Читать книгу The Immortal's Hunger - Kelli Ireland - Страница 11

Chapter 3

Gareth sat quietly, the young assassins teasing him mercilessly over their perception he’d failed to convince the bartender to play bedroom Twister with him despite his assertions he wasn’t interested in the bet. He even tossed another fifty euro into the kitty and bought a round of drinks in an attempt to get one of them to make a move on the woman. He wanted to see her reaction, take her measure and determine exactly what he was dealing with. Moreover, he wanted to take the focus off him and the change in his behaviors. Time passed and the woman, Ashley, avoided the table, leaving glasses empty as she kept well away from Gareth.

Deep in their cups and wrapped up in questionable boasts and a few outright lies regarding their virility, his men hardly paid him any mind as he gathered his belongings. Nothing could have changed his sudden intent to return to the keep. The interaction with the woman had left Gareth off-center and slightly nauseous, like something moved inside him without his permission. As he worked his way to the front door, he asked familiar faces about her and was surprised to find no one knew much beyond her name with any certainty. Several had crude nicknames for her based on some of the same physical attributes he’d admired, but he wouldn’t ever address her by such. Then, on the literal threshold of leaving the pub, he ran into a bit of luck. The young barmaid, a lass who had a bit of a thing for him, pushed on the vestibule door at the same time he pulled it open. She stumbled inside leaving Gareth the choice to let her fall or catch her. Grabbing her by the shirt-clad arms, he set her on her feet and smiled with as much charm as he could muster.

She fluffed her hair, arched her back to present her breasts like twin trophies and attempted to offer a pretty pout.

Gareth offered her a small smile. “Siobhan, how are you tonight?”

“Right as rain, love.” Reaching forward, she attempted to lay a hand against his chest. “What has you in a hurry to step into the squall tonight? It’s much warmer—more welcoming—inside. I assure you.”

The smell of secondhand smoke laced through her hair and clothes was overbearing. “Nothing worth fretting over, but I’ll thank you for your concern.” Dropping her arm, he stepped out of reach. “I’ve a favor if you don’t mind.”

Her dark eyes brightened. “Anything.”

“What do you know of the bartender?”

The interest in her eyes extinguished. “What’s it to you?”

Ah, jealousy. Such a pain in the arse. “She’s running a tab for me for the boys tonight. I’d like to pay her square come tomorrow, but I need to know she’ll be fair about it.” It was an outright lie, but he had no hope of ever reaching the fertile, peaceful lands of Tir na nÓg. He was bound for the Shadow Realm and the Well of Souls, and he knew it. One lie would neither suspend nor hasten his arrival.

“You must think I’m thick. Father Francis will have you doing penance for lyin’, and rightly so seeing as your tab is with the bar and not the bartender.” Siobhan outright scowled at him. “You know I’ve fancied you, and where I’d have been good to you, Ashley’s a right terror of a woman. Runs the bar front and the floor like a dictator, she does. Thinks she’s got the right to—”

Ashley.

So she’d given him her real name.

He glanced at the bar and caught her flipping a bottle through the air, catching it and pouring a generous shot for a young man who looked as if his heart had been broken. Ashley talked to him, apparently teasing and flirting in equal measures. The lad slid a coin across the bar, she tucked it in the till and grabbed another glass to join him in a drink. By the time the lad lifted the shot glass to his lips, she’d charmed a smile out of the man. She toasted him, and Gareth read to the words to freedom on her lips.

Lucky bloke.

“Ashley what? What’s her last name?” Gareth asked, still staring at the woman in question. Siobhan stopped her little tirade long enough he was forced to turn his attention back to her.

Siobhan sighed. “Her last name’s Clement.” She brushed passed him, her elbow grazing his bare wrist.

Gareth jerked away with a hiss at the burning contact, and Siobhan glared at him. “Would it cost you so much you can’t afford to offer me the courtesy of at least pretending you’re not repulsed by me?”

“You’re a fine lass,” he started, but she waved him off.

“Save it for Ashley. Where I’d have been good to you, charming that frigid bitch will take all the skill you allegedly possess.” She stormed away, wrestled into her little apron and shot him a final scathing look before slipping into the raucous crowd to take orders and clear empties.

