“Best five out of seven?” I asked brightly.
Epilogue
I hung up the phone and looked at the bodies scattered around me. “All right, you mangy mongrels, get off me and let me get up. I have to go find your daddy.”
“I’m right here,” Walker’s voice rumbled from the kitchen, the door slamming behind him. I pushed Searcher the greyhound off the pad of paper that lay next to me on the couch, digging through the blankets to find the pen I had been using before the call. Walker loomed up on the doorway in his black leather duster, pulling his gloves off as he eyed us. “You look comfortable. You were right about the sofa—it does go well with the house.”
“Farm,” I corrected, wrinkling my nose when the elderly spaniel curled up against my hip emitted a sign he’d been into the compost heap again. “We have a farm, thanks to your winning the tourney championship, not that we got to see a lot of the money—what is it with your government taking so much of it for taxes? You won it in Canada, you shouldn’t have to pay English taxes on it—”
“Pepper,” he interrupted what was fast becoming my favorite rant.
“What?”
“Is there something you wanted me for?”
“Other than wild, unbridled lovemaking, you mean?”
He grinned. “That goes without saying.”
I slid my foot out from where Baskerville the bloodhound was lying on it, wriggling my toes to restore the flow of blood. “Yes, as a matter of fact, I did want you for something else. When CJ explained to me that you had three dogs, I thought, ‘Okay, so the man has three dogs. I can live with that.’ But this”—I waved my hand at the canine carcasses that were spread out on and around me—“this appears to be five dogs.”
He grinned. “They just seem to find me. They all needed homes, and, well . . . I couldn’t leave them.”
The blanket on my lap moved. I pushed it aside to uncover the three steel-gray balls of fur that Walker had brought home the previous day. “And the kittens?”
His eyebrows shot up in mock horror. “You wouldn’t have liked it if I let old Ferguson drown them, would you?”
“No, of course not, but that didn’t mean we had to take them.”
“You’re good with animals,” he pointed out, squatting down next to me to tickle one of the kittens’ tummy. “Who better to have animals than a vet?”
“I have been at vet college exactly one week, buster. Nothing says I have to stay there! Besides, we have a situation that may mean I have to leave.”
“A situation?” He leaned in and kissed me, his lips cold from the chilly November weather. “What sort of a situation?”
“A family one,” I said.
His eyes widened until they were silver disks. “Pepper! You don’t mean you’re—”
“No! Not that. I’m not ruling it out, but not now, not when we’re just getting settled, and you’re starting the jousting school, and I’m trying to figure out the British veterinary world. It’s . . . well, there’s just no easy way to say this. My aunt called and she wants us to go back to Ontario.”
“She does?” His brow wrinkled. “Why?”
I sighed. “It’s Moth. Evidently he’s been in a decline ever since you left. He’s pining for you. He won’t eat; he won’t play with his toys—not even wearing his devil horns cheers him up. My aunt wants to offer you visitation rights. She knows he can’t come here because of the quarantine laws, so the only solution is for you to go back to Ontario every other month and jolly Moth out of the doldrums.”
Walker laughed so hard he fell back onto his butt, taking me, the blanket, the kittens, and four of the five dogs with him. We sprawled over him in a glorious confusion of fur, legs, and tails.
“Welcome to my world, Mrs. McPhail,” he said, his lips teasing mine as he plucked a kitten from between us.
“Thank you, Mr. McPhail. I think I may just stay awhile.”
And so I did.
Author’s Note
Every author walks a fine line when incorporating factual content such as details about a sporting event into a novel. We balance the need to be realistic with readers’ demands to be given an entertaining story. With that in mind, when writing this book I took a few minor liberties with the subject of international competition jousting. One such liberty is the creation of a fictional international jousting competition with a $1 million purse. Although there are many competitions with generous purses to be won by the victors, I am not aware of any that have reached the level described in this book. Participants of the competition jousting world believe that they will one day be possible, however.
