The Immortal's Hunger

Every semblance of attempted humor fell away, and Gareth grew colder than normal. “I assure you, this isn’t as remotely scary as experiencing death itself.” And Gareth couldn’t predict death. He’d been given the date to expect the retrieval of his soul. Only eight days remained. The truth hit him like a sledgehammer to the sternum, and he fought the impulse to clutch his chest, take his pulse and have Angus examine him one more time.

The healer gripped the counter, his gaze locked on some undefined spot to his left. “Ye never speak of it. Of dying, that is.”

Because the horrors are too great to relive, and to speak of it could draw the phantom queen’s attentions prematurely.

Gareth swallowed, the movement nearly impossible as the muscles in his throat tried to freeze, failed to work and wouldn’t respond. Stubborn, he pushed harder, the thought of speaking the goddess of death’s name turning his blood to slush, his marrow to ice. He opened his mouth and closed it once...twice...a third time, but he couldn’t do it.

The healer paled. “Either you tell Dylan how fast this is progressing, that yer core temperature is dropping and yer symptoms are rapidly growing worse, or...or I will.”

Gareth’s hands flexed. He’d told Dylan the whole truth and the rest of the Arcanum most of what had transpired, but none knew the extent of his degradation and suffering. He’d kept that to himself on purpose. He wouldn’t have them engage the phantom queen and risk their lives unnecessarily. “You’ve no right.”

“Maybe no’,” Angus conceded, meeting Gareth’s hard stare and then stepping back in the face of that burgeoning fury, “but as he’s the Assassin, I’ve every obligation. Ye’ve got until the end o’ the week.”

Gareth shook his head, fighting to speak around emotion’s unexpected stranglehold. “I need more time.”

“To do what?”

Die. Again. But on my own terms. He would be ending this before the phantom queen could execute her threat. That pleasure, at least, he could deny her.

His answer, though unvoiced, hung between them as if shouted.

Angus narrowed his eyes. “I’ll no’ be giving ye time to prove yerself an eejit, man.”

Gareth dragged a hand down his face, fighting to shake off the black pall that clung to him like a cloak woven from a spider’s web. “If you’re worried about me proving myself an eejit, don’t. That little fact was proved in roughly 1892 when I slept with the local laird’s daughter.” He forced a grin but the effort climbed no higher than his lips, leaving his eyes barren. “Her mother discovered us in the haystack...and remembered sleeping with me herself a mere thirty years earlier. Awkward, that, when a man doesn’t age as a mortal should.”

The healer scowled. “Ye’ve the heart of a lion, but it’s a right jackass ye’ve become.”

“It’s a jackass I’ve always been. And, as always, your kind words come near to sweeping me off my feet—” he reached over and pinched the physician’s ruddy cheek “—only to instead dump me on me arse.” Pushing off the exam table, Gareth stumbled before regaining his balance and striding across the room where he grabbed his jacket, paused and glanced back. “Be well, Angus.” Then he passed through the doorway and headed down the hall.

Ahead, the sound of good-natured taunts and deep male laughter ricocheted off the stone walls. Rounding the corner, he found several senior trainees leading a group of junior trainees out the keep’s front door. “Gentlemen,” Gareth said, addressing them as a whole.

The young assassins turned toward him, their faces growing serious immediately.

Jacob, the highest ranked individual in the group, stepped forward. “Regent.”

Gareth inclined his head, taking in their civilian clothes and the clink of car keys in more than one hand. “You lads out for a bit of sport?”

Jacob lifted his chin, face blank, emotions contained but eyes a bit wary. “Yes, sir. Thought we’d go to the village. There’s a group of musicians from Dublin playing at the pub. We’re looking for a little craic tonight.”

Fun and music, maybe a little dancing. He could go in for that.

If they’d have him.

Six months ago, he would have been invited outright, title—and troubles—notwithstanding. The men had enjoyed his company when they got a little rowdy. In return, he’d enjoyed theirs—both their company and the wee bit of hell they’d raised together. But the word hell brought about an entirely different meaning now. Once a passing phrase, it had now become a tangible reality not related to fun in any way.

Gareth had been there.

He’d met...her, the Goddess of Phantoms and War whose name he couldn’t bring himself to utter, even now. She had changed his perspective on tossing the word hell around without a care. She’d forced him to consider what awaited him when this life came to an end, and she assured it would be sooner rather than later. Now he’d grown wary of sleep, fearful she’d exercise her mark on him and take his soul while he lay defenseless.

