The Crossing (Immortals) (2 page)

Her face was pretty, but he couldn't remember her name.
Or why, exactly, he'd let her into his bed.

Manannan 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 companysquinted 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!"

"Manannan!"

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?"