The Immortal's Redemption

Never, in his hundreds of years, had he experienced such need for a woman. Danu’s prophecy had said nothing of this, had spoken only of finding his truth in her, but not that it would cost him emotionally. He couldn’t afford to feel. A lifetime spent avoiding wasted emotion left him certain that wasn’t part of his personal absolution in this matter. Still...

With a low, heartfelt curse, he sprinted back across the lawn and into the blazing house. Finding the man and hoisting his unconscious form over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry, Dylan ran for the car, slid the driver’s seat forward and hoisted Ethan into the backseat.

Kennedy had nearly rolled off the front seat, and he had to resituate her before he could get out of there. He leaned the seat back and buckled her in. A few words of simple magick and the engine rumbled to life and he roared out of the driveway.

Sirens sounded in the distance. Neighbors were in their yards, no doubt initially drawn by the epic boom he and Cailleach had caused when their curses collided. One of his ears was still bleeding, and he needed to get the pilot on the phone.

He and Cailleach... He hadn’t cursed her. No, he’d claimed rights to the woman when he’d yelled, “De réir Danu, I éileamh an bhean is mo chuid féin!” By Danu, I claim the woman as my own! So foolish. But he couldn’t ignore the thrill that heated his blood at the ancient declaration. Yet she’s not only mortal and bound to die, she’s also bound to do so by my hand. Dylan pounded his fist on the steering wheel. Danu had charged him with finding some critical truth that would save the world from the course it was on. What could he possibly learn in eleven days?

Because that was all the time he had left before the Order would rebind Cailleach. And it was Kennedy’s lifeblood Dylan would spill to seal the wards.

Kennedy. He couldn’t think of her in terms of a name, only an assignment. Anything more would tear at the fragile sense he had that she was somehow more, that Danu had entrusted her to him not as a means to the Council’s end, but as the only means to prevent his own.

He tore down the street, unconcerned with witnesses at this point. If he had to wipe minds, he’d wipe minds, but getting to the airport was his primary priority. He grabbed the facial wipes he’d stuck in one pocket and began scrubbing the black grease paint off his face. There was a franticness to his motions he didn’t initially recognize. When he did, he threw the fouled wipe onto the floor with a curse. An adrenaline cocktail with a straight anxiety chaser. Ever since the woman had opened the door at the hospital, the mix had been a steady rush through his veins. Not once in his history as the Order’s Assassin had he doubted his ability to carry out a job. But tonight, for the first time in his long life, he’d hesitated.

Fire trucks and police cars raced by as he made his way out of the neighborhood. No one looked at him twice with the fire’s fascinating devastation.

Dylan turned onto the highway and accelerated as fast as he dared. Digging out his cell, he called Gareth. The phone rang four times before the other man answered.

“H’lo?” He yawned, then grunted as he presumably stretched.

“Get up.”

His voice changed from sleepy to alert in an instant. “Dylan? What have you got?”

“I’ve got a heavily sedated woman and a wounded warlock in a stolen car. I’m headed to the airport. Call ahead and tell them I’m coming. I’ve ruptured my right eardrum, can’t hear well enough to ensure they repeat the orders right.”

“I’ve got a pen. Go ahead.”

Dylan relaxed a fraction. “I can’t have a flight plan filed, so grease those wheels. Send two of the local lads down to the hangar to...help. The warlock will be at the airport, so—”

“The hell I will,” Ethan slurred from the backseat, forcing himself to sit up. He tipped over, hit his head on the door panel and was out again.

“The warlock?” Gareth prompted.

“Make sure someone looks at him. He needs medical care and will undoubtedly need more before this is over. Stubborn Yank.” Dylan looked at the woman slumped in her seat. “Have Flaugherty meet us at the other end. Riordan, too. The woman is going to need a bit of medical attention herself.”

“You knock her around?”

“Piss off.” The possessive snarl crawled out like a beast from a dark cave. Gods be damned. He needed to be done with this job, done with her. “Just do your job, Gareth. No questions.”

“Sure, though you seem a wee bit protective over a woman you’re going to eliminate.” He paused. “Wait. You’re bringing her here? To the Nest?”

Dylan’s shoulders tightened until he thought his skin might split. Ignoring Gareth’s questioning prod, Dylan said, “You’re not to tell Aylish I’m returning with her. I’ll handle that myself.”

