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