Shriek: Legend of the Bean Sídhe

by Jennifer M. Barry

  A rumble of thunder overhead drew a curse, and he kicked his bag over to the bike. Before pulling his helmet on, he decided to make a quick call.

  “Yeah, hey Dobbins. You care if I crash with you tonight?”

  “Thanks for doing this, man.” Ridley let the bag drop from his shoulder onto the cluttered floor of Rick’s living room.

  “Hey, I get it. Parents.” Dobbins handed over a stained pillow and clean-smelling pillowcase. “It’s not much, but you know. Stay as long as you need to.”

  Ridley busied himself stuffing the pillow into the thin slip of cloth. “I’ll find something soon. I just couldn’t stay there anymore.”

  He thought about the sizable chunk in his savings account, knowing it wouldn’t be enough to buy a house. Still, he could find a decent apartment. One that even the mayor would approve of.

  Not that he needed the mayor’s approval. Why the hell was he thinking about Mayor Donovan? He shook his head and tossed the pillow onto the couch.

  Spending that cash would hurt a lot. He’d considered every cent he kept from his father a prize of some kind. And that prize was going to carry him right out of Cedar City someday.

  Maybe he’d find a little place near a creek with a wood shop out back. With the thought, he craved the feel of sandpaper and the smell of wood glue. Unless his dad set fire to the shed, his things would be okay. No way Charlie would lift a finger to move anything, not even to throw something away.

  “I hope you don’t mind—” Dobbins interrupted Ridley’s thoughts “—I moved the TV into the bedroom.”

  Ridley hadn’t even noticed. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d watched TV, not even during one of the rare times his father had left the house. If Ridley had a free moment, he spent it building, carving, chiseling, creating. He’d have to get a place where he could keep working or he’d lose his mind.

  Dobbins stared for another minute before turning toward the hallway. Only then did Ridley realize his friend had been waiting for an answer. He opened his mouth to utter some kind of nonsense about not needing a TV, but only the nonsense part came out.

  “It’s cool, man.” Rick’s mouth quirked up in a half-grin. “You got some shit goin’ on; I get it. Get some sleep. We can fight over the TV tomorrow.”

  “I don’t need a…” Ridley let his words trail as Dobbins disappeared.

  Christ. His only friend in the world probably thought he was losing his mind. And what did it say about Ridley that he’d become essentially homeless, and his only thoughts since leaving his fall-down drunk dad had been about impressing the mayor and what kind of crap reality shows he’d been missing.

  He needed more friends.

  Before he could make new friends, he needed to make a plan. Well, a new plan. His previous plan had been to stick it out in that hell of a house with his dad until he had enough money stashed away to leave and never look back.

  Well, now he couldn’t look back at his childhood home, but he still didn’t have enough to make a new life somewhere else.

  And, for some reason he wasn’t ready to contemplate, a part of him thought maybe Cedar City wasn’t so bad. Still a shithole, sure, but it didn’t seem to stink as much as it had a few days ago.

  What would he even do if he stayed? It’s not like he could pursue anything with Sara. Would he just skulk around town and watch her until she left for college? Maybe he’d hear news about her perfectly suitable boyfriend and then see the announcement that she’d marry in the paper. Why did he need to wait around Cedar City for that?

  And why the hell was he even thinking about asking her out anyway? All because he’d noticed her ass a few days before. No, not her ass. Her eyes. He remembered how they’d crinkled in amusement as she teased him. That wasn’t enough to start picturing some kind of future with her.

  No, it wasn’t even her eyes. She’d had a new kind of steel in her spine. He remembered thinking that she looked like maybe she could deal with him and his lot in life. That’s why she’d stuck in his mind since that morning.

  As much as he believed she’d bring some kind of purity and goodness to his shambles of an existence, he could never put her in that position.

  He could leave the very next day with nothing but his bike and his bag. He had some money in his bank account—money he’d managed to hide from his father, enough to barely scrape by on his own. Maybe he could even keep his job with the construction crew if he found somewhere close enough.

  Wouldn’t be easy, and would probably mean eating fewer meals at the diner. Which would be a good thing, right? He wouldn’t see Sara anymore.