Other aspects of jousting competition presented in this book are as factual as I could make them, although the existence of several international jousting organizations, each with their own rules, own style of jousting, and own award system, makes it difficult to standardize specific details. For that reason, the rules of my tourney are an amalgamation of existing tournament rules, with a few little twists thrown in to make them fun.
I owe a huge debt of gratitude to Dameon Willoch of the Seattle Knights (www.seattleknights.com) for his limitless patience in answering my questions regarding styles of jousting, international rules, and myriad other queries covering everything from horse injuries to how it feels to take a fall in full plate armor, as well as for inviting me to watch his training classes and jousting demonstrations.
I’m also grateful for the support and camaraderie of the International Wenches Guild (www.wenches. com), a group of wonderful women (and men) who wholeheartedly throw themselves into the spirit of Wenching at Renaissance Faires and events across the globe. Although my version of the Wenches doesn’t begin to encompass the truly awesome nature of the IWG, I hope it reflects some of the generous and fun traits of IWG members. I take great pride in being an official Wench.
Katie MacAlister
Read on for an exerpt from
Fire Me Up
the sequel to You Slay Me, Katie
MacAlister’s bestselling paranormal romance.
Coming out May 2005.
“You’d think that Hungary would see the light as far as second hand smoke is concerned, wouldn’t you? I probably lost at least thirty percent of my lung capacity on the trip from the airport.”
I didn’t even glance at the massive hairy black form at my side as we disembarked from the train on a cloud of cigarette smoke. Instead, I said through my teeth, “Language!”
Two big brown eyes opened wide with surprise.
“Stop it,” I hissed, glancing quickly around us to see if anyone had overheard. We were elbow to elbow with what appeared to be half the population of Hungary, all intent on going to the same place at the same time as us. Luckily, no one seemed to be paying attention to a huge black dog and its unexceptional owner. I took a firm grip on Jim’s leather leash, wrapping it around the wrist on my left hand as I used my right to tug on the big suitcase on wheels that kept clipping my heels.
“Oh, right, I forgot. Ixnay on the alkingtay. Bow wow. Arf. Bark bark. Hummina, hummina, hummina.”
I glared at the demon in Newfoundland dog form that stood beside me as we struggled through the huge crowds at Budapest’s main train station. We moved slowly forward with the rest of the lemmings, part of the shuffle-stop-shuffle-stop pattern of movement that characterized a large number of people trying to pass through a narrow opening.
Jim’s eyebrows rose at my look. “What?”
“You are talking,” I answered, more or less grinding the words. “Dogs don’t talk, so just shut . . . up!”
“Well!” Jim sniffed in an injured manner as we shuffle-stopped our way forward a few more feet. I knew from the experience of having lived with Jim for the past month that my furry little demon would have an expression of profound martyrdom on its face, an expression not at all common to most Newfies, but one Jim had perfected during our relatively short time together. “That wasn’t a direct order, was it? Because you didn’t say ‘Dammit, Jim, I
said shut the farking haitch up!’ which, of course, is what you normally say when you want me to shut up. And I know that’s a command, because you only say ‘farking haitch’ when you’re really PO’d. So I thought I’d better check whether or not that last shut up was a direct order, or just a hopeful desire on your part.”
I stood in the center of the Keleti train station surrounded by hundreds of people, nice, normal people, people who never once thought about things like demons, and demon lords, and Guardians, and all of the strange beings that populated the l’au-delà—the Otherworld—and I wondered for the hundredth time if I tried really hard, whether or not I could send Jim back to the fiery depths of Hell.
“No,” it answered my unasked question before I could do so much as level another squinty-eyed glare at it. “You tried three times to send me back. The last time cost me a toe. My favorite one, too. How you can make a toe disappear right off my foot is beyond me, but the point is that I’m not going to risk another unbalanced paw just so you can play Junior Guardian. I’m staying put until you get yourself a mentor and figure out that whole sending me back thing.”
