Kitabı oku: «The Immortal's Hunger»

Chapter 1

Gareth Brennan considered the frost-rimed grass, yellowed and made brittle by a persistent cold no summer month in Ireland had ever seen. Toeing the edge of the macabre pattern of cracked earth with his booted foot, a hard shiver raced up his spine. The Old Ones, ancestors lost long before the modern day, held that a man knew when someone passed over his grave. They’d known with certainty what time such events occurred and disbelief at the myth had turned into an old wives’ tale, suggesting that the connection between life and death was so thin that the soul rebelled at death’s most subtle threat.

Gareth had died here a little more than six months ago. And he’d been resurrected. His connection to this very place had been cemented that day. Whether anyone believed in the old legends, or his reactions, was irrelevant. Gareth knew every time man, animal or...other...crossed this ground.

Clumps of dark, cracked soil broke away as he continued to think. The ground seemed to sigh, exhaustion bleeding out of the unnatural fissures. It shamed him that fear, not fury, was his immediate response to that sound, the sound that called up memories of his death. The goddess, Cailleach, bound millennia before to the Shadow Realm, had sought to break her chains and return to this plane. She’d sought to displace the gods and remake the world to her satisfaction, placing her and her siblings as rulers over mankind.

Gareth hadn’t been of an accord. And he also hadn’t been willing to fight her, not when she’d possessed a woman who bore no responsibility in the merging of souls beyond having been born to the wrong bloodline at the worst possible time. He couldn’t condemn her for something so beyond her control. Well, that and the fact the Druid’s Assassin, Gareth’s boss and brother by choice, loved the woman. That had certainly influenced him, as well. As Regent to the Assassin and his Arcanum, second in command in all things, he’d made an executive decision. Dylan’s happiness trumped the man’s loneliness. So Gareth didn’t fight back, instead allowing the woman to run him through with a sword. A large sword. Bloody bad idea that had been.

He kicked at the earth again, and it did, indeed, sigh.

His fear intensified at the sound, one so familiar to the breathy voice that haunted him both waking and asleep.

Death.

Phantoms.

The goddess.

War.

Gareth shuddered and took a step back as he considered the scarred soil.

How much stronger was the connection between life and death if a man experienced death and rebirth in the same spot? How tightly bound would he be to the place if the Goddess of Phantoms and War herself told him she’d see him here again come Beltane?

There wasn’t an easy answer. He only knew that each time someone crossed this patch, his entire body shuddered with repulsion. His breath stalled. The goddess breathed into his ear, her voice as chilling as mortals believed it should have been hot.

“Beltane.”

Always the same singular word, and always uttered with the same undisguised intent.

She’s coming for me.

He fought the urge to run, to get in his car and drive, to get away from Ireland by plane or by sea and never, ever look back. But to what end? History had proven over and over that there was nowhere one could run to that death couldn’t find him. The goddess was cagey like that.

Bitch.

He backed away several feet, eyes on the ground as if she’d emerge at his unfavorable thought. When nothing happened, he turned and stalked toward the giant keep.

Mortals, and particularly tourists, who came to the cliffs saw only a decrepit building of tumbling stone and vine. If they came too close, a sense of bowel-loosening foreboding repelled them. And if they persisted? A little magickal push from one of the Assassin’s watchmen sent them on their way.

He saw the place, known as the Nest, for what it was. A rather foreboding castle, it had a tower on all four corners. The courtyard had been enclosed to make a huge foyer over two hundred years prior. The garage was a bit archaic seeing as it had, for centuries, housed horses versus horsepower. And Wi-Fi had gone in—thank the gods—four years ago. The place was still a drafty monstrosity, and it always would be. But it was home.

He jogged through the front doors, fighting the compulsion to keep his jacket on. He was cold, was always cold, now.

“Yer late,” a thunderous voice called out, and he knew for whom that particular boom tolled.

“And you’ve no cause to announce to the world I’ve come to drop my trousers for you,” Gareth countered.

