Bring us two pints and quit your ogling, Fia shot in Shannon’s direction. As an afterthought, realizing she’d not spoken aloud, she showed two fingers.
Both of Shannon’s brows shot up this time. Look at us. Talking like a proper Kahill tonight, she taunted, tucking an empty tray under her arm.
Fia glared. The girl wasn’t as old as most of the others in the sept, but her mental telepathy was good, better than Fia’s. She always came through loud and clear. Fia figured Shannon had plenty of time to practice since all she had ever done was bake soda bread, cook lamb stews, wash dishes, and fornicate for the last two hundred and sixty years or so. Shannon sashayed off to the bar.
Glen beat Fia to the table and pulled out a chair for her.
She sat down reluctantly, arms crossed over her chest as she surveyed the room. “It’s Fia.”
“I know. Pretty name. Unusual.”
He’d left his suit jacket behind at the hotel and rolled up the sleeves of his pressed white button-down oxford.
She was still wearing her suit jacket. He looked relaxed, approachable. She looked uptight.
“I ordered you a pint of stout. Around here, we drink whatever Tavia’s tapped. She brews on site,” Fia said, looking across the table at Glen. “I hope you like heavy brown ale because that’s all we have here. You have to go up to O’Cahall’s if you want Coors Light.”
“I like stout.” He looked around the table. “Any menus?”
She pointed to another black chalkboard, this one larger than the brew board and hanging on a chain from a wooden peg on the far end of the bar. Lamb Stew had been handwritten and crossed off. Below it read Fish & Chips with a small cartoon of a fish drawn beside it, its eye an X. Shannon’s idea of being cute, no doubt. “Guess I’ll have the fish and chips,” he said with a half smile.
She leaned back in her chair, not returning the smile. “Guess you will.”
When she had first walked in, she’d purposely put up a mental wall to prevent all the jumbled thoughts of the pub’s patrons from slipping into her head. Really, it was more of a curtain than a wall. Even without listening, she’d been able to hear the low and high rumbles of the voices the minute she walked through the door. Seeing no need to chitchat with the man across the table from her, she now eased back the curtain. At once, she felt as if she were being bombarded by heavy artillery. Everyone in the room except for Shannon and the sour old Englishman, Victor, was thinking in Gaelic, but because it had been her first language, she didn’t have to translate the words. The problem was that everyone’s thoughts hit her like storm waves, approaching from a thousand directions.
Poor Bobby.
Poor Mary.
Poor, dear Mary.
Both his wife and his current lover were called Mary, so Fia didn’t know who was thinking of which woman.
How did this happen, eh?
I knew this was bound to happen.
What are we going to do?
What are we going to do?
What are we going to do?
And then there was an undercurrent of conversation concerning Special Agent Duncan. Everyone in the room except for the tourists, Shannon, and Victor had known Ian Duncan. For many, he remained the very icon of evil.
How is it possible, he looks so much like him?
It can’t be a good sign.
Why has herself brought him here?
What are we going to do?
What are we going to do?
What are we going to do?
Overwhelmed by the bombardment, Fia had to fight the urge to cover her ears with her hands. Telepathy carried not just words, but the depth of the emotion behind the words. She didn’t so much hear them as feel them, and the intensity was overwhelming. She was already tired, and the anger, the confusion, and the very real fear were exhausting her. They were all so afraid…
And frightened Kahills were doubly dangerous Kahills.
“Here you go, Sugar.”
Shannon drew Fia’s attention and the voices faded in her head until they were again a low rumble.
Shannon set Fia’s glass on the table, just out of reach. Glen’s, however, was personally delivered into his hand with a sway of shapely hips, and pursed red lips. “Dining with us, are you Special Agent Duncan?”
If Glen was surprised the chippie knew his name, he didn’t act like it. Closing his hand around the bock pint glass, he smiled up at her. “I’m thinking the fish and chips.” His voice was teasing, with the slightest hint of flirtation.
Glen Duncan could be charming when he wanted to be, Fia would give him that. But Ian had been the same way.
She had been such a loodar fool.
Fia leaned forward and grabbed her glass. One couldn’t help but admire the cream-colored head on the ale. “Married man, Shannon. Move along.” And human. You know better.
Shannon smiled, not in the least bit dispirited. “Fish and chips, comin’ right up.” She smiled at him again and sidled away.
“I’m not, you know.” Glen raised the glass, almost in toast, and then drank. “Damned decent.”
Fia sipped the dark ale, breathing in the heady scent. Tavia’s ales didn’t smell so much like traditional beer as sweet oak. She’d only have one. She only drank ale, and usually only in this room. “You’re not what?” she asked.
“Married.”
“No? You?” She set the glass down and slid it forward on the scarred table. Rather than look at him, she watched foam slosh up the sides of her glass. “I just assumed…” She lifted one shoulder.
“She’s cute. What’s her name?”
“Shannon. Shannon Trouble. You want no part of that.”
He chuckled. “I’m not interested. Not my type.” He took another sip. “And…I’m engaged.”
She nodded, but didn’t respond. She really didn’t want him sharing his life with her. She certainly had no intentions of telling him anything
