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around her to open the café’s door for her to
    enter. He almost laughed at her grunt of surprise.
    There were ten tables scattered about the pleasant room. Green and white checked tablecloths were
    adorned with little white clay pots filled with an overflowing growth of shamrocks. White linen napkins
    and polished flatware made the tables look homey and welcoming.
    “Top of the morn to ya!” a portly waitress greeted them with a beguiling smile before she got a good
    look at the tall man following the petite woman into the room. As soon as he swept off his hat, the
    woman’s eyes widened and she stopped dead still in her tracks, drawing in a quick, fearful breath.
    “He’s a handsome brute, isn’t he?” Aingeal asked the woman. Her bright smile drew the woman’s
    tremulous gaze to her. “His bite isn’t nearly as rough as his bark, though.”
    “How would you know?” he whispered to her as he put his palm on her back and escorted her to a
    table at the far end of the room.
    “Can I get you some coffee?” the woman asked nervously, bunching the immaculate white apron she
    wore in her hands.
    “The hotter, the better, if you please,” Aingeal replied. She smiled up at the Reaper when he pulled out
    her chair. “Thank you, Cynyr.”
    “My pleasure, Aingeal,” he returned, and draped his hat on a coat peg behind him. He took her hat from
    her and placed it alongside his own.
    The waitress stood where she was, watching the black-clad bounty hunter take a seat so that his back
    was not to the room. She glanced down at the six-shooter strapped to his hip, but it was the silver handle
    on his other hip that drained the color from her face.
    Cynyr looked at the woman. “Coffee?” he prodded, his eyes locked on the woman’s.
    Katy O’Hare stared into those dark amber depths and felt as though she was falling through layers of
    ice. The blue tribal tattoo fanning out from his right eye was one with which she was familiar and it made
    her blood run cold. It was all she could do to turn away from his frigid stare and scurry to the kitchen for
    the coffee.
    “Stop intimidating the poor thing or we’ll be here ‘til doomsday getting our food,” Aingeal chastised him.
    “She’s Gaelach,” he said as though that accounted for the woman’s jitteriness.
    “Now what were the odds of finding a Gaelach woman in a place called O’Hare’s?” Aingeal asked,
    opening out her napkin and placing it in her lap.
    Cynyr didn’t answer. He tipped his chair back and folded his arms over his broad chest. Though there
    were no other patrons in the eatery, he seemed to be constantly scanning the room.
    “So, what does it mean?” Aingeal asked.
    His gaze shifted to her. “What does what mean?”
    She was sitting to his left—away from his gun hand. “The tattoo.”
    He reached up to finger the design. “It’s a raven, the symbol of Morrigunia, the Triune Goddess of Life,
    Death and War. It signifies I am one of Hers.”
    The waitress came to the table carrying two white china cups and a pot of coffee on a silver tray. She
    didn’t glance at the Reaper, but put the tray down and poured first Aingeal’s then Cynyr’s coffee.
    “Go raimh maith agat,”the Reaper said to her.
    Katy O’Hare ducked her head. “Tá failte romhat , mo tiarna,” she replied in the old language. She
    stood with her eyes downcast, waiting for the Reaper to order.
    Cynyr ordered a platter of scrambled eggs, a bowl of fried potatoes, a rasher of bacon, toast and jam
    then asked if there was any fresh fruit.
    “We got peaches, mo tiarna ,” she told him.
    “That’ll do, Katy,” he said, and pretended he did not see the waitress flinch when he used her name.
    The woman bobbed a curtsey then hurried off, her hands once more wrapped in the safety of her apron.
    “What did you say to her?” Aingeal asked. She had her elbow on the table, her chin propped in her
    hand as she sipped her coffee.
    “I thanked her and she said I was