First things first.
I had to run.
It had been a long fuckin' drive. Real long. From Cardiff through Wrexham and somehow up through Gretna Green and then the Highlands and back down through Galloway to Portpatrick, then over the ferry to Belfast and down to Dublin and that was all in basically one fucking day, or maybe it was two. Felt like a few weeks. In either case, it'd been a long god-damn drive and the only exercise I'd had was when I murdered Sean Connery (before Red's weird fictional girlfriend fixed him up). I needed to get shit GOING.
Normally my exercise routine is pretty brutal. I like to run for a bunch of miles, in long ground-eating strides. Then I come back to Rox Manor and I fuckin' hit it in our basement gym — arms and legs, a set of curls, a set of tricep pushdowns, and then grab the bar and squat 40-20-30 and do it over again. I hit that a couple times through, then go in the sauna I made Gemma put down there even though she complained about having Finnish shit in her house. In there, I'll do a couple calf raises, then back out and hop on a treadmill at 15 — that's the highest fuckin' incline it can have while goin' fast. And I keep mixin' it up like that. Short wind sprints. Lateral crunches. Skywalker situps with my legs hung over the chin-up bar. Fuckin' medicine ball and kettlebells like a 1920s strongman. Back to the sauna, out to the pool, back to the machines. I do what I gotta.
So I can't go for the crazy fuckin' run and I've gotta take it a little easier on the treadmill - but I walk my ass into Raw Gym in Dublin and buy the fanciest membership they have, and a headband and a sports bra and one of those wicking fabric tee shirts and running shorts (all in black, natch) since I didn't bring gym gear with me 'cuz fuck it I packed in like 3 seconds. I borrowed a pair of scissors to get rid of the sleeves and lower half of the shirt, as is my wont, and since I don't wear unbranded shit I borrowed some girl's nail polish and wrote PSYCHOPATHIC BRUTALIST on the front in drippy red. Looked good. I always loved that nickname. Gems gave me that one.
Anyway, I went through my circuit, doing all the shit that didn't make my braced knee scream too much. But I could FEEL it shifting. I could feel that cadaver tendon learning what it meant to be in a crazy bitch's leg. Welcome to the party, you fuckin' corpse chunk. You're gonna do shit my way or I'll rip you back outta my leg myself. By the time I was done my leg was trembling and I was dripping sweat and soaked in endorphins and grinning like a god-damn lunatic, so I took a shower, threw my new gym clothes on the locker room floor, and got dressed again, leaving my membership card on the desk when I left since I don't go to fuckin' Dublin much. Kept the tote bag, though.
Now for breakfast for Reddy.
It was actually easier to find a sausage that'd be familiar to a Southern boy in Ireland that it would be in England. And way easier than it would be anywhere in the continental part of Europe. The Irish like to make their sausages with rusk and a little egg binder and a fair amount of spices, so the texture is familiar to someone who came up on Waffle House's sausage links. The trick was to find a butcher who'd make some skinny links up with sage and marjoram since those were the favors prevalent in American breakfast sausage, but no white pepper, nutmeg or ginger, which were the more popular spices in the UK's bangers. A lot of people don't know that. And even more people don't expect to learn that helpful culinary fact in a story ostensibly about wrestling.
I eventually found a likely lad with a crisp white apron and a straw boater over near Smock Alley who made me out a chain of very passable American-lookin' sausages. And then at a little Aldi I was able to get a box of American-style pancake mix from the international section (they called it "Aunt Maple's Pancakes and Waffles Mix", which struck me as kind of offensive but I couldn't really figure out why it would), and a dozen eggs. I even found a can of frozen orange juice, and I didn't feel like making hash browns so I stopped at the Boxty House on the way back to the B&B and got a great big takeaway carton of 'em.
And then a quick stop at a bakery for a small soda bread I wanted for somethin' other'n breakfast, and I popped into the first curio shop I could find to get a souvenir I thought I might need. They had what I was looking for. They were common enough knick-knacks here in the auld country.
So when I got back to the little bed and breakfast, my limp was way more pronounced after that workout and walking a fucking Family Circus dotted line all over Dublin so that I was rolling like a fuckin' pirate. I swaggered in the door with my parcels of groceries and whatnot, and wasn't entirely surprised to see a buxom and sexily disheveled redhead in a green housedress that artfully managed to show the whole length of delicately freckled milky thigh AND an astonishingly deep valley of cleavage lounging at the kitchen table, speaking in some musical language that sounded a trifle older than Gaelic to the pooka who was at her feet and laughing as I came in. I was kinda expecting someone like her - like a mix of Bren Rua and Brigitte Bardot - and I still stopped cold for a second and felt my pierced nipples stir to attention. The sight of her must've hit Reddy like a hod of fucking bricks hitting Tim Finnegan. No wonder he was still in bed if he spent the night tangled up with her. But I shook it off as she tilted big green eyes the shade of a hidden glen up at me, and smiled a smile so warm I could feel it like sun on my skin.
