The Immortal's Hunger. Kelli Ireland

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