The first table she hit was that of his boys.

The musicians tuned up and, with a shouted four count, began to play “Rocky Road to Dublin.” Boots stomping and hands clapping in time, patrons began to sing along, near raising the roof with their off-key help for The King’s Footmen. The musicians took it all in stride. If Guinness flowed like water, then Jameson’s created every tributary. The entire village would be sodding drunk before half past eleven tonight and hung over as hell come sunup.

Gareth turned in time to watch Ashley pour all but a drop from a liquor bottle, slide the shot to the customer and then tip the bottle back to her lips. He swore he felt the burn in his throat and the fine fumes that rose in his nose as he watched her throat work to swallow. It was all nonsense, of course. Bottom line, he was craving the solitude of home, and he intended to get there fast as possible.

Catching himself lingering over the sultry sight of her, he forced his feet to carry him to the door, demanded his hands to relax. The words he intended to utter hung in his throat, fighting his desire to squash any interest in the woman at all.

Ashley. Seeing as you work with bottles, I’ll be thinking of you as my personal genie, love. I intend to bring us to an agreement that affords me my three wishes—your species, your intention and your departure date from our fine village.

He licked his lips, experiencing the last of the imagined liquor and the faint tang of salt-tinged sweat. “Ridiculous,” he muttered, shoving his hands in his pockets before shouldering the door open against the wind’s near gale force. He’d had to use the car park around the corner, and that meant a sobering walk straight into a frigid wind.

“Let it be,” he admonished himself, hands shaking wildly as he dug out the key fob for his Porsche 911. Thank both gods and goddesses alike that technology meant he only had to have the key in range for the car to start. If he’d had one more task, even had it only been to feed the key into the ignition? He’d have found himself standing in the same spot come morning.

Settled inside the driver’s seat, he flicked the vented air away from his skin and then cranked up the heater. Hands numb, he cupped his palms and, without a second thought, whispered the one word of comfort he’d managed to retain. “Ignis.” Fire.

The fingers on both hands cracked and blistered where the flame touched. Blood ran frigid but free. His focus fractured. All he could manage was to stare through the rain-splattered windshield into the unforgiving darkness. He coveted warmth the way an addict craved their next fix. It wasn’t lost on him that, as the keeper of the element of fire, the flame he’d called should have come to him as it always had. Before his death, heat had always been to him something as familiar as a lover’s caress, words whispered across the darkness, promises made, opportunities taken. Now it was a stranger to him, and he felt its absence more acutely than a sailor unable to find the North Star on a clear night.

A powerful gust of wind slammed into the car’s ultralow profile, striking metal and fiberglass hard enough to have the wide-bodied machine rock on its shocks. Shifting his attention to the dash’s muted glow, Gareth rested his least abused fingertips on the wheel. Whether he thought to steady the car or himself, he didn’t know. Both needed something he didn’t feel qualified to give. Not anymore. But to give up was to accept death with open arms, and that—the ultimate end man simply labeled death because he didn’t know the truth of its horrors—would be here for him soon enough.

Sitting there protected from the ragged downpour but still blinded by sheet after sheet of rain, the truth became the only thing he could see with any clarity at all.

The goddess queen would come for him and would find him simply by waiting for his soul’s collection, not unlike an egg in a hen’s nest.

“I’ve nothing left.” He closed his eyes. “No fight. Not anymore.”

A leaden blanket of shame settled around his shoulders.

The oppressive darkness grew heavier by the second. His breath was just warm enough to fog the car’s windows and block his view. He panicked. Failing to truly call his element had wrecked him. It had barely flickered to life, damaging his hands for the first time, his skin too cold to handle the tail of the flame.

Memories rushed him, memories he hadn’t been able to shake since he’d returned to life in October.

She came at him on the cliff side, blade raised, a goddess bent on the possession of a fine woman—a woman his brother by choice would call his own. To fight back would be to kill her. It would cost his brother everything he’d never thought to find let alone to possess, namely love.

So there would be—could be—no fight.

He braced and took the blade. With force and fury greater than any torment he’d suffered, the goddess-wielded blade ran him through, piercing and shredding and ripping. Darkness webbed across his vision. Sight fractured.