“Will you stop answering questions before I ask them, stop telling me what to do, and above all, stop talking!”
As crowded as the platforms were, the air filled with fumes from the fast food restaurants that lined the main section of the station—not to mention the ripe odor of a couple of hundred people who’d been crushed into a busy train on a hot August day—as well as the noise those very same hot, sweaty people made as they tried to escape the station, despite all that my words managed to pierce the miasma of sound, and echo with a strange piercing quality off the tiled walls.
Several heads swiveled to look back at us. I smiled somewhat grimly at all of them. A hurt look filled Jim’s brown eyes as it sniffed, with studied indifference, the butt of the man and woman in front of us.
We shuffled forward another few feet.
“So, that was an order?”
I sighed, my shoulders slumping in defeat. I was hot, tired, jetlagged from the flight from Portland to Amsterdam to Budapest, and to be honest, Jim’s presence—although annoying in many ways—was more than a little reassuring considering just who else was occupying the same continent on which I now found myself.
The memory of glittering green eyes filled with smoky desire rose with no difficulty to dance before me, but was squelched with a much greater effort. “No, it’s not an order,” I said softly. “At least not until we’re through this crowd. I doubt if anyone can even see you, let alone notice that your mouth is moving.”
“I told you to get me that ventriloquist tape I saw on TV.”
The mass of humanity rippled forward, then halted again. I stood on my tiptoes and peered around the big sun hat of the woman in front of me and caught sight of what was holding us up. At the far end of the platform, where the passage narrowed to one opened exit to the taxi ranks and passenger pickup areas, several men in security uniforms had halted the crowd as a couple of VIPs were escorted off the train.
“What is it?” Jim asked. “Dead body? Someone throw himself in front of the train? Are there splattered body parts everywhere? Did you remember to bring your digital camera?”
“You are a sick, sick demon. There are no body parts, splattered or otherwise. It’s just—” I craned my head. “—just a woman and a couple of guys in really expensive-looking designer clothes. They’re probably movie stars or politicians or something.” The crowd shimmered as a second exit was opened up, the mass of travelers undergoing mitosis as one part of the crowd headed for the new exit. Sweat trickled down my back, dampening the tendrils of hair that had escaped my ponytail until they clung to my neck. I was starting to get lightheaded from the heat, the pressure of so many bodies, and the lack of sleep during the twelve hours it had taken to get from Portland to Budapest. I had to get out of there.
“Come on, I think I see a break.” I pushed Jim toward the slight opening next to a couple of kids decked out in Goth gear who were sucking the tongues out of each other’s head, jerking the suitcase behind me, apologizing under my breath as I jostled elbows, backs, and sides as we squished forward. “Why I thought coming here was such a good idea is beyond me.”
“Makes sense to me,” Jim answered a bit distractedly as it smelled people, luggage, and the litter on the ground with the same unbiased interest. The crowd thinned dramatically as people scattered once they made it past the bottleneck exit. “You need training. Budapest is where it’s happening. Hey, when are we going to eat?”
“I could have had a nice vacation in the Bahamas, but oh, no, I had to come—” My feet stopped moving. They simply stopped moving as my eyes bugged out of my head, my heart stopped beating, and my brain, usually a reliable and trustworthy organ, came to an abrupt and grinding halt. With no obstructing crowd remaining, the group of people standing just outside the floor-to-ceiling glass windows on the west side of the train station was perfectly visible to me.
Jim stopped and looked back at me, one furry black eyebrow cocked in question at my abbreviated statement. “You aren’t using crude sexual slang, are you? No, you can’t be, because I know for a fact you haven’t been gettin’ any since we left Paris.”
Slowly, I blinked to make sure I wasn’t seeing things, my stomach turning somersaults, my whole being riveted on the scene just outside the station.
Jim turned to see what held me in such thrall. “Wow. Talk about speaking of the great horned one.
I must be psychic or something. What’s he doing in Budapest?”
