Shriek: Legend of the Bean Sídhe

by Jennifer M. Barry

  “You don’t even know, doll.”

  13

  Sara stared out the window, amazed at the ground below. Like an emerald patchwork quilt, green stretched as far as her eyes could see. There, somewhere in the distance, it would turn to stone and plunge into the sea, but at the moment, all she could see was green.

  As the plane continued to descend, she felt a strange pull in her chest. From the change in altitude, maybe? No. That pull spread through her, tingling first down her arms and then into her belly. Similar to how she felt when Ridley had brushed his lips over hers, but then…different. Not as earth-shattering, but still more compelling.

  “This is home,” she murmured.

  She looked away and grinned at her father. Then across him to her grandmother. Would Gran want to see her home, too? She should have offered the window seat, but it was too late. The seatbelt light had been on for twenty minutes.

  “You feel it, too?” Gran asked. “The yearning?”

  “Is that what it is?” The tug had spread through her torso, warm and heavy, but sweet. Welcome.

  The plane hovered now over Dublin. She’d expected skyscrapers. There were a few, but most of the city sprawled over the hills, low and vibrant with color. Somewhere down there, Fiona waited.

  Sara had been right about her mother, of course. Mayor Donovan had not been pleased about the impromptu trip. The purse of her lips had said as much, and then there had been the shouting later that evening, when her parents thought she was asleep.

  “Any other country! You could have picked anywhere else in the world, Sean, but you had to choose Ireland. And your crazy mother going along, too? She’ll be putting thoughts in Sara’s head, mark my words.”

  After they landed and made their way through customs, Sara and her father pushed through the double doors that led to the Arrivals hall. Hundreds of people milled about, some holding signs and others calling out for their friends and loved ones.

  Off to the right, a huge sign with big red letters caught her eye.

  Here for the banshee!

  The lettering was thick and jagged, meant to grab attention and perhaps even send that thrill of fear through her stomach. Underneath the sign, however, was a smirk and a pair of blue eyes flashing with mischief. Gran let loose a full-throated cackle.

  “Are you crazy?” Sara hissed when she reached Fiona’s side.

  “Studies have shown…” the blonde started with a laugh. “Come on. It’s just a bit of fun, like.”

  Sara remembered the curl of terror and suppressed a shudder. How could anyone think this was funny?

  But then, if she couldn’t find a way to laugh about it, the way Fiona and Brenna already had, would the horror and stress of it all find a way to kill her, too? Maybe that was the answer.

  She looked again at the sign, now resting against Fiona’s legs. It was kind of funny. Maybe a little bit, anyway.

  Her lips quirked into the start of a smile, but she pasted on a mock scowl. “You’re still crazy.”

  They all made their way through the airport to the car park, where Fiona quickly paid and squeezed everyone into a very small car. With a jerk of the steering wheel and the screech of some tires, they were off, racing down the streets from Dublin to Cork.

  The first part of the journey was easy. Big, wide roads that resembled the interstates of home. Once they entered Cork, however, Fiona whipped the car onto an exit and true terror set in.

  Sara stared, eyes wide, out the window at the green shrubs just inches from the glass. Being on the wrong side of the road was panic-inducing enough as it was, but then the good citizens of Cork decided that no shoulder was needed, either. Not even a line marked the edge of the pavement—or tarmac, as Fiona had called it—and the beginning of the perfectly maintained green on each side of the street.

  Her father sat next to her in the back seat, white-knuckled fingers gripping what they called the “oh, Jesus” handle back in North Carolina. When his terrified gaze caught hers, he tried to smile and shrug. She wasn’t buying it.

  Her gran, in the front seat, on the left side of the car, was unfazed. She chattered away to Fiona about Niamh and Aiobhe while scrolling through photos on Fiona’s smartphone.

  When did Gran even learn to use a smartphone? Sara realized she’d always thought of her grandmother as sort of decrepit, but really, she was only in her early sixties probably. And being in Ireland for only a few minutes had worked wonders on Gran’s tired face and stooped shoulders. She was already starting to look her actual age.