  A new start was appealing. The all alone part was not.

  “I wish my mom would put in a pool.” Kristen tilted her glasses up and squinted at the sun.

  Audrey smirked and rolled over to float on her back. “Why? So you could sit around that one and never get in?”

  Trying not to snort a noseful of chlorine, Sara ducked under the water to grin in private. When she emerged, Kristen still hadn’t risen to the bait, but she had sat up in her lounge chair. Dark blond hair spilled over her shoulder, getting lighter with every day spent in Sara’s back yard. Kristen’s bikini certainly left enough skin exposed for tanning purposes.

  “I just like hearing the splashing and stuff. Makes me feel like I’m on vacation.”

  “Mm, and the smell of the suntan lotion,” Sara added. “Speaking of, I better put some more sunscreen on, or I’ll get crispy.”

  June temperatures in the mid-nineties promised a sweltering summer, a grave warning that July would be unbearable. Worse, there wasn’t a cloud in the sky to offer a moment of relief. Even in the shade of the towering oaks and maples, the mercury shot sky high.

  Sara hauled herself out of the pool and plopped down next to Kristen. Her friend tossed the bottle and then gasped. Sara glanced up and saw Kristen had lowered her sunglasses and was frowning at the healing scrapes on her ankles.

  “Are those still not gone?”

  Kristen hadn’t seen Sara’s legs since the day after her eighteenth birthday. To still have fresh scratches two weeks later would be a little weird.

  “Uh, these are different ones.”

  Audrey’s splashes in the pool silenced. Both girls gaped, first at Sara’s face and then her scabbed legs and arms. Warmth crept up her neck and into her cheeks that had nothing to do with the sun. She reached for the lotion and squeezed a dollop into her hand, just to have something to distract her friends from her sores.

  “You know this isn’t normal,” Kristen finally said. “Look at you. They’re all up your arms and everything.”

  Audrey climbed the ladder and grabbed a towel to wrap around her middle, careful to hide any possible bulges before settling into the chair on the other side of Sara. With a gentle hand, she examined the worst of the scabs on Sara’s upper arm.

  “I don’t think any of them will leave scars,” she said. “But I guess that’s not the most important thing.”

  “No.” Sara swallowed back the lump in her throat. Audrey’s sweet expression was in direct contrast to Kristen’s suspicion. But then, Audrey had always been more tenderhearted. “I’m gonna do something about it. I mean, I went to see someone this morning.”

  “A doctor?” Kristen looked horrified and gleeful, her bloodlust for drama kicking in.

  “Not exactly. My grandmother. Daddy said she…uh, did the same thing I do when she was younger. But she grew out of it. She gave me some stuff I can look up, you know. To see what I have to look forward to.”

  Audrey stretched out on the chaise next to Sarah, a frown pulling at her lips. She chewed on the inside of one lip but never said a word.

  “That’s just stupid. You should see a doctor. This shit is getting weird.” Kristen stood and dove into the pool, all in one fluid motion.

  Sara’s mouth opened to respond, waspish words ready to spill the moment Kristen’s head broke the surface, but Audrey’s nod caught her gaze and tossed cold water on her an
ger.

  “Hello, girls.” Mom strode around the corner of the house, peeling gardening gloves off as she moved.

  Sara’s stomach dropped before she realized her mother hadn’t heard anything. Grandmother or not, her dad’s mom was obviously a touchy subject in the Donovan household.

  “Hey, Miz Donovan.” Audrey waved and shielded her eyes as Sara’s mom approached.

  “Stifling out here. Almost not worth weeding the front garden, but I suppose it must be done.” Blue eyes so much like Sara’s watched Kristen’s lean form cut through the water. “That looks so nice. I can’t remember the last time I even used this pool.”

  Sara felt the weight of her mom’s gaze. Was she asking permission to join them? Maybe if she hadn’t been such a bitch lately—

  “You should go get your suit and join us!” Sweet Audrey missed Sara’s pointed glare and instead shooed Sara’s mother toward the door. “It’s too hot out here to do anything but swim.”