The burly man grinned as he stepped full out of the doorway to the infirmary. “Ye’ll drop yer drawers because I’m the only one who can give ye what ye need.”

“Yep, your reputation’s toast,” an identifiable male voice called from an invisible point and was followed by general male laughter.

“Shut up,” Garret called, shaking his head. “Bunch of tools.”

He strode into the Druidic version of a physician’s office. The eye of newt was missing, but beyond that, it was relatively similar to that which a nonmagickal person would expect. Natural remedies, crushed herbs and preserved root stock shared space with modern medical equipment and, in some cases, drugs. In the midst of it all stood Angus O’Malley, the Druid’s version of a physician and owner of the voice that had started the trainee assassins chattering in the hallways.

“Did you have to call out like that, Angus? You know they’ll fear coming in here now.” Gareth nudged the door shut with his hip and, with reluctance, shed his jacket. The cold that had chilled him became abrasive and he couldn’t repress a hard shudder.

Angus looked him over with a critical eye. “No better, then.” A statement, not a question.

“No worse,” Gareth countered.

“Yer optimism’s noted.” He jerked his chin to an exam table. “Drop your denims and assume the position.”

Scowling, Gareth undid his jeans and braced his palms on the table edge. “You know, I hate this. Just get it over wi—ow! Fecking hell,” he said, teeth gritted, hands clenching. The burn of the injection and the subsequent medication was almost as painful as Angus’s warm hand laid against the bare skin of his hip. He thought it possible he melted under the incredible heat of the healer’s touch, was less than a breath away from calling stop and begging to have the needle removed, when the large man pulled it free of his flesh.

Gareth yanked his jeans up with enough force he doubled over with a grunt. He shot a sharp look at Angus. “What was in that bloody injection? Hydrochloric acid? Perhaps a little potassium sulfate to enhance the burn?” He rubbed his hand over the offended butt cheek. “Gods be damned, but in the course of this...this...nonsense, that was the most painful ‘treatment’ yet!”

“‘Nonsense,’ is it?” Angus asked as he skewered Gareth with a sharp look. “As Regent, the Assassin’s second in both rank and command of the Assassin’s Arcanum, and considerin’ yer one o’ the brighter men I’ve yet tae meet, I believe I’m safe in saying the problem’s no’ the mix. The problem centers around yer fear, Gareth, and well ye know it.”

Heat, unusual and yet welcome for its rarity if not the cause, burned across Gareth’s cheeks. “Tell a soul I’m scared o’ needles and it’ll mean fists between us, auld man.”

Sighing, Gareth tucked the tails of his henley under his waistband with fierce jabs, retied his combat boots and—more gingerly—situated his pants legs before facing the man who’d treated his every injury since childhood. He propped one hip on the exam table and crossed his arms over his chest, mirroring Angus’s posture. “Is there anything you’ve found in treating me, anything so wrong that himself’s a need to know this very minute?”

Besides the fact the phantom goddess marked my soul as hers, sealed the claiming with forced sexual contact and has promised to fetch me home by Beltane? Sure, and there’s that.

Thank the gods he’d shared that with no one. “Well?” he pressed Angus.

The healer rolled his shoulders forward, lips thinning. “Nay.” He shoved meaty hands into hair that resembled the topknot of a Highland steer. “That doesna mean yer symptoms aren’t worsening, though. Only that I doona know best how tae treat ye.”

Ignoring his internal voice, the one that latched on to the admission he was worsening with a silent wail of rage, Gareth gave a sharp nod. “Then what do you recommend I tell Dylan? Should I say that I’m...what? Can you definitively prove that I’m...I’m...dying?” He swallowed hard and waited. What if Angus says yes?

“I doona ken, but...no.” Angus dropped his hands to his sides, his wide shoulders sagging. “Ye’ve symptoms the likes o’ which I’ve never seen, symptoms as would scare a logical man near tae death. But I cannot predict death any more than you.”

