The Immortal's Unrequited Bride

Rowan shrugged and, with his heel, shoved the door to the suite closed before zeroing in on the bookshelf. He plucked the Very Rare from Ethan’s hands as he passed. “I realize you’re not Irish and, therefore, are arguably ignorant, so I’ll tell you once. You don’t get fluthered on Midleton’s. It’s too fine a drink for that. Choose a bottle of Jameson’s, Blended.”

“What? Why?”

Rowan placed the Very Rare on the shelf from whence it came and selected a nearly new bottle of Jameson’s Blended, handing it to Ethan without pomp or flourish. “Why?” He blinked once. Twice. “Easy. Midleton’s is a rare whiskey made for sipping, not drinking. It’s a whiskey for celebration, not obliteration. And while Jameson’s is also an admittedly fine whiskey, it’s half the cost. Your guilt won’t be so pricked when you’re puking it, and your toenails, up come sunrise.”

Ethan blinked at Rowan. “That was a speech.”

The muscular man rolled first his shoulders and then his head, rocking the latter back and forth until he paused to stretch and his vertebrae made a popping sound. “Made my point, didn’t I?”

“Sure, but it seems there were extra words in there. Some might even say they were compassionate words.”

Rowan shot Ethan a bland look before plucking a glass off the shelf. “Shut up and pour.”

“You too good to drink from the bottle?”

The larger man didn’t respond, simply held out the highball glass. When Ethan didn’t move fast enough, Rowan snatched the bottle and poured a solid two fingers of whiskey. Neck corded and hands trembling, he passed the glass to Ethan, picked up a second glass and poured again.

Ethan swirled his drink, staring at the play of light against fine crystal. “I’m not sure what to think, seeing as the ghost got to you. You. She must have been terrifying, horrid even. Dude, I bet that was it. She’s a hag, isn’t she? Proof she’s not my wife. I mean, looks aren’t everything, but when you take your marriage vows? That’s it. You’re waking up to that mug for the rest of your life.”

Rowan lifted his chin and locked his stare with Ethan’s. “Did you just call me ‘dude’?”

“Maybe?” He shrugged. “Okay, fine. Yes. But it was my second choice. First would have been Special Agent Supernatural—SAS for short—because of all the freaky shit that goes on around here. ‘Dude’ slipped off the tongue easier.” Sure, Ethan could have been a little more couth, but it would have been wasted effort. Besides, he wasn’t in the right frame of mind to worry about offending the centuries-old Druid. Let Rowan turn him into a toad. With any luck, Ethan could counter-curse the other man on the way down. Gulping down the contents of the proffered glass, Ethan took the last swallow and gasped as powerful fumes rushed out his nose, cauterizing the tender skin. “I’d turn you into a gnat.”

Rowan’s eyebrows drew together for a split second. “A gnat?”

“Well, you’re turning me into a frog.”

“I am?” Rowan shook his head and tossed back the two fingers he’d poured. “I haven’t had enough to drink for you to make sense.”

“I always make sense,” Ethan countered. “Sometimes.”

Rowan grunted as he poured himself a second shot.

“So, let me be blunt.” Ethan set his glass down, commandeered the bottle and took a long draw, his breath exploding from his lungs as if he were a mythical fire-breathing creature. He wondered that the room hadn’t been incinerated. Voice raw, he managed to wheeze, “Why are you here?”

Rowan shrugged and sipped at his glass. “Personal reasons, I assure you.”

“And here I thought you cared,” Ethan murmured before taking a less aggressive pull from the bottle’s mouth.

“Don’t think that my presence here is any type of indicator that I give a personal damn about what you do or don’t do.” The barked response bore an accusatory tone. “I don’t leave my friends in trouble.”

“By your own admission last Thursday after sword practice when I cut you like a little bitch, I’m not your friend. And as far as my troubles go?” He lifted the bottle in toast and took another pull. “The only one I have involves a crazy-ass ghost-hag-stalker no one but you can see. Soon as I banish her? Life’s golden.”

Rowan stepped closer to Ethan. “You won’t banish the woman until we’re sure she’s not your wife.”

