Kill or Be Kilt

The trouble with snakes, Jamie decided, was that just when you thought you had them sussed, their twisty little brains slithered off in a whole other direction, and there you stood, wearing a skirt.

“It’s a kilt, rojo,” Lamar insisted. “A cultural costume. Manly men wear these.”

“Manly men.” Jamie eyed Lamar, whose last Halloween costume had consisted of feathers, sequined hot pants, a wig and a cone bra, dubiously. “Manly men like us.”

“Manly men like Scottish Highlanders, which is what we’re going as. Big, burly Scots reeking of heather and testosterone, with muscled chests and flowing hair and giant—” Lamar’s tongue flickered over his lips. “Claymores.”

Jamie sniffed. He had to admit, though not out loud, that Lamar looked dashing in his blue-and-black plaid outfit, with the red sash draped across his chest like a splash of an enemy’s blood. The skirt—okay, the kilt—showed off Lamar’s dancer’s legs to devastating effect. “Are kilts supposed this flamin’ short?"

“That’s why we’re trying them on now, so we’ll have plenty of time to make alterations. Why? Having problems with yours?” His tongue reappeared again. “Because I’m not.”

“I was under the impression kilts landed somewhere below the knee.” Jamie slapped his thigh, where the red plaid fabric left quite a bit of freckled skin exposed. “This is a skirt.”

“It’s a Halloween costume. It’s not supposed to be historically accurate.”

“Well, I’d like mine to be about another six inches accurate.”

Lamar stuck his tongue out all the way. “Prude.”

“Ain’t nobody gonna believe we’re Highlanders anyway. With our accents? C’mon. Ain’t no way either one of us sounds Scottish.”

“You come from a long-lost clan. Ages ago a boatload of virile Scottish warriors got caught in a storm. The winds blew them all the way across the Atlantic. They washed up on the Gulf Coast. A pack of beautiful wolf-women found them and took them in, since it just happened to be their heat season. That’s why your tartan’s red, for the red wolf.” Lamar paused. “I like that one. I should write it up as a story."

“But it’s got women in it. You don’t write about women.”

“You didn’t let me finish. There was a young man with them, the wolf prince, the son of the alpha bitch. The captain, the most handsome warrior of the bunch, stumbles out of the surf.” Lamar swayed the intervening two feet into Jamie’s arms. “The boy catches his arm to steady him. The captain looks into eyes that gleam like stolen pirate’s gold, and in that instant loses his heart forever.”

He twined his arms around Jamie. Jamie’s breath caught in his throat. Even in human form Lamar could get mighty twiny. Not that he ever minded, but …

“So if the captain mated with the boy, where’d I come from?” he had to know.

Lamar hissed against his neck and let go. “He screwed the mother too, okay? Jesu Cristo. You could suck the romance out of a Harlequin novel.”

“Just askin’. What about your accent? You get sloshed, you start sounding like Desi Arnaz.”

“No problemo. Back in the day, before he met Lucy, Desi was kidnapped by escapees from a Scottish convent. He got away from them by using his considerable charms, with the expected results. And thus the MacBabaloo clan was born. It was later shortened to Balboa for easier pronunciation. You never heard of them?”

“You’re deranged.”

“And you have no imagination. Have some fun with it, rojo. Live a little. Otherwise I’m going off to write that Scotsman story. I haven’t had a book release party in a while.”

Jamie grinned slyly. “Okay then. Why don’t you try imagining what I’m not wearing under this skirt? ‘Scuze me, this kilt.”

Lamar’s tongue flicked in and out. “Not wearing?”

“I wanted to be authentic.”

“Then I better check your authenticity. Can’t have any anachronisms getting in the way.”

He reached for the kilt. Jamie dodged out of reach and ran for the bedroom, with a hissing Lamar right behind him. Viva la Scots, Jamie thought. Or whatever.