The conversation was surreal. He wondered if any of the nearby tables were listening, over the general buzz. This place was "chemical-free." Would they get bounced for being stoned?
He glanced around. The only people looking his way were Jo and David. They were too far away to hear.
He hoped.
"Let me ask you a question, now. Why do you think Fiona is trying to split us apart? Why does she want to turn you against me?"
She shrugged. Her face told him she doubted they had ever been together. He bulled ahead with it, anyway.
"For whatever reason, Fiona has decided I'm her mate. The father for her children. She sees you as a rival. God help the woman who stands in her way."
Maureen's eyes bugged out, and she gulped coffee so fast she sputtered. Brian ran through the Heimlich maneuver in his mind before she caught her breath.
"But . . . But . . . She's your sister!"
"Machts nichts. The Old Ones don't have the same taboos as you civilized sorts. I just told you that. Besides, she has ancient precedent. Think of the Egyptian pharaohs, brother marrying sister. More to the point, what sin lies at the heart of the fall of Camelot, no matter which legend you choose? Who were Mordred's parents?"
That reference to fantasy touched her where nothing else had. Her face opened out, shock and curiosity replacing the hard-edged anger. Whatever hid beneath her surface, she wasn't playing to Jo and David any more.
"Arthur," she whispered. "His half-sister."
"By whichever name."
Then something clamped down on her face again, and her lips thinned. She was through with sparring.
"So she's chasing you. She can't rape you, can she? Isn't that a male prerogative?"
Shit! Now Brian could see Fiona's bomb, but he was powerless to defuse it. His sister was such a devious little bitch, knowing just exactly what strings to pull and what buttons to push to make others dance like marionettes.
"She can force me if she gets me in her power. She can bind me to her with a spell. I think that's why Liam was after you. To make you a sex-slave for his master in the Summer Country."
Her teeth showed now, and with her sharp face it gave her the look of a redheaded piranha.
"A spell to make you want her? A glamour, perhaps? There wouldn't be any connection with my inviting you in, last night? No tampering with my emotions?"
"You were in danger and afraid. You still needed protection. I thought it was the best choice for both of us, getting you safely home."
"Bullshit! I came here tonight because I owed you something for saving my butt. I hoped Fiona had lied. But what you tried to do, that's rape. Alcohol, hypnosis, whatever the hell you call it, it's still rape!" She squirmed in her chair, as if even she was trying to escape from her own words.
Brian squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head. "You told me to stop. I stopped. You told me to leave. I left. No means no. That isn't rape."
"If I ever think you're doing it again, I'll kill you!"
"Maureen . . ."
"You go to hell, Brian Arthur Albion. You just go straight to hell. Do not pass Go, do not collect two hundred dollars. Get the fuck out of my life!"
She lurched to her feet and drained the dregs of her coffee. Well, that was better than throwing it in his face. And at least she wasn't screaming.
She had been loud enough to get attention. Not just Jo and David, but a dozen faces turned toward them, curious. He had a sudden idiot's vision of passing the hat for intermission entertainment, like jugglers or a pair of acrobats.
He watched her retreating back, rigid as a spear with anger. She marched straight for the door and into darkness. He started to go after her, reason with her, and then decided now wasn't the time or place. She wouldn't be capable of listening. Grenades were like that.
Damned if he knew what she had on her hidden agenda. All he had done was touch her fear of him, soothe her, calm her. Now she was acting as if he was an incubus.
Her musk lingered behind, heavy even in the crowd-smell of the evening, bypassing his brain. It ignited a war between his body and his mind. "Go away closer." "No means no."
Women.
Particularly women of the Blood. Brian damned Fiona. He damned Maureen, and damned Jo with her confident sexuality aimed at her simple straightforward Homo sapiens, and damned Brian Arthur Pendragon Albion while he was at it.
Sex was such a deadly stew.
The musicians wandered back through the crowd, and David joined them, leaving a kiss on Jo's hand. The break was over, intermission act and all. The Downeast lobsterman stepped up to the microphone.
"Well, folks, we've been after the lighter side of Ireland and it's time to get heavy, now. This isn't an IRA song, but rather the contrary. For generations, one of the few ways to support your family in a poor land has been to go for a soldier, to take the King's Shilling and go off to fight in foreign wars. And then you come home again . . . ."
The bodhrán started to thump a funeral march, and the whistle picked up a slow-paced "Johnny Comes Marching Home." One by one, the other instruments joined, including a caoine wail on the uillean pipes that would have done credit to the best banshee.
"While going the road to sweet Athy, hurroo, hurroo,
"While going the road to sweet Athy, hurroo, hurroo,
"While going the road to sweet Athy
"A stick in my hand and a drop in my eye
"A doleful damsel I heard cry
"'Johnny I hardly knew ye!'
"With their drums and guns and guns and drums
"The enemy nearly slew ye.
"Johnny me dear you look so queer,
"Johnny I hardly knew ye."
Brian knew this song. He'd lived it, through long years in the brushfire wars of the death of the British
