Banshee Cry (A Steamy Paranormal Fantasy Romance), page 14
The thought that it was my action that contributed to letting Aleah live all those years ago eases the ache that invaded my soul when I thought she was dead. I take a seat beside her on the step. Where our thighs touch, heat ignites.
“I think I still owe you one,” I tell her. “Or at least, I definitely owe your bees.”
She smiles at me, and the vision is priceless. “I thought that was a hallucination. My dying brain playing tricks on me.”
“Nope.” I shake my head, glad to see her smile. “Without the intervention of your bees I would not be here now. How did you do that?”
“I have no idea. I just called them in my mind. Asked them to protect the one I—” Her cheeks transform from pale to an attractive shade of pink. Instead of looking at me, she looks down at her hand. She picks at her dress—a beautiful white silky thing that reminds me of distant human memories of clouds in the sky on a particularly bright day.
I knock her gently with my shoulder. “The one you...like?” I tease. “Maybe just a little?”
She stares down at her feet. “The one I like more than a little.” Her voice is strained but rough. Honest. “The one I like quite a goddamn lot.”
I place a finger under her chin, forcing her face back up to meet my gaze. I hope she can read my conviction when I nod and say, “I like you a lot, too, Aleah. More than a lot. When I thought you were dead—” A shudder shakes my frame, and she rests a gentle hand on my thigh and leans her head on my shoulder. The pain of loss dissipates.
“I’m not planning to go anywhere, Luc.” Her voice is firm. “How about you?”
“I can’t promise to be here every night. It is the nature of my work to have to travel. We still haven’t gotten to the bottom of whatever or whoever is controlling the rogues. Or turning supernaturals into rogues in the first place.”
She nods. “I think it might be necromancer magic.”
“How do you know that?” I lean back so I can watch her reaction. I can’t exactly read her face, but I’m curious to know how she came to this conclusion.
“I saw it, that night.” Her gaze is suddenly far away, as though she’s remembering. “I thought it was part of my dying. The purple haze...it seemed to be winning, devouring you. I’m so glad it didn’t.”
“Hmm. Me too.” Necromancer magic. The fact that Aleah saw it too makes me certain my guess is correct. “We found a medallion at the site of your neighbors’ murder—a pendant with an unusual and intricate pattern. We think either Darrie or Gwen tore it off one of their attackers in the frenzy.”
She nods slowly. “Laura said something about that. With everything else that happened, I never got the chance to ask you about it.”
“It’s back at SUDAP now, in the secure facility in Melbourne. They’re still working on unlocking the pendant’s secrets.”
She shifts as if restless. “Did you touch it?”
“No.”
“Good. Not sure why that matters, but I feel like it does.”
“It felt wrong when I first saw it lying there in the dirt. Wrong...like...bad magic.” A shiver traverses my skin. Very bad magic.
“The thing is,” I add, shifting a lock of hair behind her ear. “I saw another medallion, on the vamp that tried to kill you.”
Her eyebrows rise up toward her hairline. I don’t want to scare her, but after all Aleah has been through, it seems petty to keep anything back at this point.
“I believe there’s a hidden agenda that is playing out here. An agenda that relates to the Accord. Someone, or a group of people, are trying to work against everything the Accord stands for. Possibly led by a necromancer who is creating the loups and controlling them somehow via the pendants. Your mother mentioned a movement against the Accord—a Restoration, she called it.”
“Mother knows what’s going on?”
“Only snippets, I believe. My team will need to investigate further. But at least now we’re no longer proceeding completely blind.” I cover her hand where it rests on my thigh and interlace our fingers. “While I will still need to travel, I do need a base...a place that...perhaps I might call...home?”
She raises our interlinked hands to her lips and drops a kiss on the top of my knuckles, one by one. The gesture sends tentacles of warmth reaching into every part of my cold vampire body. The residual unease that rose when I mentioned the medallion seems to dissipate into thin air. It feels so good to be warm. It feels so good to be with Aleah. It feels so good to finally, once again, feel alive.
