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Zusatztext "Graced with MacAlister´s signature sharp wit and fabulously fun characters! this paranormal romance is wickedly sensual and irresistibly amusing."— Booklist Informationen zum Autor Katie MacAlister lives in the Pacific Northwest with her husband and dogs! and can often be found lurking around online game sites. Klappentext Aisling Grey from "You Slay Me" is back! and the novice Keeper of the Gates to Hell travels to Budapest in this paranormal romance. And who does Aisling run into? Drake! the wyrven of the green dragons who distracts her as she tries to find a mentor to help her control her powers. Original. “You’d think that Hungary would see the light as far as secondhand 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. Bowwow. 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 that 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 whether if I tried really hard 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 tal...