Gareth’s silence was heavy despite the miles between the men.

“Your vow, Gareth.”

“You’re asking me to go against the Council.” He muttered something unflattering. “You’re my best friend, mate, and I trust you with my back in any war. I figure this is just that. You’ve got my silence.” The sound of Gareth rubbing his morning whiskers reached Dylan’s less damaged ear. “Gotta ask it, though, man. Is it worth it?” He paused. “Is she?”

“She’s the one, Gareth. She’s the one Danu foretold.” Dylan answered Gareth the only way he knew how. With the truth. The man had been with him when Danu had appeared, though the other man had been fast asleep. He alone knew of the prophecy and Dylan’s charge.

“Fecking hell.” Not even the mediocre cell connection could hide Gareth’s quiet concern.

Dylan drove in silence, the other man content to wait until the Assassin chose to speak. What an amazing fool and even better friend. “I’ve got no clue what to do with her, but I’ll need her close to discern the goddess’s truth.”

“Would be bloody lovely if the gods would see fit to give you a bit more time, no?” Gareth spat. “I’ll make the arrangements at the airport. Call if you need me.”

He thumbed his phone off. There were so many things he needed to do to make this next step possible, but likely the first on the agenda was to notify Aylish. Steeling himself for the conversation was harder than Dylan had imagined.

His fingers were stiff as he dialed, forcing him to make corrections more than once. He didn’t want Aylish to hear anything from him that might betray his confusion. The weight of that long-suppressed emotion was like a fist around his lungs. He forced himself to slow his breathing. What did he have to hide? He’d done nothing the Order hadn’t charged him to do, pulling the goddess closer and restraining her by any means necessary. Of course, he highly doubted Aylish would agree that any means necessary included securing Cailleach in the heart of the Order’s operations. What Dylan least wanted to discuss was his hesitation in the use of additional force against the woman when the goddess betrayed her accelerating strengths. Aylish was no fool. He’d demand an accounting for the Assassin’s hesitation.

He hit Call and waited a while for the overseas connection.

It was six in the morning there, but Aylish still answered, sounding as if he’d expected Dylan’s call. “Assassin. What news?”

“Cailleach is both weaker and stronger than we anticipated. She rose tonight, and we had our second conversation and first true confrontation, this one involving black magick. She’s not a rival to underestimate, not in any way, prior to Samhain.” He waited. When Aylish remained silent, he went on. “She claims she can rise enough to engage in the host’s activities and be aware of her surroundings, without fully manifesting.”

“You allowed that to happen without taking appropriate defensive measures?” Aylish’s brusque tone betrayed both his disapproval and his fury with admirable efficiency.

Dylan’s mind fell through time, and he was suddenly a child again. He’d longed for this man’s approval, craved it like a drowning man would air—desperate, hungry, fierce—but it never came. He’d learned to steel himself against the disappointments. Centuries. He’d had centuries to stop blindly and foolishly expecting even one word of recognition. Yet the wanting never abated. It galled the hell out of him that he was reduced to enforcing the same emotional safeguards now that he had then.

“Assassin? Has the connection been lost?”

Almost permanently. Assassin, and never son. Dylan forced himself to relax his grip on the phone before answering. “The connection is fine. I was thinking.”

“I’ll be calling another meeting with the Elders today. Is there anything else you feel I should pass on?”

The urge to consult him about Danu’s ages-old dream pounded at him, but pride kept him silent. He’d not go running to his father now if he hadn’t then. “Yes. When Cailleach possessed the host today, she partially manifested, changing the host’s hands into her own.”

Aylish interrupted, cursing violently enough that Dylan raised his brows. “Kill the woman now. We cannot risk Cailleach regaining additional strengths in this plane.”

Dylan gripped the phone case so hard the plastic and metal creaked in protest. “If we kill her now, we’ll have little time to find her new host before Samhain. We’ll have better luck securing the current host and controlling the outcome on Samhain per our original plan.”

“Your orders are to end her now. I will call the Elders together and prepare the ritual to identify Cailleach’s next host. The moment she rises, we’ll dispatch you. Return home and await your next orders.”

The disconnecting click was sharp. Silence yawned in the absence of conversation. Kill her now. A glance at the woman revealed her eyes were only partially closed, her breaths a bit shallow.