“You are home, Luc. If you want. You have my permission to enter or leave this place as you wish. I rescind my own power to rescind the invitation. There. What do you say about—”
I end her inane chatter with a kiss that feels like everything I’ve ever wanted wrapped up in this one connection. Her mouth, her lips, her generous heart—even the strange gift of her banshee cry. I accept everything she has to offer, and give all that I have in return. Home. Yes, I truly believe I may have finally found my place.
And in this moment, I realize I’m hopeful for the first time in a long, long while.
Epilogue
Tarrien
Neither of the creatures sharing a passionate kiss appear to have sensed my presence. Lady Renna bade me be discreet and no one, not even an armored winter warrior like myself, wants to end up on the wrong side of an enraged banshee’s temper. Especially Lady Renna’s.
My brief is to watch for danger, protect if needed, and above all else, don’t let the hybrid know of my presence.
The vampire is more problematic. If Aleah were full-blood fae, she would sense my proximity in a heartbeat. Vampires, as a species, are generally far less skilled than fae in terms of their ability to detect the ancient magics, but this one in particular has a keener sense than most. I worry he may detect me at some point.
I roll my eyes as their kiss progresses to fondling. This is not a warrior’s task, to stand and watch others making love. And yet here I am, stuck until my brief changes and I am handed a new—and hopefully more suitable—task.
I touch the moonstone that sits in the silver filigree ring on my right thumb. The gem is a vehicle for communication, and it doesn’t take long before the air shimmers and Renna appears by my side.
“What is it, Tarrien? Can you not manage without me for more than a few minutes?”
My lip curls up in annoyance. Oh, how I dislike this woman.
“Depends on your point of view.” I wave my hand, indicating the couple on the porch stairs now in the throes of tearing off each other’s clothing, and Renna takes a tiny step back.
“Oh!” she says. Then her face clears and interest overtakes the shock. “Well. She seems to be doing all right for herself, doesn’t she? Truly, the vampire is not bad-looking at all. Hmm...his rear end is particularly shapely, now that he is free of his clothing.”
She leans forward. Not okay, woman. She’s your daughter. I drag at her arm, eventually managing to turn her attention back to me.
“Do you seriously expect me to stay here and watch over this, Renna?” I try to keep the attitude from my voice, but it’s difficult.
She is quiet for a moment, closing her eyes and sniffing the air. “Can’t sense anything odd in these parts, any longer. Maybe they will be fine, after all. Maybe...” She taps her lips thoughtfully, and then nods in a decisive manner. “Yes. I’ve decided. I want to relieve you of your duty here, Tarrien.”
Well, thank the winter gods for that. About time. I turn, readying to leave for home, when she stops me in my tracks with her next words. “Instead, I need you to visit Melbourne and check on Indigo’s welfare. I’ve been getting bad vibes about some of my other children. Should have had you check on Indie a while back, but to be honest—” She laughs lightly. “After my visit when she was seven, I forgot she existed.”
I should be surprised by this admission, but I’m not. “How old is she now?”
Renna counts mentally. “Hmm. Must be thirty? Perhaps thirty-one. She came prior to Aleah.”
Distaste once again curves my mouth. This woman is seriously hideous, but thanks to my father’s infatuation with the winter queen and his subsequent betrayal of our family and the whole Winter Court, my family now owes Lady Renna a blood debt. She unexpectedly spoke up for us when no one else would, and it is now incumbent upon me, the first-born, to fulfil that debt. If I do not, innocent members of my family will be killed, and we will lose our place at Court. That last fact alone would probably kill my mother.
“If I do this for you, my family debt will be paid, Renna. I have given you years in return for your action on our behalf. Years.”
“Of course. Now off with you, Tarrien, and report back via the usual channels.” She points at my moonstone and touches the matching gem at her neck, and then is gone before I can answer.
Fucking banshee witch.