  The tiny road they traveled opened up into a crammed city street, and suddenly Sara was terrified for a new reason. Now, only inches from her window, was a huge truck. If he strayed from his own lane even an inch, she’d be toast.

  “Feckin’ lorry,” Fiona spat, shifting down a gear and speeding up to overtake the truck. She then whipped the car around a traffic circle, somehow cut left across two lanes of cars crammed bumper to bumper, and then sped up a hill at a dizzying pace.

  Sara thought she might vomit on the floorboard of Fee’s tiny car. How could she be so terrified, with no Sealgair in sight? They hadn’t even started discussing the whole “shrieking in the middle of the night while people die” thing, either. Maybe coming to Ireland was a mistake.

  The car stopped short with a screech of tires, and Fiona jerked back the parking brake.

  “We’re here,” she announced.

  Without taking a breath, Sara unfastened her seatbelt, opened the door, and rolled onto the sidewalk in one trembling movement. She thought about kissing the concrete, but Fiona probably already thought she was weird.

  And strangely enough, Sara didn’t dislike her cousin the way she’d expected to. Her emails had often hinted at someone who got a kick out of suffering, or at least someone who wanted to cause trouble. Since picking them up at the airport, Fiona had been bubbly and charming, perfect with her gran and even respectful to her father.

  She did have the bleached blonde waves and overly made-up face that her Facebook photos had promised, but in person, she looked more like a model than a delinquent.

  Sara accepted the hand her grandmother offered and stood. No one bothered to ask why she’d felt the need to hug the ground anyway. In fact, her father eyed the same sidewalk with his own lustful gaze. Had they pulled up in front of the house on his side, he likely would have done the same thing.

  “You’ll get used to the driving around here,” Fiona assured her.

  Sara didn’t think so.

  “Ah, shut it, Fee,” an older blond woman shouted from an open door on the side of the house. She could have been Fiona’s sister, but Sara knew this was Aoibhe—Niamh’s daughter and Fiona’s mother. “Not everyone drives like their tires are on fire here. Just you.”

  The house was a duplex—Fiona had called it partially detached—with a wall down the middle of the front yard to separate the two homes. One side had been painted a light pink, but Fiona’s side was white. Every other house in the neighborhood looked the exact same, except some were yellow, blue, gray, brown, and pink.

  “Come in, come in,” Aoibhe called.

  Sara took her bag from her dad, who’d just removed everything from the trunk of the car, and followed her grandmother through the little gate.

  “I’ve some tea on and some biscuits from the bakery—not the shop.”

  Without thinking, Sara immediately pictured the buttery, flaky biscuits of North Carolina, and her stomach growled. She’d been traveling for almost twenty hours, and a good biscuit would have been amazing.

  Just in time, she remembered that a biscuit in Ireland was nothing more than a cookie. She’d have to eat half a dozen of them. And a chicken leg, if she could find it.

  Still, by the time she finally got settled at the little table in the kitchen at the back of the house, even a cookie was better than nothing. She eagerly grabbed at the little custard cream and greedily shoved one into her mouth.

  Instantly, the buttery shortbread
and creamy custard exploded with flavor on her tongue. So, this is what biscuits from the bakery and not the shop were all about.

  She swooned.

  “You alright there, Sara?” Aoibhe passed a cup of tea along the table, one which she’d already doctored with milk and sugar.

  “These are the best cookies I’ve ever tasted,” Sara managed around the crumbs tucked in her cheeks.

  Aoibhe glanced down, a pleased smile tipping the edges of her lips. “Well, eat all you like, love.”

  The sugar worked wonders on her brain, which had been a strange sort of unfocused since landing at the airport. Part of the fuzziness in her brain, she’d attributed to the dreamlike nature of Ireland. The rest, she’d figured was sheer terror at Fiona’s driving.

  With the clarity that settled, so did exhaustion. She’d waited so long for this trip and had way too many questions, so she settled her head into her hands and simply listened as everyone else chattered away.