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.

“And a fine trophy it would be to join the others,” his tablemate answered.

Others. It had to be a coincidence. Neither mortal man knew what she was.

Ashley shifted her tray as she turned her attention to the table of attractive men who’d shoved into the largest booth nearest the telly. Distributing their drink order with care, she watched them under lowered lashes. To a body, they were larger than most Irishmen in both height and muscle, and instead of harboring the general spirit of goodwill inherent to the Irish, they seemed to blend with the shadows even as they appeared weighed down by some invisible onus. Their auras ranged from the palest shade of early morning fog to a gray so dark it appeared inky. Then there was the way their gazes continually roamed the room, all but announcing that, even in their cups, these men never found their ease. All in all, it had been a lot for Ashley to pick up on in the fifteen minutes they’d been here, but she could relate. And that she’d taken it all in was proof that living the last four centuries on the run had helped her develop a few survival skills. Nondeadly ones, anyway. The deadly stuff? Well, that part of her couldn’t be turned off any more than the sun could be commanded to rise in the west come morning. So she’d watch the men as she pulled taps, built Guinness after Guinness and poured the hard liquor with flourish. Should push come to shove and she discovered they represented a threat she hadn’t yet sniffed out, she’d be out the back door in seconds and with nothing more than the backpack she always kept within reach.

Flipping her hair over her shoulder, she smiled at the group as she set the last of the drinks down. “You gents fancy some crisps or chicken gujons tonight? Clearly I’m headed to the kitchen and would be happy to deliver your order.”

One of the men lifted his pint and tipped his chin toward her before taking his first sip. “We’ve an ear for the music tonight, love, but thanks. Another man’s joining the party shortly. He might be of a different mind.”

She glanced at the band setting up in the corner. No electric instruments. This would be what the Americans called a jam session. Foot tapping as the fiddle player loosed a rapid flurry of notes, Ashley turned back to the men. “Enjoy yourselves, then, and I’ll check with your man when he’s here and settled.”

Behind her, the vestibule door opened with its characteristic creak followed by a short burst of crisp, cool ocean air. The chill wind whispered a silent benediction over the thin sheen of sweat that graced her skin.

That same breeze lifted her hair and whipped the long curls around her. Small crackles and pops, not unlike strong static, sparked between the strands and against her skin, and the sheen of sweat crept into her nape, dotted her upper lip and further dampened her lower back. Heat pinked her skin and arousal settled deep in her core.

A wave of alarm swept through her as the warning signs settled into place.

No. It can’t be time. Not yet. Please, not yet. I should have at least five more weeks.

Every unmated or unclaimed female phoenix dreaded the initial symptoms of her impending epithicas, the triennial fertility cycle that ruled her body for one full week. Every third May, she endured seven days of sheer physical misery. Seven days of hellish sexual cravings. Seven days during which she had to take a lover and hide herself so well no clan member could find her. By their race’s laws, any clansman who discovered her could take her without repercussion. She’d be hunted. Actively. And if found, she’d be willing enough during that seven days because the only relief she would find was in sexual contact. But once that week passed? She’d regret every action when her mind cleared and her body became her own again. Humiliation would threaten to drag her into the depths of despair while fear of pregnancy would have her terrified to look in the mirror every morning. Phoenix law held that whichever male had impregnated her could legally claim her as his chattel, tattoo the skin on her arms with his lineage and call her wife...no matter how many other wives he possessed.

After fleeing clan lands at only thirty-seven years old, she’d had three close calls—twice by poor luck, once by poor choice. The first two times had both scared and scarred her. The third time had cost her every dime of emotional currency she possessed and had left her not broken, exactly—unless she considered her heart. It had been shattered. Never, ever did she want a man to hold that much dominion over her again, be it by law or professed affection. Reason was irrelevant and emotions even more so. She would never willingly go there, or be that woman, in this or any other lifetime she claimed as her own.