Beth Ann parked her car between two pickups that looked as if they’d seen better days. She searched vainly for an umbrella in the backseat. Finding none, she sighed and tucked her keys in her purse, then got out of the car.
Rain pounded on her head, immediately turning her elegant updo into a flat mess. The splatters hit her bare arms and she looked down at her sequined, strappy heels and winced. They were already starting to stick in the mud of the parking lot. Ugh. She picked her way carefully across the sea of cars, heading toward the tent. She could hear people laughing, and someone was playing a flute of some kind. Her shoe skidded in the mud once, and she nearly fell facefirst.
Lucy was getting an earful when she found her, Beth Ann decided. She approached the tent and two men in bright, colorful baggy pants appeared. One wore a fur hat that was getting soaked in the rain, and the other’s head was shaved bald.
They both looked to be much, much older than Lucy or her boyfriend. Surprised, Beth Ann crossed her arms, hugging her already-soaked formal dress to her body. “I’m sorry, is this the big QuestMaster shindig?”
The shaved man made a flourish with his hand and bowed to her. “Good eve, milady.”
Okay. “I’m guessing yes? I’m looking for Lucy. Lucy Williamson. She’s here tonight.”
The man in the fur hat peered at her through the rain and then drank a large gulp from the enormous beer mug in his hand. “Sounds like a mundane name to me.”
“Mundane? I’m not sure I follow—”
“Mundane, fair wench,” Baldy said with a leer at her wet form, “is what you be, lass.”
A man laughed uproariously inside the tent.
Well, wasn’t this fun. “Look. I just want to find Lucy. Can you call her?”
“There be no mundane technology allowed on the Quest grounds for the duration of the Tourney, milady.”
“Super. I’ll just call her phone myself.” She dug through her purse and tugged out her phone.
The furred-hat one immediately put his hand over her own. “Ye’ll not be needing that, wench.”
All right, now. It was raining, and muddy, and she was starting to get a little irritated at this “wench” business. “That’s nice and all, but my sister is grounded, and I need to bring her home before she gets into even more trouble.” She jerked her hand away from his with a polite smile and held the phone up. No service.
Fiddlesticks.
She gestured at the path leading into the woods. A rickety wooden gate covered it and she could see a few cook fires and lights in the distance, and heard the sound of laughter. “Is that where all the campers are? I’ll just head over and look for her—”
The bald one stepped in front of the gate. “Milady, you must first pay the entry fee if you wish to join the Tourney.”
“I don’t want to join the Tourney. I’m just going to check for my sister—”
“I’m afraid we canna let ye do that, lass,” Fur-head said, now mimicking a bad Scottish accent. “Only those that pay the toll may enter the QuestMaster grounds for the weekend.”
These guys were going to drive her insane. “Fine. Whatever. How much is the toll?” She had a few bucks on her.
“Fifty dollars,” Baldy said proudly.
“Fifty . . . what? Fifty dollars? You’re kidding me.”
“Everyone must pay the toll,” he repeated stubbornly. “If ye don’t wish to pay, we shall have to escort ye from the king’s lands, milady.”
King’s lands, her patoot. “I don’t have that much cash on me.”
Baldy inclined his head ever so slightly. “We take checks, milady.”
“Naturally. Fine. I’ll write you a check.” She headed into the tent to write it. Even under the tent, the air was muggy and gross. Her hair was dripping into her eyes and she was pretty sure her makeup was running down her face. Lovely. Maybe she could be one of the hideous monsters they were hunting this weekend. Long live the swamp hag.
Beth Ann began to write out the check, and then began to shiver. She glanced up. “I don’t suppose you have a flashlight for sale while I’m at it? Or a jacket?”
“Such things are forbidden in QuestMasters,” Fur hat said in a stiff voice, as if outraged by the thought.
Okay, she’d go stomping around in the dark to find Lucy. Whatever. She eyed his cloak—it looked a lot warmer than her thin sequined dress that was even now sticking to her body. “Don’t suppose I could buy that cloak off of you?”
“Tis not for sale—”
“Fifty dollars,” she offered.