  God, Gran was just so cute, laughing and teasing Aoibhe and Fiona. Sara gathered that Niamh still lived in the countryside somewhere, but they’d be driving out to visit her the next day. Anyone but Fiona behind the wheel, please.

  Her father sat back and watched his mother, too. When he noticed Sara staring, he reached over and squeezed her hand.

  “You glad we came?”

  She was. Whatever she learned about herself and the curse of her family over the course of the week, she would never regret coming to Ireland.

  The next morning, Sara woke to hear the house already bustling with activity. She swung her legs over the side of the bed to stand and immediately tripped over the suitcase she hadn’t bothered to unpack the night before.

  Downstairs, everyone went silent at the thud.

  “You okay up there?” Fiona called.

  “Yeah,” Sara replied, wincing when her throat stung.

  Had she shrieked in the night and just been too jetlagged to wake up? Keeping Ridley alive had been her only focus, but of course she’d have more O’Neills here to keep her busy during the night.

  “Well, come on. We’re going over to Bandon to visit Brenna’s gran. Pack a bag, because we’re staying over there tonight.”

  Sara groaned at the thought of getting back into a car.

  “Is someone else driving this time?” she called down the stairs.

  “Very funny.”

  With a sigh, Sara rolled back onto the bed and stared at the ceiling. Her throat still ached, but after she swallowed a few times, she convinced herself she was just thirsty. Just in case, she’d be sure to ask if anyone had seen her float out the front door at any point after she’d gone to sleep the day before.

  After a quick shower, she emptied her suitcase into the tiny closet in the bedroom and shoved anything that wouldn’t hang onto the one empty shelf of the bookcase. She left out a few things to take with her and then ventured down the steps.

  Her father and grandmother were seated at the table chowing down on what looked like a very meat-filled breakfast.

  “Fancy a fry?” Fee asked. She stood at the stove, waving a spatula over an assortment of skillets.

  “A fry?” Sara pictured one single French fry and knew that couldn’t be what Fiona meant.

  “Yeah, sausages, black and white pudding, rashers…”

  “I understood sausages.” What the hell language was all that, anyway?

  “It’s very good,” Gran assured her. “Try a little of everything.”

  She eyed the plate of steaming meat, eggs, beans, mushrooms, and tomatoes. There really was everything on the plate.

  “With brown sauce,” Fiona insisted, squeezing a dollop of what looked like brown ketchup next to the toast.

  “Go on,” Aoibhe urged.

  Sara must have looked incredulous.

  “Okay, okay,” she said with a laugh.

  With everyone watching, she picked up something that resembled a tiny black hockey puck, dipped it into the brown ketchup stuff, and popped it into her mouth.

  Her tongue exploded with flavor. “Oh, my God.”

  She tried one of the sausages and nearly died with delight. Then, a rasher, which looked something like a cross between bacon and ham. Everything was amazing…and fried.

  “A fry,” she muttered. “How do you eat this every morning and not die of a heart attack?”

  “Oh, Jesus, we don’t. We usually have cereal or fruit. This is special.” Aoibhe laughed. “It’s a traditional breakfast, but no one eats it every day.”

  “During the days when most of the work was hard labor, this kind of breakfast was necessary,” Gran added.

  That made more sense. Sara couldn’t imagine how Fiona would stay so slim eating like this all the time. She could definitely get used to it for the moment, but yogurt and fruit would call her name in no time.

  “That should get you over the last of your jetlag,” Aoibhe said when Sara set her empty plate in the sink.

  “Grand,” Fiona said. “Let’s go!”

  “You’re certain Sealgair has no idea you’re here? Nothing would be better for him than to have us all in one place. The ould bitch couldn’t save but one of us.”

  Sara looked back at all the faces around Brigid’s little kitchen table. Seeing two generations of banshees together in one room was insane. Knowing there were two more girls out there just like her was even more mind blowing. How could they find each other? What bound them together besides the demonic spirit that made them sing when someone died?