Realization dawned on him, a sort of sunrise of consciousness. Danu had told him this woman held his single hope to survive. He need only find this mysterious truth. And if identifying that truth would save his life, greedy as it seemed, he had good reason not to kill her yet. Until his blade fell, nothing was decided.

Gods save me, am I truly taking her home? And after that directive from Aylish?

Yes. Yes, he was.

Dylan took the off-ramp to the airport’s private runway entrance and mindlessly followed the dark road. A right turn pointed him toward the airport’s private hangars. He slowed his approach to the gated entrance. The magickal push it took to wake Ethan was second nature, and Dylan watched as the man’s eyes fluttered open.

“Ow,” Ethan groaned, gripping his head.

Dylan didn’t bother to hide his grin in the rearview mirror. “Sit up. You’re going to help keep your best friend from being questioned.”

He watched the warlock grip his head, hands coming away bloodied. “What happened?”

“Cailleach. I explained what she’d do if she rose, but apparently you’re more a visual, hands-on learner.” He reached over and sat Kennedy upright. “I want you to lean her seat back and wad that jacket up. Prop her head on it against the frame.”

The reply from the backseat was surly at best, disrespectful at worst. “Why?”

“Because I’m going to tell the guard she’s sleeping, and you’re going to go along.”

“Why?”

“Do you really want to do this right now?” Silence. “Lean the damned seat back. Now.” The whir of the electric motor buzzed, a low-level hum of angry insects against his damaged ear.

Ethan placed the jacket between her head and the car, gently arranging her hair. “Close your eyes, find some rest,” he murmured, laying his fingers against her temple.

The tingle of magick in the car was the only thing odd about her closing her unfocused eyes with a sigh.

Dylan’s heart lurched at the sight of her so relaxed. With skin like alabaster, hair as dark as night and a mouth made for sin, she looked like a fallen angel. He couldn’t stop glancing at her as he drove. His body quickened against his will.

“Damn it to the ninth level of hell!” He pounded the steering wheel with his fist. “Not only am I caught in an emotional bog, but I’m maudlin with it, as well. Might as well retire and take up competitive knitting.”

“You knit?”

“Piss off, warlock.” Dylan rolled the window down and tried not to glare at the gate guard.

The standard night watchman, a burly fellow who took his job seriously if his starched uniform and buzz cut were any indicators, lumbered out of the gatehouse. “You have a pilot ID or flight plan?” The portly man hitched up his belt and retrieved his flashlight, shining it into the car. “Lady got a problem?” His gaze skipped back and forth between Dylan and the warlock so fast Dylan wondered if the man observed any detail at all.

“No problem other than she’s sleeping.” Dylan’s quiet resonance commanded the man’s attention. “I’m running late, so if you don’t mind...” He jerked his chin toward the gate arm in an attempt to get the man to move away.

“She don’t look like she’s sleeping.” He shone the light into Kennedy’s face.

Dylan snapped. Grabbing the flashlight, he removed it from the man’s pudgy fingers in one deft move. “She won’t be if you keep harassing her.” He removed the batteries and handed the light back. “Open the gate before I call the tower for your supervisor’s name.” For effect, he pulled out his cell.

“Asshole.”

The muttered insult only made Dylan grin. “It won’t be the last time I’m called that and worse.” Staring at the man, he murmured, “De réir mo uacht, tú nach cuimhin liom.” By my will, you remember me not.

The security guard’s face went blank.

Dylan pulled straight into hangar C-1. A midsized Learjet sat, the pilot lounging against the step railing as he chatted up a brunette flight attendant. Parking at the base of the stairs, passenger side to the plane, Dylan met Ethan’s gaze in the rearview mirror. “Scoot over.”

Ethan opened his eyes and whistled, long and low. “Your people know how to travel.”

“You need to stay here.” Dylan shut the car off and got out, not surprised when the warlock did the same. “I said ‘stay.’”

“I’m not your lapdog, Assassin.”

“That’s fair.” He opened the passenger door and undid the woman’s seat belt. He pulled her out of the car and settled her over one shoulder, her dangling hands gently brushing his ass. With her settled, he turned back to Ethan. “I asked, and you’d have fared better if you’d listened.”

Ethan opened his mouth to argue, but stopped when Dylan grinned. “What?”

Dylan raised a hand, his fingers blurring before he called fire to their tips. “I’ll not kill you, because it would...distress her.” It irritated him to realize his actions were, in large part, due to what she would likely think of him. “But you’re not coming with us.” He saw the moment it all clicked for the man.