It hurt to breath. It hurt to think. It just hurt, period. I felt like someone had used me as a punching bag for a few hours, every atom of my body pulled so tight I thought I was going to explode into a million little pieces.
Outside the window a small clutch of people stood before a long glistening black limousine, evidently there to welcome the VIPs from the train. They consisted of three men and one woman—all Asian, all dressed in red and black. The men wore black slacks with open-necked shirts done in different shades of red, while the woman looked as if she’d just stepped from the cover of Beijing Vogue. She was tall, willowy, had long, straight glossy black hair that reached to her waist, wore a short black miniskirt and a red leather bustier, all carried off with an effortless grace that spoke of years spent in expensive Swiss finishing schools.
But it was one of the men greeting the VIPs who caught and held my attention. The wind rippled the dark forest green silk of his shirt so that it outlined the lovely curves of his muscular chest and arms. That same wind was responsible for his dark hair, longer than I had remembered it, ruffling back off a brow graced by two ebony slashes that were his eyebrows. Despite the heat of the August afternoon, he wore leather pants . . . tight leather pants, the garment glistening in the sun as if it had been painted on his long legs and adorable derriere as he made a courtly bow to the VIPs.
“Drake,” I said on a breath, my body suddenly tingling as if it was coming to life after a long, long sleep. Even his name left my lips sensitized, the sound of that one word strange after its banishment from my life four weeks ago.
Four weeks? It seemed more like a lifetime.
Jim gave me a long appraising look. “You’re not going to go all Buffy/Angel on me, are you? Mooning around bemoaning the forbidden love that cannot be? Because if you are, I’m finding myself a new demon lord. Love I can take, but mooning is not in my contract.”
I started toward the window, unable to help myself, my body suddenly a mass of erogenous zones that wanted more than anything on this earth to place itself in Drake’s hands. His lovely long-fingered, extremely talented hands.
“Aisling Grey.”
The sound of my name brought me out of the trance. I swallowed hard and looked around, my mind a muddle of desire and lust and erotic memories that damn near brought me to my knees. Names, as I have had opportunity to point out, have power, and Jim invoking my name had the ability to snap me out of somet
hing I had spent every night praying for strength against.
“Thanks, Jim.” Slowly I gathered my wits and determination, thankful that in the hustle and bustle of the train station, no one had noticed a deranged, lust-crazed woman and her demon in talking dog form. “I don’t quite know what came over me.”
It raised an expressive eyebrow. “I know.”
I dragged my eyes from the sight of Drake and his men waving the VIPs toward the limo, dragging my wheeled suitcase forward and out the doors, purposely turning my back to the scene that had held such interest, Jim pacing silently beside me. “I’m OK now. It was just a little aberration. I told you when we left Paris that things between Drake and me were over. It just took me by surprise seeing him here, in Budapest. I assume he’d still be in France.” Safe. Several hundreds of miles away. In a completely different country, living out his life without me.
“Uh-huh. Right. Tell it to the tail, Aisling.”
I ignored my smart-mouthed demon as we joined the end of a queue for taxis. The handful of people ahead of us laughed and chatted gaily, just as if their world hadn’t come to a grinding halt, whereas mine . . . I glanced back at the limo. Drake was overseeing Pál, one of his men, loading the matched set of luggage in the back of the glossy car. Bustier Woman was speaking to one of her contingent, suddenly calling for Drake. I narrowed my eyes as he strolled toward her with the same fluid, coiled power that sent shivers of delight down my back.
Once. Now, of course, it did nothing for me. Nothing at all.
I sighed. Jim stuck its snout in the bag of the elderly couple in front of us, asking softly, “That was a pretty pathetic sigh. It had a lot of meat to it.”
“I know,” I answered, trying not to grind my teeth as the woman put her hand on Drake’s silk-clad arm, no doubt caressing his wonderful steely bicep. “It’s really bad when you can’t even lie convincingly to yourself.”