Fate would have no chance to sneak up on him here.

Looking down to avoid the inevitable detritus left by his favored darlings, he strolled unhurriedly up the long central alley. Boxes loomed to his left and right, all presently empty. At the other end of the building, another pair of doors stood open to the Heath. The day was fine, with a light breeze lifting manes and flicking long tails-his horses were out, doing what they did best. Running.

After spending the last hours with the sun warming his shoulders, the stable's shadows felt cool. A chill unexpectedly washed over the back of his shoulders, then coalesced into an icy tingle and slithered all the way down his spine.

Demon frowned and wriggled his shoulders. Reaching the point where the alley widened into the mounting area, he stopped and looked up.

A familiar sight met his eyes-a lad or work rider swinging a leg over the sleek back of one of his champions. The horse was facing away, wide bay rump to him; Demon recognized one of his current favorites, an Irish gelding sure to run well in the coming season. That, however, was not what transfixed him, rooting his boots to the floor.

He could see nothing of the rider bar his back and one leg. The lad wore a cloth cap pulled low on his head, a shabby hacking jacket and baggy corduroy breeches. Baggy except in one area-where they pulled tight over the rider's rear as he swung his leg over the saddle.

Carruthers stood beside the horse, issuing instructions. The lad dropped into the saddle, then stood in the stirrups to adjust his position. Again, corduroy strained and shifted.

Demon sucked in a breath. Eyes narrowing, jaw firming, he strode forward.

Carruthers slapped the horse's rump. Nodding, the rider trotted the horse, The Mighty Flynn, out into the sunshine.

Carruthers swung around, squinting as Demon came up. "Oh, it's you." Despite the abrupt greeting and the dour tone, there was a wealth of affection in Carruthers's old eyes. "Come to see how they're shaping, have ye?"