Ethan’s eyes widened and he took a step back. “You aren’t taking her, you sheep-loving, skirt-wearing, mud-drinking son of a bitch.”

“Now that’s a fair curse,” Dylan said, smiling.

Ethan reclaimed that step and more as he rushed Dylan.

The murmur of his voice disappeared in the depth of the hangar. “Bí go fóill.” Be still.

The warlock froze, teetering precariously midstep.

“Duillín ar shiúl, titim níos tapúla. Lig codladh éilíonn tú go dtí go bhriseann an ghrian a slumber.” Slip away, fall faster. Let sleep claim you until the sun breaks her slumber.

The warlock crumpled, his head bouncing off the concrete.

“Poor bloke. That’s going to leave a wee bit of a mark, I’d imagine.” Dylan toed Ethan and flipped him over, wincing at the knot already forming on the man’s forehead. “You’ll have a wicked headache, no doubt. You shouldna have disparaged the Guinness.”

Turning, he carried Kennedy to the plane. Looking back, he watched as the warlock’s car—driven by his men, the backseat once again occupied by the warlock—pulled away from the hangar.

Something in the cabin chirped, and Paul jogged up the steps, sliding past Dylan and into the cockpit to slip on his headset. “L1-DEC, Captain Duffy.” He glanced back into the cabin, his gaze landing on Dylan’s. He pulled the headset off. “We need to get in the air, sir. Immediately.” Paul called out for his cocaptain, Angus, with a sharp shout as he began to fire up the plane. “The FAA seems to have noticed our abrupt change in flight plans.”

“Meaning?” Dylan asked as he slid Kennedy into a seat.

“Our fuel order was flagged because it came in after our flight plan was canceled.”

Could nothing go easily tonight?

Buckling his sedated companion in, Dylan pulled the steps up as the two men put the plan in motion. The flight attendant had stepped to an office across the hangar for some unknown reason and started running toward the plane. “Leave her,” Dylan ordered as he shut and locked the door.

The plane started out of the hangar as the security patrol pulled in, lights flashing.

Dylan peered out the front window. “Faster, mates. Those flashing lights don’t mean you’ve won a prize at bingo.”

Accelerating, Paul and Angus didn’t flinch when the FAA officers moved their cars into the plane’s path in an effort to block it. Instead, the pilots powered forward, forcing a standoff. Security pulled out of the way, and the jet continued to gain momentum.

“Have a seat, sir. We’re jumping the line.”

The cabin pressurized, and Dylan’s ruptured eardrum screamed.

“This is L1-DEC requesting an open runway immediately.” Paul listened and grinned. “We’ll be making our way straight ahead. Many thanks, Tower.”

The jet accelerated, never slowing as it took a slight turn. The engines opened up. Dylan was thrown to the floor as they raced down the runway and took to the air. He pulled himself up to the window’s edge and looked down on the FAA’s security patrol, their strobe lights growing smaller and smaller before disappearing as the plane climbed into the cloud cover.

Dylan gained his feet and moved into the chair next to Kennedy. “Let’s hit international airspace as fast as possible, gents.” He looked over at her. The snakes that had been roiling in his gut settled. He’d made it out of the country with her, but one question loomed.

What now?

Chapter 6

Kennedy’s head rang like church bells prior to Mass. But instead of ringing fifteen times, they just kept gonging. Then she opened her eyes to the setting sun’s brilliant kaleidoscope. It seared her eyes, and the largest bell in her head boomed its objection. “I’m gonna puke.”

The car came to a quick stop, her seat belt locking up and pressing against her throat. It only hurried the process along. She fumbled for the door handle and fell out, landing on her knees in wet grass. Hands held her hair back as she retched until she knew there was nothing left in her except those things that were permanently attached. Eyes closed, she shook in the damp, chilly air. Her clinical mind told her she shouldn’t be so weak.

“Are ye done, then? We’ve a ways to go yet.”

Trembling muscles locked up with fear. Everything moved with a hazy, slow-motion effect as she turned her head.

Dylan O’Shea knelt on one knee beside her, her dark hair fisted in his grip. “Did you hear me?”

“I’m not going anywhere with you.” The words were raspy, her throat raw. Grabbing her hair, she pulled. Hard.