A coppery tang coated his mouth, his throat, and he choked.

He tried to scream. Pain like he’d never known, could never have imagined, rendered him mute.

Not within his head, though. Gods, not within his head. His scream ripped through his skull as his heart rate slowed, his blood cooling. He knew it was the end, heard the waves crashing against the cliffs, felt their fading reverberation through limbs grown lethargic.

Startling in its suddenness, sunlight winked out and darkness pulled at him with such force his bones shattered like fine crystal hurled against a stone wall.

Pain burned along every nerve.

His scream echoed....and echoed...and echoed. All in his mind.

But there was no one to hear him. This was a solo trip. The magnitude of his isolation, his desolation, raked at his soul.

Shards of cold shredded his skin until it hung in tatters.

He didn’t bleed.

Dead men don’t.

He knew it was the end.

Pressure gave way to a temporary vacuum, his legs, his arms, his spine—all broken. Entirely useless.

Fear choked him, stealing the last of his will. He continued to fall, his body indefensible, his sense of self splintering.

His heart stopped, and the vast depth of the silence inside him created a terror unlike anything he’d ever known.

The darkness began to gain weight, to possess a malicious awareness of him. In the heart of his growing horror, a presence began to form.

His body slammed into the ground. Cold seeped through him and his skin cracked, reformed and cracked again. And again. And again. The cycle sped even as the fissures deepened, skin to muscle to bone.

He opened his mouth and cried out, the horror of his reality skating across his mind on the finest of blades.

A face, both hideous and desirable, parted the mist above him as it moved into view. Macha, the Goddess of Phantoms and War, loomed over him. She didn’t bother to hide her vicious delight. “Welcome to the Well of Souls, Gareth Brennan.”

She swept low, gripped his hair and canted his head back at an entirely unnatural angle. Cold lips pressed against his, peeling skin away when the contact was broken. Then she produced a metal discus with the Ogham Idad on it. She blew across the face of the piece, smiled down at him and then slammed it into the pad of muscle over his heart.

Skin froze, burned, blackened and flaked off, the metal welding to bone.

Gareth roared with a combination of pain and fury.

She’d...branded him?

Bones healed with supernatural speed only to afford the cold the opportunity to break them over and over, as thoroughly as that same cold ravaged his skin, his muscle, his organs.

The goddess gripped him by the throat then and lifted him, holding him at arm’s length. “You are forever mine, but your service only begins here. Where my sister failed to release her brethren, I won’t. You’ll be my tool, my sword arm for eternity. With you as the head of my immortal army, I will release my brothers and sisters and retake every realm.”

It turned out the Druidic belief that Tir na nÓg awaited all warriors was a lie.

In the heart of eternity was eternal pain and terror.

Nothing more.

A clap of thunder sounded, the sharp sound shocking him out of the memory-induced numbness. He caught the sight of his eyes, wide and panicked, in the rearview mirror. In the ambient dash light, his lips were blue.

Digging through the glove box, he retrieved a pair of driving gloves and sheathed his hands. Then he stumbled from the car and turned toward the pub, the only thought he could grasp was that the woman, the bartender, the woman he’d dubbed “Ash,” had generated a warmth that permeated his bones. It suddenly didn’t matter what she was, what her intent was. He needed that warmth, needed that affirmation of life in the absence of his own and the damage done to his hands by his element.

He’d never been weak, never been afraid, never been one to avoid a fight. As Regent, he was more likely to seek trouble out, to get to the heart of the matter and eradicate whatever conflict existed by any means necessary. The Druidic race counted on his efficient brutality just as much as his brothers in service counted on him to retain the dregs of who he’d been as a younger man—the fun-loving lad with the sharp wit and quick smile. It had been a balance all these years, one he’d managed. No longer. His control was gone, stolen by the queen’s hand.

Dissatisfaction raced through his veins. Every second brought Beltane closer, and what did he do? Sit here waiting. He thumped his head against the headrest. There was more to life than this, more to living than waiting to die.

“Not for me,” he whispered, letting his eyes drift shut. “Never again for me.”

* * *

The music swelled, rallying the patrons. Ashley took orders and slung drinks as fast as she could. Tables were moved aside and an impromptu dance floor was created. Drunken customers spun wildly about the floor in traditional Irish dances, some in pairs and others stepping out alone.