"Welcome, my merry wanderer, to the White Hart, where-"
"Yeah, yeah, I've read it. Thanks f'r not takin' us through Wendel's Door while we were sleeping. I got some groceries since Reddy doesn't like liver an' crustcrumbs as much as me. He's a picky boy, but what can ya do. I dunno how he can turn his nose up at livers and kidneys when I've seen him eat those Big John's pickled sausages from the huge jars." You had to keep talking to keep this type distracted. Both the girl and the pooka were staring curiously at me, with their heads almost identically tilted as I gestured with both hands, grocery bags swinging from my arms. "An' he'll actually eat pimento cheese - like the real fuckin' gloppy stuff - but show the boy an honest gizzard and he gets all squidgy, fuck, I dunno. At least he has good taste in some things," I grinned winningly at the redhead, who managed an alluring smile after re-composing her face from the kind of blank stares I get when my motormouth gets in gear. I set the grocery bags I was toting down as I continued. "But I've still gotta keep an eye on him, y'know how it is, let a masked man wander and ya never know WHERE he'll end up, amirite. Here, put these groceries away? Like one time, we were in Columbus, right, and doin' a weekend stretch and he was booked in a cage match for Saturday, so I told him he oughtta get ready for it so I got him to come down to these batting cages with me at the putt-putt-" I kept rambling as I reached into a bag and passed over the small loaf of soda bread, the green eyes of the fae innkeeper glazing again - and as she took hold of the powdery rustic crust of the small round loaf, I grinned big.
I squeezed, and twisted my wrist, and there was a rich crackle and the smell of fine soft bread - and we were each left holding a torn half of the small loaf. The pooka's doggy mouth dropped open and I stepped immediately up to the redhead, dipping my free hand down into the tote bag and coming up with what I'd bought from the curio shop.
"Looks like we've broken bread under yer roof, sugartits. That means the Seelie Court'll take it real personal if you pull any wicked shit on me, bein' under guestright and all." My right hand came up, holding an old battered iron horseshoe that made the pooka yelp and scamper away. The redhead tried to back away, but I slammed the horseshoe down, pressing it to her wrist, pinning it to the table. There was a faint hiss like water pattering on a hot pan, and she growled, a deep and throaty snarl of a sound with harmonics in it that sounded nothing like her sultry broguish purr from earlier, and tried to pull away - but the cold iron weighed on her like a fuckin' anvil, just like I'd hoped.
"An' THIS is to make sure you tell me the fuckin' truth. My Pop's Da might've been an old nutter who talked to a potato by the time I met him, but he had some shit right."
I took an almost casual bite of the torn half-loaf of soda bread still in my left hand. It was real fuckin' good. Needed butter though. I leaned down, nose to nose with the innkeeper - and with the touch of cold iron on her, the glamour fell away, and showed her for what she was. If anything, she was even more beautiful than her seeming - it was just an unearthly beauty. Great huge eyes like pools in a dark place, luminous hair the dancing colors of a summer fire, angular features that made her seem elfin or alien, and skin like pale softwood, etched with glowing swirls of faint blue. She was taller, more slender, more graceful, with extra joints in her long fingers. "You had better tits as a human," I smirked. Then my gaze sharpened and I leaned closer.
"That man upstairs is my best friend. He's a sweet, gentle, clever fuckin' GENUINE man in a world where that shit is as rare as hen's teeth and fuckin' five star Randy Orton matches," I snarled. I dropped the bread, wrapping my tattooed fingers around her slim neck and cranking her chin up to stare into those big star-dappled eyes. "I love him better'n almost fuckin' anyone I know, an' if you're plannin' to pull ANY shit on him, I'm gonna crack your skull open an' go buy a white wool mob cap so I c'n fuckin' dye it red, get me? So you tell me fuckin' true, you cobwebby tart - do you intend any harm of any kind b'tween heaven and hell to ***** *******?"
I used Reddy's real name. Didn't want her getting fuckin' tricky on me.
She stared with as much pride as she could muster at me with my hand around her throat and cold iron pinning her hand, and she knew she could do me no harm after breaking bread with me. Must've dug at her, since a fae lady like her coulda tossed me through a brick wall if Sir Pratchett's accounting of the Fair Folk had it right. Finally she shook her head, as arrogantly as she could.
"We merely ... passed the time."
I smirked. The cold iron said she was tellin' the truth, as well as she could. That meant she wasn't intending to get a hold of his soul or turn him into a bird or make his feet grow to the size of cartwheels or any of the other shit the Fair Folk think is funny.
"Good. Reddy needed a nice roll in the hay. I hope you were as good a fuck as ya made yourself look, sugartits." Satisfied with taking the last word, I peeled the horseshoe off her wrist, leaving a little curve of angry bruise behind. Whatever. I'd put worse bruises on girls who'd tried to mess with Reddy. I hooked the shoe on my belt, though, just in case she got any funny ideas despite the breaking bread. Then I got on with making breakfast.
A bit later, Red came down, trying not to look immensely satisfied, and I had the table set with pancakes, butter, honey, fried sausage links, and eggs scrambled with milk and shredded Irish cheddar. There was coffee, tea, and orange juice - and I was about ready to eat again after that workout, so that worked out. Our hostess was back in her human glamour, all ample freckled tits and dimpled smiles, and the pooka was keeping a carefully respectful distance from both me and Reddy, sitting like a good boy.
"Mornin', sleepyhead," I chuckled, nudging him towards the table and sitting him down. I took a seat nearby as the innkeeper purred in his ear and made his cheeks color up and helped serve him, and made myself a plate. As the redhead sat nearby, and Reddy tucked into his pancakes, I stabbed a sausage with a fork and held it up consideringly.
"I got a chance for a little girl talk with our hostess this mornin'," I said with so much nonchalance that the sentence almost tipped over. I heard the clatter of Reddy's fork dropping in momentary panic as the innkeeper looked steadily and intently out the window and away from us.
"She seems nice," I grinned, and casually started on my second breakfast.