I cast one last look at the couple making love on the porch. They seem well-matched and Aleah’s silver-white aura has extended to encompass the vamp. A sure sign that she has begun to find true happiness with her mate.
I’m glad for her. There was a moment there, in Faerie, when her kindness touched me more than I expected. She seems nothing like her mother, thankfully. Instead, she seems like the kind of creature I wouldn’t mind getting to know.
I wonder if I will ever find someone who provides such happiness for me? As a winter warrior, my heart is, of necessity, cased in ice. We are protectors, not lovers, and it is our duty to ignore the call of the flesh as much as it is within our power to do so.
My father’s weakness in giving in to his passions—despite being a winter warrior himself—is what destroyed our family’s reputation in the first place.
Indigo. Indie. The name sends skitters of energy across my skin. Interesting. Will the hybrid prove to be more like her mother, or her half-sister? Or will she be nothing like either?
I turn my thoughts toward Melbourne and a human-fae hybrid named Indigo.
The End
I hope you enjoyed this first instalment in THE BLOOD FAE CHRONICLES. Read Indie and Tarrien’s story in BANSHEE SONG, and then Maewen and Prince Rhodri’s story in BANSHEE POWER.
Here’s a small taste of Book 2...
Indigo
The last note dies away and silence fills the theater. The quality of that silence is sharp and expectant, as if everyone in the audience is holding their breath and waiting for more.
There is no more. Not for these humans. If I truly gave them everything I have, there’d be no silence. Only terrified screams, and the rush of bodies toward the exit. Away from the horror. Away from me.
Slowly the applause begins, escalating as the audience rises to their feet. A standing ovation. I must have excelled, tonight. I lift my chin and gaze out past the stage lights to acknowledge the accolades directed my way.
“Bravo, brava, huzzah...”
The shouts vary from person to person, but all convey essentially the same message. I delivered what this audience wanted, and then some.
“Encore, encore...”
I incline my head, blinking hard to force back the threatening tears. Do they know I sing of death? Do they know I sing of loss and all things that might be and never eventuate? Do they know how much it costs me, every time I stand up here on this stage, to croon the song of every human passing?
The power of a banshee is beyond any mortal understanding.
The power of a banshee’s voice is beyond the understanding of all of them, mortal and immortal alike.
Of course, I’m only a half-banshee. But even so, I have to rein in my voice to deliver as much as they can take, and not a single note more.
The threat of tears eases and this time when I raise my head, confidence fills me. It will be okay. Tonight, will be okay. There is no one nearby who needs the call of the banshee this evening.
As I take one more bow and turn to leave the stage, a spark of silver from someone in the front row catches and holds my attention. A set of steel-gray eyes meet mine, and for the briefest moment my heart does a strange flip-flop in my chest. A tall man—taller than those around him by at least a head—continues to slow clap in what seems like a parody of the adulation around him.
His hair is dark and long, pulled back in an elegant ponytail. Like everyone else I can see in the limited reach of the stage lights, he’s sporting evening wear, but this man gives off the impression that he is only here under sufferance.
A sparkle emanates from a ring on one of his fingers. Another flash from the piece of jewelry holds my gaze. Who is he? And why is he looking at me that way, as if he knows me and doesn’t like what he sees?
The sardonic twist of his lips sends a different message altogether to the continued and almost offensive slow clap.
I’m certain, even in the glance I give him before leaving the stage, that he’s not human.
Elf? Fae? The slightly pointed ears, aristocratic nose, and high cheekbones could be either, but elves are usually light-haired, not dark, and fae can be either. Which means this guy is likely pure fae.
Awesome. If there’s anything I hate more than a cynical man, it’s a cynical man with fae blood running through his veins.
I nod graciously and give him a twisted smile of my own. See, faerie man? I can do sarcastic, too.
This time the flash centers in those hard, silver-gray eyes. He received my message, all right. The impact of that glare and the resultant heat in my veins follows me all the way back to my dressing room.