There shouldn’t have been time to consider the strange interaction with the unknown man who, for all intents and purposes, appeared to be the leader of the group of young men still collected in the corner booth. For all that, she couldn’t get her mind off him. Twice different men from the table had hailed her, but there wasn’t time to answer their summons or put down their flirtation as more than juvenile. She’d glanced around, looking for the men’s leader as they each retreated, but she couldn’t find him. The crowd seemed to have swallowed him. Or he’d left. Dangerous, that absence, given his air of malice as well as his aura’s pitch-black, densely saturated depth.

She shivered. A man didn’t develop an aura like that from doing good works in life. Not even close. Someone as marked as he was had to have a violent history, a past that would likely keep her—her—up at night. His hands, scarred and broad, had been strong and capable, his body even more so. The air of subtle menace that surrounded him, giving depth and substance to his aura, said he had killed before—must have—and wouldn’t hesitate to do so again if necessary. That subtlety was far more terrifying than overt aggression. He was a predator who would slit a man’s throat between breaths and disappear into the night.

“Don’t be a fool,” she muttered to herself. “You served him a drink. You watched him across the room. That hardly a killer makes.”

But the truth was there in his very presence, his persona, his command of the men at the table. He was Other, had acknowledged her as such and was currently invisible to her searching gaze.

A plan took root, began to form—one that was wild and reckless and measured by levels of desperation. Hers. If the man was as wicked as all that, he could well be the one to see her through her triennial fertility cycle, to keep her safe should the proverbial wolf end up at her door. Would he use that violence to her advantage? Could she convince him to give up a week of his life, maybe a bit more, and commit to staying with her until the worst of it had passed? She could move on then, would move on so as to leave no trace of her extended stay here in the village. She took it to extremes to ensure she always stayed two steps ahead of the men of her clan who would seek to call her their own and to hell with her preferences.

She’d get through this cycle and leave not only the county but the country. Maybe she’d try Wales this time. She could settle in a little village deep in the mountains and make some sort of life until it was time to see Geoffrey and, once again, move on.

But that was years away. This epithicas had to be addressed sooner, not later.

Siobhan, the barmaid, flounced up to the bar’s edge and glared at Ashley. “The table in the corner is asking for a round of Jameson’s and three pints of Smithwick’s.”

Ashley ignored the girl’s attitude, searching the table again under the pretense of counting out the number of shot glasses needed.

“Eleven,” Siobhan snapped. “There are eleven men.”

“Seems they’re missing the leader of their merry little band,” Ashley said with as much indifference as she could summon.

“He left,” the girl snapped, flipping her hair over her shoulder. “I’ll warn you to keep your hands off that one.”

Ashley sighed. “Yeah? And why is that? You involved with him?”

Siobhan narrowed her eyes and Ashley caught her intent before she ducked under the pass-through and tried to use her rounded frame to intimidate Ashley’s height. “You know, Ashley, you’re a real bitch. I’ve had my eye on Gareth for more than a year. Keep away from him.”

Ashley leaned down and went nose to nose with the girl, ignoring the way her face paled and her toxic breath came in short, panted bursts. “Listen, you gurrier. I’m only going to say this once.” Again. “You want a man? You claim him. I won’t touch him. But if you think you can bop around here like a loose bit, stamping your claim on every good-looking man to pass through the door? You’ve another think coming, Siobhan.” From me. “Trust it will be as far from pleasant as East is from West.” Rising, she twisted her hair up into a loose knot and stabbed it through with long stir sticks to hold it in place. Then she grabbed the girl’s serving tray and loaded it with twelve shot glasses and three pints. She poured the order and, slapping her bar towel down, called to the kitchen. “Fergus! Man the bar, yeah?” Then she focused on Siobhan. “And you? Tóg go bog é.” Calm down.

Slamming the pass-through up, she stormed around the bar end. Her epithicas fueled her already volatile temper and heated her blood to the point a flush spread over her skin. She wove through the dancers and approached the table of men. But the man she sought, Gareth, wasn’t there.