Conjecture regarding his experience ran wild. The Arcanum and senior assassins had left him be, but the young men, those in training to become assassins, couldn’t help but wonder aloud. Speculation regarding his visit to the Well of Souls regularly traveled across darkened rooms, whispered like ghost stories on stormy nights. Conjecture as to what he’d seen ran rampant. But the fear they might die in service to the gods, might see whatever terror it was that had changed Gareth? That ran far more rampant, often followed by brazen boasts that only the darkest of the dark among them should bother to worry about such nonsense. He often interrupted these morbid conversations with simple if hard words. “Train harder, fight smarter and never hesitate to take your enemy down. Then you ladies can finally stop having this conversation. Understood?”

Having died on his own turf, on land where he should have been strongest and had the advantage in any fight, he knew better. The phantom queen could find a man anywhere and would take him without hesitation if he was at all reluctant to strike back. Even if he did...

“Sir?” Jacob’s voice said, cutting through Gareth’s wildly wandering mind.

His focus shifted to the young assassin. “Apologies. What did you say?”

“Would you care to join us?” The young man’s uncertainty was apparent in the tight line of his mouth and the flat tone of his voice.

Gareth considered for a split second before grinning and giving a short nod. He would take tonight to live as he once had, would force himself to get out of the keep and stop looking over his shoulder at every suspicious action, every strange sound, every odd occurrence. His own demise was imminent, by his hand or hers, so tonight he would simply remember. “Who am I to tarnish memories of times gone by? You gents go on ahead and secure a booth near the telly. Ireland’s playing Scotland tonight, and I’ll want to toast our every goal. I’ll be no more than fifteen minutes behind you.”

“Fair enough.” Jacob winked. “Gives me just long enough to toy with the bartender a bit.”

Gareth stopped, brows drawing down. “Is he a new bartender? When did he start?”

“She. The bartender is one hundred percent ‘she.’ And to a man, we’re grateful,” one of the group responded, letting out a low, slow whistle and shaping his hands over the invisible hourglass figure of a lush woman while oblivious to Gareth’s hesitation. “You being late will let us have a bit of a flirt with her before ye get there and steal her heart, ye careless bastard.”

“Good to know.” Gareth swallowed hard and waved them on. “Fifteen minutes and we’ll see what her type of man is.”

Several ribald jests were tossed about then as Gareth historically tended to be every woman’s type.

Ignoring the men as a whole, he spun on his heel and jogged across the massive entry hall to the wide staircase, taking the steps two at a time. The sudden urge to remain at the keep, to stay inside the protection of the thick walls and the powerful wards that reinforced them, had him reconsidering his offer to go out with the men. But they needed it. Truly. They needed the support of the Assassin’s Arcanum, that elite group of five warriors, in all things, from the most difficult of their training all the way to burning off a little excess energy. So he would suck it up, stop his whining and let go of this ridiculous obsession of waiting on the queen’s calling card. Gareth was going to the bar. He could check out the new bartender while he was there, perhaps find a way to have a bit of sport as part of his last hurrah. That would also allow him to ensure she wasn’t a threat to the assassins here. Shaking his head at his paranoia, his smile felt brittle. He needed to stop seeing everything, and everyone, unknown as a threat. That she’d happened to show up while he was fighting his own demons didn’t make her one of them.

Besides, in spite of his hardships over the last six months, Gareth’s three life truths still held true. First, nothing got a man’s mind off his troubles like a well-built Guinness.

Second, an equally well-built woman was balm to the soul.

Third? Well, third was his favorite. A mutually pleasurable one-night stand could make a man forget his woes.

And all Gareth wanted to do was forget.

* * *

Ashley Clement hoisted the tray of drinks above her head, turned and began winding her way through the ever-expanding Friday night crowd. Setting down pints and baskets of bar food as she went, she also retrieved empties and took new orders. An hour ago she’d called in an additional waitress. Ashley would only work the floor as a barmaid until the girl arrived, and the sooner, the better. Seeing to the bar satisfied her far more than running to and fro, fending off wandering hands and keeping her volatile temper in check. The latter had cost her all she was willing to pay in every lifetime she’d claimed as her own. And as a phoenix? That number was vast.

There’d be live music tonight from the traveling group, The King’s Footmen. They would play everything from contemporary hits to old favorites and traditional Irish ballads, pulling in a more diverse crowd as the band had a sound both young and old could appreciate. Tonight’s festivities alone ensured she would more than double her average take.

Fergus, the bar’s owner and short-order cook, emerged from the small kitchen. The man was huge, his white apron appearing more like a dainty dishtowel banded round his waist. His gaze roved over the patrons, searching.

Ashley knew he was looking for her, but something made her hesitate to raise a hand and wave. His behavior had been odd of late. Odd enough, actually, that she was considering moving on.

He finally found her watching him, and his face darkened. “Stop yer lollygagging. Orders up!”

She offered a jaunty salute. “Soon as these fine men are served, I’ll retrieve as commanded.” He ducked back into the kitchen and she added softly, “Jackass.”

Laughter wove through the crowd nearest her.

“He’ll have yer head should he hear ye,” said a regular who’d overheard her.