaving town today."
"Oh! Right. Of course you are. The tour's over, isn't it? Where will you go next? London?"
"No."
"On holiday, then? France, maybe?"
"No."
"Italy?"
Giving up on good manners, Mac stalked to the door. "Listen, love. Stay if you want. Wait for your friends. Or better yet, join them upstairs. I'm sure my cousins won't mind."
He fled a feminine huff, breathing with relief as he stepped into a sun-washed, blustery day. Freedom at last. He headed to the corner pub for a noon pint and a look at the football scores. He was deep into the Scotsman, mulling the Dublin Leprechauns' shocking loss to Vampires United, when a porcine chorus of feminine squeals shattered his concentration.
"Oh. My. God! There he is!"
"Ooooooooh!"
"Manannán!"
Mac's head jerked up. A brilliant flash assaulted his retinas. Blinking furiously, he made out four lasses pounding on the pub's street window. A tall, grinning bloke with a camera hovered behind them.
Bloody, bloody hell. Didn't take long this time. He hadn't even finished his pint.
With a regretful glance at his ale, he sprang to his feet and dug a hundred-pound note out of his pocket. Money enough, he hoped, to cover both the cost of his pint and whatever damage was about to occur. The pub door banged open. Tossing the note on the table, Mac sprinted toward the rear corridor as his fangirls surged across the threshold on the power of a collective, earsplitting shriek.
The barman, who'd been wiping down the counter, paused in midswipe, looked up, and winced.
"Sorry, mate," Mac called back to the bloke as he ducked under a low lintel. Where the hell was the bloody back door?
"His table's empty!"
"Where'd he go?"
"Back there!"
There was a scrabbling sound, followed by splintering wood and a spectacular shatter of glassware.
The barkeep's voice boomed. "Look here, ye bloody lot of besoms. Ye canna just hurtle through-"
Dead end. Ballocks. Mac backtracked and shouldered through a door on his right. The men's loo. He slammed the door behind him and pressed his spine against it just as a body slammed the other side.
The doorknob rattled. "Maaaaaac!"
Mac spun about and blasted a stream of elfshot at the knob. The odor of burnt metal steamed into the air. A paunchy bald bloke emerging from the single stall with his hands on his zipper drew up short, bottom jaw flapping. "What the-"
The door shuddered. Thanks be to all the gods in Annwyn, the ruined lock held. Mac directed his next stream of elfshot at the loo's single window, high on the opposite wall. The glass dissolved in a glittering shower of green sparks.
"Pardon, mate." Shoving past his slack-jawed spectator, he grabbed an overhead pipe and swung both legs up and over the sill. The drumming on the loo door intensified, accompanied by a painful counterpoint of frustrated shrieks.
Bald Bloke's eyes narrowed. "Now, wait just a bloody minute! Fine for a lad like you to slide his scrawny arse through there, but how am I to get out? You've welded the sodding door shut!"
"No worries. The lasses will have it down within the minute."
The door's top hinge splintered.
No time to waste. "Look, mate. I'd appreciate whatever you could do to slow those birds down. Sex-crazed, they are."
The man's eyes widened. His thick lips twitched, and his curved spine straightened a little. "Are they, now?"
"They are," Mac said grimly, and propelled himself through the window.
He landed in a crouch beside a smelly rubbish bin, his boots slipping on muck he'd rather not examine. He was in a narrow service alley that ran between the pub and a grocer's. Dashing to the end, he turned right and sprinted past a row of shops, laying confusion spells in his wake. A glance over his shoulder revealed no pursuit. Yet.
He knew better than to hope he'd get away clean. Fangirls were a bloody persistent lot.
A left turn and a right brought him back to his own place. His vintage Norton Commando motorcycle was parked at the curb, its outrageous chrome beauty glittering like diamonds in the sun. He started toward it, then stopped short.
Was that a thong dangling from his handlebar?
Bloody, bloody hell. What had happened to his protective wardings?
He flicked the scrap of red lace into the gutter, muttering under his breath. Still cursing, he swung a leg over the saddle and gunned the engine. Once on the road, he cast an airtight glamour spell around the Norton. Anyone looking would see a battered diesel lorry.
He gunned for the A96. There was only one place in the human world where fangirls couldn't find him. Mac didn't intend to stop until he reached it.
No doubt Kalen and Christine would be delighted to see him.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Immortals: The Crossing by Joy Nash Copyright © 2008 by Joy Nash. Excerpted by permission.
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