The Immortal's Redemption. Kelli Ireland
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