  Mom glanced over the pool with a thoughtful purse to her lips, longing clear on her face. That gaze swept over the plants that lined the patio and then back to Sara. The corners of her mouth hardened, and that longing in her eyes turned immediately to irritation.

  “What are you wearing, Sara? Is there even material to that bathing suit?”

  Sara looked down with a sigh at her crocheted one-piece. The top and bottom had a lining that offered modesty—more than Kris’s tiny bikini, anyway. Her midriff was bare except for the thin strings knotted together in a beautiful pattern. In fact, she’d felt very good when putting it on.

  “I’m plenty covered, Mother.” Why couldn’t she have just one day where her mom didn’t find some reason to complain? “Who the hell is going to see me, anyway? It’s just us.”

  “Watch your mouth, young lady.”

  Over her mother, Kristen drawled, “I don’t know. I think you’re looking pretty hot in that suit. I may have some less than chaste thoughts going on right now.”

  In spite of the fire in her eyes, her mom’s lips quirked into a smile. Only Sara’s friends seemed to be able to convince her how crazy she sounded.

  “Just don’t wear it anywhere but here,” she finally said.

  The magic of moments before, where Sara wondered for five whole seconds if her mother could be human again and join them all for a good time, was broken. There was no such thing as magic, anyway.

  Banshees, yes. Magic, no.

  Silence stretched over the patio. Sara stared at the sky while Kris and Audrey applied more sunscreen as though they were on a beach far, far away. Sara’s heated cheeks had nothing to do with the sun. Finally, her mother spoke again, and Sara held her breath.

  “Well, I have a council meeting later. As nice as it would be to take a dip, I should probably go start getting cleaned up.” Sara’s mom glanced down at the streaks of dirt on her arms and legs. “Wouldn’t inspire a lot of confidence if I showed up looking like this.”

  Sara struggled to keep from rolling her eyes. There was her mother’s obsession with appearances again.

  “I doubt anyone would suddenly question your ability to run the town if you showed up one time looking like you’d just had a nice afternoon in your garden.” The words lacked the heat she’d intended.

  Mom’s eyebrows lifted, and Sara prepared herself for a sharp rebuke. Instead, a true smile spread across her mother’s face.

  “Thank you, sweetheart. Sometimes we all just need a little bit of affirmation. Even your mean old mom.”

  Sarah waited until she heard the garage door close, a sign her mom was out of the house and on her way to the meeting. Dad was still at the diner, and would be until closing time. Her friends had left shortly after the uncomfy conversation about her bathing suit. Not even the allure of a swimming pool could keep people around when her mom was in shrew mode.

  When she was sure the house was truly empty, that her mother wouldn’t pop back in for something forgotten, she slipped the aging letter from her bag.

  The words were simple but sweet, the message covering Niamh’s daily life. There was news of marriage to a man named Cahal Kelly and sweet little baby named Aoibhe. Sara squinted to make sure she’d read that correctly. Did anyone in Ireland have normal names?

  More importantly, would Aoibhe know more about the banshees?

  Sara opened her laptop and typed Aoibhe Kelly into the search engine, crossing her fingers that she’d either never married or still used her maiden name. A list of possible results popped up, and Sara’s heart thumped.

  The first few looked like dead ends, so she passed them up in favor of a Facebook profile. Facebook stalking always answered everything. The name on the page was Aoibhe Kelly Monahan. How many Aiobhe Kellys could there possibly be?

  “Bingo!”

  It had to be her. It just had to. Her profile photo showed a smiling blonde with her arms around a girl Sara’s age. That girl looked the spitting image of Niamh from the photograph. Long, wavy blonde hair, huge blue eyes, and the palest skin Sara had ever seen. And then, even with the photographic proof that she’d found the right family, there was also a soul-deep recognition. A feeling that she’d seen the girl before. That they already knew each other the way sisters would after years of fighting and then more years of making up over late night conversations.

  She’d found another banshee.

  With trembling fingers, she hovered over the girl’s face to see if a name popped up. It did. Her mother had tagged Fiona Monahan. Fiona the banshee from Cork, Ireland. How surreal, and yet so very real.