  “As far as I know. I didn’t post about leaving or anything. He’ll probably notice we’re not there after a day or two, but maybe he won’t think to look for us here.”

  “I reckon he came after you once he found out where you were because you’re cut off from the rest of us. Less likely to know what’s going on. Brenna and I only saw him once when we were out for a night of drinks, and then he was gone.”

  “We grew up knowing to watch for him. Stuff of legends here, you know.”

  Sara nodded. Of course she wouldn’t have had the stories passed down to her, since her mother was so hell bent on keeping her away from her Gran.

  “We get some help, of course. The Cailleach—”

  “Kyle-yuck?”

  “Yeah, it means witch. It’s defo a woman. Right bitch, to be sure. But she keeps us safe as much as she can. Drags us away from Sealgair if he gets too close,” Brenna started.

  “She can, but she doesn’t always,” Fiona interrupted. “She can’t be in two places at once.”

  “As far as I know, Sealgair has only killed three banshees over the years. Our grans all survived in their generation, but my gran’s grandmother was one who was murdered.” Brenna reached over and took Brigid’s hand as she spoke.

  “Sealgair managed to catch her just after she’d screamed, so the spirit was weak. Couldn’t save her.”

  The shrieks did weaken the spirit. Sara had thought as much. That was the reason she’d beaten it the night it came for Ridley. She didn’t know what she could do with this new knowledge, though. Warn Sealgair about when to find her? Sacrifice herself so Ridley would live? That was assuming, of course, that the hunter didn’t already know that she’d be weaker after a night travel. She had no idea what Sealgair knew and didn’t know.

  “So, what do we know about…any of this? I mean, do we know anything?” Sara stumbled over her words, wondering how stupid she sounded to the Irish ladies crammed into the tiny cottage.

  “Well, we know we’re all related somehow,” Fee began.

  The grandmothers all nodded.

  “Our families have stayed close, probably as a defense mechanism,” Gran started. “Though we’ve lost touch with some over the years. I imagine long, long ago, we all stuck very close together.”

  “We didn’t know the other two girls when we were young ones, either,” Niamh said. “We were lucky to know each other and find some support. I don’t know how the other two survived. Maybe by moving away to the States like Aine.�
��

  Fiona and Brenna looked a little embarrassed by the word “support,” and Sara wondered when they’d had a change of heart about how excited and power hungry they’d been about it all.

  “Me own gran left her journal with some of her theories,” Brigid said, in her thick West Cork accent.

  The “th” sounded like a “t” when she said “theories.” Sara, charmed, repeated the word over and over in her head. “Teories.”

  “What did she have to say?” Sean asked.

  The girls and older women talked over each other, filling him on the five families the banshees would shriek for, their theories about the other two families that shrieked, and the possibility that the spirit would be weaker after a death, which left the girls more vulnerable.

  “And Sealgair, of course.”

  “God, what a ride,” Brenna sighed.

  “Ew.” Sara giggled as her cousins whipped their heads toward her in mock exasperation. “What? I have a hard time finding someone attractive when they’re trying to kill me. Call me a prude, if you like.”

  “Prude,” Fiona huffed, and the girls giggled together again.

  “The only thing me gran wrote about Sealgair is that he was probably from one of the families we shriek for, but she didn’t know which. It’s harder to tell when he wants to kill all of us.”

  They listed the families again: O’Neill, O’Connor, O’Grady, Kavanagh, and O’Brien. Then, there was the matter of diluted blood through marriage. Sara reported that she’d sung for a Barker, a Ryan, and a man named Hank, as far as she knew. She could have been unconscious for many more.

  “And I scream for the O’Connors,” Fiona added.

  “And I the O’Briens, from what I can tell.” Brenna finished the fact dump with a sigh.

  “That’s all we know?” Sean’s brow furrowed. “It’s not a lot to be going on with, is it?”

  Brigid stood and bustled over to the kettle. With a flick of the wrist, she set the water to boil again and then shuffled out the room.