He let go.

She toppled over, landing in the very edge of her vomit. Rolling away, she kicked back, knocking him off balance enough that he was forced to grab the car or land on his ass. She scrambled to her feet like a drunk, weaving before she fell forward. Gravel dug into her palms and knees. Nothing would move right, though, including her thoughts. Drugged. I’ve been drugged. It might have helped to shake her head, but she had no desire to strike up the church bells again. And struggling to rise was pointless. Even if she got up, she clearly couldn’t run. Her best effort had been as effective as using cooked noodles for stilts.

Hot hands grabbed her by the upper arms and hauled her against a rock-solid abdomen. His grip tightened briefly and then she was off her feet, tucked up close to that hard chest. She curled into him, the smell of salt-heavy air and a faint hint of smoke unfurling around her like an invisible cloak.

“Warm.”

His arms tightened. “Aye, I suppose I am. Particularly to you.”

She pushed against him until he relaxed his hold. Then she allowed her fuzzy mind a breather. Reality softened, overlaid with a dreamlike quality she quite preferred.

When he slid her across the backseat, she listed into the door and propped herself in the small space between the door and seat. A slamming door sounded far away. Then the car’s engine came to life, followed almost immediately by small bumps and a gentle hum. They were on their way again. “You’re waking up a wee bit too much for my tastes. I’ll go easier on you this time.” Dylan’s warm, heavy arm wrapped around her, and he snugged her up tight to his hard body.

A sharp stick made her flinch. “Thamn ith,” she slurred.

“This will help you relax and enjoy the last—”

His words grew distorted like a record playing at the wrong speed. Darkness crept in, pulling her under. Fear dug icy fingers into her chest, and she grabbed blindly for his hand.

* * *

Dylan grasped the proffered forearm and slid his grasp down to instead hold her hand. Boneless, she slid into his side, and he caught her as she tipped forward. Intent on setting her back in her seat and fixing her seat belt, he couldn’t hide his surprise when she wouldn’t let go of his hand. Even heavily sedated, she had a death grip on him. Her soft but capable hand looked so small in his. He held on to her as tightly as she did him.

A frown tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Bluidy hell. Next stop for you really is competitive knitting, man.”

He let his head fall back and simply watched the world pass by. Home. He was home.

The weather had turned colder even in the short time he’d been gone. A sliver of the volatile gray sea could be seen to his right. The wind blowing off the tempestuous waters was frigid. He’d known he was home when his bollocks had drawn up into his throat with the first gust of wind. There was no place like Ireland.

Time warped and slowed, until he sat, fully aware of his surroundings and the fact nothing, and no one but him, seemed to breathe. He slid one hand toward his boot but was quickly rebuked with a soft “tsk.” Dylan whipped toward the noise and found Danu, goddess and mother of the Tuatha De, sitting with Kennedy’s feet in her lap. He wanted to snap at the goddess, to demand she account for withholding her counsel until it was nigh time to carry out his duties. But when he opened his mouth, only air escaped.

“It seemed reasonable I remove your voice, lest you allow your heart to overrule your mind in conversational regards and say something you’d come to regret.” The goddess ran one hand up and down Kennedy’s shin. “I know you’re angry with me, Dylan.” She blinked slowly at the fury he felt displayed on his face. “Perhaps I should have rendered you vegetative, for your face speaks volumes.”

His nostrils flared.

She grinned. “I’ve no idea why this amuses me so. Apologies.” With a wave of her hand, his throat relaxed.

“You would come to me now, when time works against my every effort, and what? Advise me on the invisible truth this mortal woman holds for me?” The bite of his words echoed throughout the car. “I’ve sought your wisdom again and again, yet you’ve left me with nothing but vagueness and the burden of incomprehensible knowledge.”

“Mind yourself.” The warning couldn’t have been clearer. “She is, indeed, your burden.” The goddess looked at his mark, the woman slumbering so heavily across the backseat. “She, however, is also your only chance at salvation. Obviously you felt strong enough in my warning that you elected to withhold her dispatch. In doing so, you elected to bring the Crone into the heart of the Order and put them at risk to the last man. Where is the wisdom in that?” Danu’s gaze burned into his as she awaited his answer. When he offered no response, she closed her eyes and gave a short nod. “I’ll have the truth from you. What did you seek to gain in delaying what you’ve already deemed inevitable?”