Brimstone Seduction (25 page)

The Immortal's Hunger

by Kelli Ireland

Chapter 1

G
areth 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.