For once I’m grateful for the empty room. In the past, back when I was part of the chorus and had to fight nineteen other women for space in front of the mirror, I dreamed of being a star and having my own dressing area where people would have to leave me in peace unless I chose to invite them in to my little sanctuary.
Be careful what you wish for. Now that I have exactly what I always dreamed of, I can’t bear to be alone for a moment longer than absolutely necessary. Not since Sienna... No. Don’t think of that. It’s fine. You have a voice far stronger than most and one call will bring them all running. You’re not alone. Not really.
I take a seat and stare at my reflection in the dresser mirror. Haunted green eyes stare back, and I blink a few times and force deep breaths, aiming for calm.
There. That’s better. Under control once again. Push the pain back where it belongs, deep down inside where it can’t get out and hurt you. Or anyone else.
My blonde hair is loose and flowing in waves over my shoulders and partway down my back. The red dress is as low-cut as it can get without spilling my naked breasts out for all to see. The audience calls for seductive in this industry, and seductive is what I deliver. The blonde is merely a wig, hiding my natural dark color, but in this business, blonde is considered far sexier than any other color and I need all the advantages I can get. I haven’t been brunette on stage for at least ten years. Probably more.
I slide off the wig, followed by the underlying wig cap and pins, and run my fingers through my real hair, shaking it loose. The freedom feels good. Whenever I leave the theater, dark-haired and make-up free, I am thankfully unrecognizable from the siren they all see on stage.
I take a wipe from the container on the dresser, and have only just begun to swipe the heavy stage makeup from my eyes and lips when a decisive knock at the door stays my hand. I stifle a sigh. While I normally encourage visitors after a show to keep the shadows at bay, tonight, I specifically asked my assistant not to let anyone through. There’s a lethargy, deep in my bones, that I can’t explain. It’s not the banshee call. It feels different to the stretched, agonizing build-up of pain that denotes a song of death.
Maybe I’m coming down with flu? Tonight, whatever the issue is, I just need to go home and sleep.
And now, I have one eye still fully made up and the other smeared with half-removed eyeliner. God knows what my red lipstick looks like. Probably smeared all the way across, a la Joker. Awesome. Whoever it is will have to suck it up because I’m too tired to care right now. Most likely it’s Dreya, my assistant. “It’s open. Come on—oh!”
The door opens before I’ve even finished and the stranger from the audience strides into the room as if he owns the space. Instantly, my dressing room seems far too small, as if his very presence sucks out all the air. He towers above me and I quickly stand, trying to minimize the height difference between us. My stupid, traitorous heart once again begins to pound. What is it about this fae that causes my body to react in such an intense manner?
He stares around the room, peering into every corner with a suspicious air, before he turns that gaze back onto me. His almost-concealed recoil confirms that I must, indeed, look rather clown-like.
“What are you searching for? There are no hidden surprises or secret admirers stashed away behind a rack of costumes. I am actually alone in here, you know.” My voice comes out testier than I want, and I clear my throat and try again. “Okay. Can I help you?”
He lets out a tiny snort. “I doubt it. But perhaps I can help you, Indigo.”
My name shivers off his tongue and raises goose bumps along my skin. “Who are you?”
At first, he doesn’t answer. Instead, he hooks a foot around the leg of the chair I just vacated, and shifts it forward. “Take a seat, and we’ll talk.”
“No, I’m good right here, thanks.” I cross my arms in front of my chest, wishing like hell I hadn’t half swiped off my makeup and that, instead, I had first opted to change into more modest clothing. “I’ll ask again. Who are you, faerie man, and what do you want? You’re clearly not a fan, given your insulting behavior in the audience.”
“Faerie man?” The indignation in his tone is somewhat satisfying and I fight a sudden urge to grin. He matches my stance, crossing his own arms in front of an impressively wide chest. “I am Tarrien, Lord and Warrior of the Winter Court, and I am here at your mother’s behest to offer you protection.”
Wait. What? I wasn’t expecting that. I can’t help the laugh that escapes. So many questions rise up. “My mother sent you? Are you serious?”
