The Immortal's Hunger. Kelli Ireland

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