  Before Sara knew what she was doing, she’d clicked the friend request button. Her heart squeezed and then gave a huge thump as she pictured Fiona on the other side of monitor.

  Would Fiona know beyond a doubt that Sara was a banshee, too? Did she know the other banshees? If Sara’d had a phone number, she’d have called right away, damn the waiting. She glanced at the clock.

  “And damn the fact that it’s two in the morning there,” she muttered.

  A little icon appeared, the sign of a friend request accepted. At two o’clock in the morning. Sara huffed out an incredulous laugh before clicking through to Fiona’s profile. She wanted to know everything.

  First, the photos. Fiona featured prominently, with most selfies focused on dark eye makeup, bright red lips, and fashions tagged with the brand or designer. As far as Sara knew, Fiona was only eighteen, but she looked years older…and wiser.

  Wiser was good. She needed someone who could tell her what the hell was going on. Was it fair of her to assume Fiona would know more?

  Only one way to find out.

  “Message Fiona.” Click.

  Sara wiggled her fingers over the keys, thoughts flying. How to ask a stranger in a different country if she’s a banshee?

  Hi Fiona,

  Thanks for accepting my random friend request. I think we might be related. My grandmother gave me a letter, and the names in that letter led me to you. If we’re cousins, like I think we are, I’d love to talk to you about our family

  Sara paused. Family what? Curse? Secret?

  history. I’m kind of freaking out. If you’re my cousin, you know what I’m talking about. If not, just ignore this.

  Hope to hear from you soon!

  After firing off her introduction, Sara opened another browser window and typed in O’Neill, using the same spelling her gran had given her, the ancient Irish spelling: Ó Néill. A few sites looked promising, so she clicked through and read about the most famous from the family line, Niall of the Nine Hostages.

  Her eyebrows went up and she pursed her lips. Impressive. Ridley was part of a long line of O’Neills descended from one of the High Kings of Ireland. She clicked print and set the paper aside before checking Facebook for a response from Fiona.

  Nothing.

  Back to the O’Neills. After a few more minutes of printing and searching, she got up and dragged her old cork board out of her closet. After setting it up on the desk, she pinned th
e few sheets on O’Neills that she’d found and tied strings from one to the next to show the progression of her thoughts. Who even knew if she was going in the right direction?

  She looked up the short news clipping on the Salt Lick Road death and then Mr. Barker’s obituary. When they were printed, she wrote the date she’d shrieked for them and tacked them both to the board.

  Another check on Fiona. Nothing. Sara clicked the refresh button.

  “Damn it,” she whispered. “Fine. Let’s learn about banshees.”

  Back to the search engine. She typed in the word and clicked enter. Bypassing the Wikipedia option, she instead chose a website with Ireland in the name. Right there in print, she saw the five names the banshee sang for. All along, the information had been right there on the Internet.

  Beyond that, however, no one seemed to know much. The speculation, of course, was that the banshee was a myth. Sara looked down at her arm and pinched it with a laugh.

  “Well, I’m pretty real.”

  She closed the website with a sigh and started again with her own last name in the search bar. Most of the results were useless, just news and blogs and other scraps of irrelevant information. A few pages in, however, she at least discovered the Irish spelling of her name: Ó Donndubháin.

  She’d have to join one of those ancestry sites to learn anything useful. Back to Facebook with fingers crossed.

  “One new message. Holy shit.” With trembling fingers, she moved over the trackpad of her laptop and clicked the little red icon.

  hiya sara nice 2 meet u. i think bein a banshee is a gas so i can’t figure out what ur freaking about me n my cousin brenna r both banshees, just watch out for Sealgair. he’s a ride but he wants to kill us all but he’s probs not in the states rn. Bren an I were on the lash 2nite so im knackered. byeee, fee

  Sara squinted at the screen, wondering if she’d lost her mind or if Fiona had. The email was just a mass of letters, no capitalization and little punctuation. No way to determine where one sentence ended and the next began. After several tries, Sara managed to unscramble everything into a coherent message.