The guy Ryodan punched picks himself up, gives us looks like we’re all crazy, and backs away into the crowd.

I tell Dageus, “The meeting with R’jan happens after we free the abbey.”

“It happens before or no’ at all,” Dageus says flatly.

“More sidhe-seers could die!” I say heatedly.

“Aye. Once. Christian is being butchered o’er and o’er again every day.” The Highlander’s brogue thickens. “Who kens it—perhaps he’s died a hundred times so far. Have you any idea what that can do to a man?”

I shiver. Yes. It sounds too similar to the hell Barrons’s son suffered. Regenerating only to be killed each time he was reborn. It turned the small boy into an animal, drove the child deep into madness from which there was no return. What is the same fate doing to Christian, even as we speak, who was highly unstable to begin with? He certainly hasn’t had an easy time of it since I arrived in Dublin: catapulted unarmed into the Silvers for years by a botched ritual, fed Unseelie by myself, locked in a desperate battle for control over what he’s becoming, and now held captive by a monster that rips out his guts every time he heals.

“His mind is fragile. His body is no’. ’Tis a dangerous and deadly imbalance that can go terribly wrong.”

It certainly is.

To Ryodan, I say, “Summon the prince for Dageus or I’m moving back to the bookstore, and leaving you on your own with the Unseelie Princesses. With Barrons in Faery, you’re the only one I’m protecting anyway.”

To Dageus, I say, “Get your clan ready to fight.”

“Och, MacKayla, ’tis no’ a thing for which the Keltar need preparing. We were born ready.”

19

“Hey, hey mama, like the way you move”

LOR

“Think you missed a spot,” I tell the voluptuous blonde that’s washing my dick.

I’m Pri-ya, I can’t be expected to bathe myself. They’ve been giving me sponge baths ’cause I’m pretty much covered from head to toe in pussy juice. They feed me and fuck me and clean me. Reminds me of the good old days when a man protected women with his club and they took care of him in return.

This week has been one of the finest of my existence—well, at least in the past century anyway—a veritable fuck-party 24/7, with five to ten women in the room at any given time, their sole reason for existing to sate my many needs, all blond, all buxom, all horny as hell. Life rocks. It’s better than Woodstock.

At first I pretended to be completely senseless, incapable of speech, but that gets old fast. Can’t tell a woman what you want next if you’re not talking, can’t ask what they want, although I never have a problem figuring that out. You watch their faces, listen to the sounds they make. Do they whimper, or do that sudden inhale that turns into a killer, husky purr? Do they growl and turn a good fuck into a better fight? Most women in these times got a whole lot of frustration to take out in bed, when they know they got a man big and tough enough to handle it. Are they the kind that tries not to make any sound at all, like they’re too tough to crack? That’s just waving a big-ass red flag at this bull. Those are the ones that always end up making the most noise by the time I’m done with ’em. I especially like the ones that hiss like a cat when I fuck ’em hard from behind, rubbing back, horny and passionate and wild.

Damn, I love women.

One thing that seems universal is that after a good hard fucking, most of ’em love to lay back and have a man take his time with them, stroking ’em from head to toe, licking, petting, telling ’em how beautiful they are, making ’em come over and over, especially with their hands tied, not that I’m into your run-of-the-mill S&M. I like to know the woman in my bed wants to call me master. That being said, I do like chains. Something about the heavy links against soft, silken skin, telling me I can take my time doing whatever I want. Test their sexual limits.

“There’s another sticky spot.” I point to my groin where a smear of honey lingers. She licks it off with catlike delicacy. Then starts sucking. Christ.

Once I realized the boss had fallen for my charade and wasn’t checking on me, I quit being so disgustingly Pri-ya. According to the promise I made Mac, I got one more week of this, then it’s back to the grind.

I mean to make the most of it. Then I’ll hunt and kill the Unseelie bitch that has some kind of strange magic that actually worked on me.

Turn me Pri-ya? You can’t amp up my sex drive. It’s already over the top.

Aw, fuck me, this blonde’s got a tongue that could strip copper tubing clean! I grab her head and pull her up to kiss the honey from her mouth. As I roll her beneath me, crushed between a tangle of naked, horny women, and about to drive in deep, I hear a woman say sternly, “Get out of here. All of you.”

What the fuck? I didn’t even hear the door open. Has the boss figured me out? Did Mac rat on me?

I ignore it. They’re gonna have to drag me out of this bed.

“You know I’m Ryodan’s girlfriend. You know he listens to me. You want to keep your jobs?”

I freeze, halfway in. It’s Jo. What the hell is she doing here?

Reluctantly, with a pissed off sound, the woman in my arms tries to disengage. I groan and hold on, won’t let her go.

“In five seconds anyone that’s still in bed with Lor is fired.”

In two seconds my bed is empty. None of these women are willing to lose such a highly valued commodity as a place to work, food, and shelter, not in times like these. Not even for the glory of my dick.