The Immortal's Unrequited Bride

Aylish grabbed Ethan’s arm just above the elbow and turned him around. “You won’t make light of this, warlock. It impacts each of us on some level.”

Ethan started to ask how the cacophony in his head could affect anyone other than him, but the riff grew louder. The drumbeat burrowed deeper, a parasitic sound he couldn’t shake. Each note was hammered out before burying itself deep in the center of who he was, into his very psyche.

Panting through the excruciating headache, Ethan bent forward, rested his forearms on his knees and dipped his chin to his chest. “How does it affect... How?”

Aylish stepped closer, gently shushing everyone with a wave of his hand. No magicks but rather absolute authority. “Ethan, you are not as removed from us as you, and we, have believed.”

His heart tripped over the hope he’d carried without comment—hope that he might one day find his place and identify that piece of him that was forever absent. That it could be here, in Ireland? In a country that sang through his blood? His heart lurched. Was it possible that there was more to him than his bland history? More than a middle-class American kid who went to college and did everything he’d been expected to do? More than...this? All of this? Because he wanted to be more. Craved it. Needed it in the worst possible way. He wanted an identity that thrilled and challenged him, a reality that pushed him to be better and do more. When his last breath came, he needed to take it knowing he’d made a marked difference in the world—a difference somehow more significant than the practice of medicine afforded him.

And your stalker? his subconscious whispered. Where does she play into this?