Ethan’s temper snapped like a mousetrap. The victim here, though, was his common sense. Pushing into Rowan’s personal space, he glared at the Druid. “Get it through your thick, geriatric skull, dude. I’ve never been married. Won’t ever get married. So the only thing I know for sure is that the woman wants something bad enough that she’s motivated to lie in order to get it.”

Rowan pushed Ethan back with enough force that he stumbled.

“Asshole.”

The bigger man set his glass down and, moving faster than thought, closed his hand around Ethan’s throat. “Leave it be.”

Simple words issued with such hostile overtones didn’t steal the underlying truth. Rowan gave a shit about him on some fundamental, purposeful level.

Wrenching free of the assassin’s grip, Ethan spun and stalked to the window. He braced a hand against the casing and leaned into it, pressing the pads of his fingers into the rough stone. He watched the waves rolling into the cliff face and took a drink.

This time the whiskey burned slower, spreading through the middle of his chest before radiating down his legs and along his arms. Lingering surprise at Rowan’s roundabout admission stole Ethan’s sarcasm. His fingertips twitched around the glass. Shoving off the window’s frame, he forced himself to face the man who inexplicably considered him a friend. “What do we do to get rid of her?”

Rowan retrieved the bottle of Midleton’s and poured himself a clean shot.

Ethan’s eyebrows drew together and he absently rubbed his furrowed forehead. “I thought that wasn’t the whiskey you drank to get drunk.”

Ice-blue eyes met his. “You’re getting drunk. I’m only here in a support role. Plus, you drank from the bottle. I prefer to keep my glass to my person.”

“Whatever.” Ethan took another sip, appreciating the ease with which the strong alcohol now went down. “Why are you so supportive of my intent to get blotto? You don’t even like me.”

“If you’d been paying attention to the gossiping hens around this place, you’d have heard I don’t like anyone or anything.”

“Gossip is for little girls and old women. Oh, and doctors. You wouldn’t believe how doctors gossip around their computer monitors in a hospital.” He shook his head. “Crazy.”

Rowan snorted. “Don’t be a fool. Gossip is limited only by one’s ability to communicate, be it by mouth, hand or other method.” Lifting his glass to his lips, he paused. “So, how long are you going to avoid the specter in the room?”

Ethan’s hands spasmed and the bottle he’d claimed fell to the floor, shattering on impact. “Where?” He glanced around wildly. “Where is it? She? It? She’s here, isn’t she?”

Rowan watched him through those notoriously shrewd, dispassionate eyes. “I haven’t seen her since she took off down the hall.”

“You said she was here. You said, ‘How long are you going to avoid the specter—’”

Rowan interrupted with a sharp look. “It was a question similar to ‘How long will you avoid the elephant in the room?’”

With a ragged curse, Ethan picked his way across the glass-strewn floor and back to the bookshelf where he blindly retrieved a third bottle. “And if I’d been an elephant handler traumatized by a crazed elephant, I’d have reacted the same.”

“Lucky for us you don’t have any elephants in your past.”

“It’s far more likely there’s an elephant—maybe even two—hanging around in my past than there is a woman who can claim with any legitimacy that she’s my wife.” Ethan pulled the cork free of the new bottle with a sharp pop. He took a long draw and coughed, his response as harsh as if the words had been run over a coarse cheese grater. “Trust me.”

* * *

Isibéal slipped unseen through the doors of the castle. That she could pass through walls of glass and stone, doors of wood and iron, still bothered her. For all that she’d been dead for centuries, she’d been trapped in her own personal hell. This? Moving free in the world? It would take some getting used to.

Wandering across the massive foyer and toward the stairs, attention wandering as she stepped from stone to stone, she didn’t see the man in time to keep from passing through him. She shuddered as she emerged, a sick sensation stealing through her middle even as a muffled whump had her looking back.

The man she’d passed through had collapsed and now flopped about like a flightless chick cast from its nest too early. The paroxysm he suffered proved severe as he smashed his head against the stone again and again, his arms and legs alternately flailing and stiffening as straight and rigid as an arrow’s shaft.

Isibéal moved to kneel at his side. She wanted to help him, to ease whatever pain he suffered, but without a body?

She sat back on her heels.