One of the young men, a tall, perfect specimen of attractiveness with an undertone of violence she had to admire, stood. “Well, and if it isn’t our favorite bartender in County Clare.”

She let a seductive, suggestive smile spread over her face, forcing it to reach her eyes. “That the best you can do, lad? I’m a bit disappointed. I’d have thought Gareth would’ve taught you better than to use lame pickup lines on a woman who’s in the profession to have heard them all.”

He blinked owlishly.

“A bartender,” she said on a laugh. “Nothing more, ye bowsie.”

He blushed as the other men laughed and poked fun at him.

With deft experience, she slid drinks across the table, found homes for the Smithwick’s they’d ordered and picked up the twelfth shot glass. “Gareth?”

A dark-haired young man leaned back, considering her as he ran a fingertip around the rim of his shot glass. “He left a good half hour ago, love.”

Her stomach tightened, her breath hanging up in her chest. Gone. She’d have to go with an alternate male. The clinical part of her mind began to assess the men in front of her even as her phoenix rebelled. Loudly.

“Sure and there’s one of us as would love to give you a spin...” His grin widened. “Around the floor, of course.”

Ashley reached out and slipped his shot from under his fingertip and tossed it back. “The least you can do is buy me a drink before you proposition me.” Who to choose? Would one of these younger men be willing to defend her if she was found and incapable of defending herself?

The memory of Gareth’s hands came back to her, their calloused appearance an indicator of strength. She glanced at the younger man’s hands.

Smooth.

Not one of these men would be sufficient. They weren’t Gareth, and both her mind and body craved him.

A swift swipe and she picked up the extra shot she’d poured in the hopes of cornering Gareth. Slamming it back, she flipped the glass over and set it top down. “I’ve a bit of an issue to take up with him. How’s the best way to get in touch with him?”

To a man they went still, each doing their best to appear nonchalant and failing so miserably she almost pitied them.

Younger than I thought.

She crossed her arms over her chest and, one by one, gave them a cool stare. “C’mon, boys. How do I reach him?”

“I’ll deliver a message,” the dark-haired man muttered, his tone laced with disappointment.

“While I appreciate the offer, that’s not what I asked for,” she countered.

“Repeat the question, would you? I was out of earshot.” The chill of his breath skated across the shell of her ear as he leaned down and spoke to her and her alone. Deep and almost mocking, he pressed on. “And now you seem to have taken a shot poured for me. I’ll cover the cost out of admiration for your bravado. Once.”

Every cell in Ashley’s body threatened to divide. Half demanded she take flight and run from him; half demanded she turn and run to him. The thunderous beat of her heart was like a heavy metal band’s kick drum on a fast track. Her pulse hammered savagely at every pulse point. Heat washed through her. She closed her eyes and reveled. No man had ever affected her so physically, rendered her so full of wanting with so few words, and disdainful ones at that. She shouldn’t want a man like this, not even in her epithicas. It was the equivalent of losing herself, so similar to falling into a life of obscurity as one of a handful of wives, never cherished, never the one thing a man would give anything for. If she couldn’t have that, she didn’t want any of it. She’d watched that neglect drive her mother to Final Death when she failed to ever “breed” for her father again. No, that was no life for her.

This couldn’t be the man to see her through her epithicas. That half of her that demanded she take flight had her taking her first step away from him.

“I wouldn’t,” he said below the close of an Irish ballad.

“I...”

“Want to dance,” Gareth finished for her.

“No. I—”

He spun her round and pulled her into his body, nostrils flaring on contact. The King’s Footmen took up a traditional Irish reel. One hand on her hip, he pulled her closer still and took her hand...within his gloved hand. Eyes tight at the corners, he said nothing.

“New style, leaving your gloves on when you shed your coat?” Trying for flippant, the question emerged far closer to breathless as he spun her across the floor in time with the other dancers. His steps and spins were smooth, polished, as if he’d either been formally taught or had danced a thousand and more jigs and reels in his time.

Gareth didn’t answer her, simply spun her faster as the piece took up a more frenetic pace. Holding her hand, he moved to her side and, in time, they began a step dance that had others clearing the floor and cheering them on.

Caught in Gareth’s grasp, Ashley did the only thing she could think to do.

She danced.