The Immortal's Hunger. Kelli Ireland

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      “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.

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