Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Epilogue
SOLSTICE SONG
By
Colleen Charles
Table of Contents
Title Page
Foreword
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Epilogue
Irish Slang Glossary
Foreword
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Prologue
Ronan
October 31
Wintervale, County Meath, Ireland
Change is coming.
I feel it, making it difficult to play my expected role to perfection. Tonight, I yearn for my bed and a warm woman to sink in to. Maybe pounding into a wet pussy will ease some of the heavy tension I carry on my shoulders—like the health and happiness of the entire town of Wintervale. Most days, this responsibility feels like the weight of the entire world, even though it’s just a small, backwoods grove.
“This night, we remember those who ‘av lived and died afore us, those who ‘av crossed through the veil, those who are nay longer with us. We will remember.”
“We will remember,” I echo along with my friends and my older sister by rote, my breath escaping in wispy clouds of vapor to the chill autumn air.
The solemn words of the Cailleach Beare holds sway over the group of twelve worshipers as we encircle the spire of flames, enraptured by our midnight ritual. As their leader, I hold myself rigid, knowing all eyes are on me, judging my reactions. My followers look to me for guidance and safety.
“Spirits of the earth, we welcome yer, knowin’ you will envelop us in death. Spirits of air, we call upon yer, knowin’ yer will be with us as we depart life. Spirits of fire, we welcome yer, knowin’ yer will transform us in death. Spirits of water, we welcome yer, knowin’ yer will carry us through the ebbs and flows of our life.”
“We welcome yer, oh mighty spirits.”
“And on this most powerful night, we seek to divine the future of our community in the New Year ahead, to discern the fortunes of our Order, and for he who leads us, whether good or ill. Spirits grant us this sight.”
“Grant us this sight.”
I’m not sure I’m open for anyone peering into my personal future, but it’s part of the ritual so I play along. In the midst of all of my pagan rituals, the visions of the seer lay lowest on the scale of importance as far as I’m concerned.
A column of sparks fly skyward as I lead the ritual, casting my pound-weight stone into the fire and proceeding to a water-filled cauldron that stands aside in the clearing. For a blissful moment, I allow the words and actions of the centuries old ceremony to flow over me, enveloping me in tradition like an old cloak. This night and in the future, I pray it will protect me from the dangers of a rash and forbidden world. One I want no part in supporting. Here, in Wintervale, I’m safe from the evils of society. And I’ll protect my lifestyle and that of my townspeople with everything in me. Even if that includes the ultimate sacrifice.
Clad in fur and silhouetted by the firelight, I gather the Cailleach and my brethren around the vessel. Following my lead, they each pluck a bobbing red fruit from its frigid depths.
“In the morrow, all will be revealed, and we will make ready for what is to come. May the bounty of this harvest impart its knowledge to one and all. Blessed be the fruit.”
“Blessed be the fruit,” they echo.
After the blessing of the fruit, I draw my knife and split the ripened symbol of truth and plenty wide open, carving my large apple into nine wedges. The forest lies dark, save for the crackling firelight and the cauldron’s contents as black as a bottomless well. I lean over its rim, staring into the inky smoothness, and eat the first wedge with a resounding crunch of teeth.
It tastes both tart and sweet, reminding me of this life that contains both joy and sorrow. Pleasure and pain. But the New Year dawns within the hour, signifying the rebirth of all things, as it always does, which gives me hope. I gaze into the pool of darkness, seeing no reflection as I consume the second piece of fruit, then the third, and the fourth. My stomach feels no hunger or fullness, as the harvest has been plentiful, and the evening’s feast of roasted lamb has already filled my belly to sated perfection. The smell of the animal’s burning bones still belch from the bonfire’s flames with each snap, crackle, and pop.
What I hunger for doesn’t come from the field, the stream, or the sky. If food for one’s tortured soul exists, I am uncertain of what form that might take. At last, only the ninth wedge remains in my huge palm, and I scan the water’s infinite depths with keen interest as I toss it over my left shoulder.
The cauldron’s rim seems to expand as though inviting me inside, offering to drown me in the depths of my own thoughts, hopes and desires, all for a fleeting glimpse of what might await me in my future. From deep within, a spark of light flares and spreads into a glowing cloud, floating tantalizingly below the surface, just out of reach. I can’t stop a sharp inhale, unable to tear my eyes from the undulating illumination that coalesces into a startling vision.
Raven-black hair frames the ivory-skinned face possessing a pointed chin and high cheekbones. Her plump lips are the translucent red of pomegranate seeds, and her round, luminous green eyes stare at me from beneath a shadowed brow, piercing me as though accusing me of something nefarious and dark.
Unbidden, my cock stirs, and I imagine her lush mouth sucking it into her long throat. I shake my head, ridding myself of the image, but something about the vision won’t release me. Won’t let me return to the pillar of wisdom and strength I am to these people. My people. This nameless seductress bewitches me in a way I’ve never known, and all thoughts of harvest rituals and protecting my brethren fly out of my mind on the wings of lust and want.
Her lips move and mouth my name in an irresistible siren’s song. On impulse, I dip my hand into the water, yearning to touch her, feel her silken skin beneath my fingertips. Brand her with my claim for all eternity. The need to connect
with her overwhelms me, but the motion of reaching deep within instantly destroys my vision, leaving me with an emptiness I can’t understand or describe. Before I can withdraw, the beautiful visage ripples away and dissolves back into the depths from which it came.
Unsteady on my feet, I stumble backward as if drunk, shaken by the intensity of the reflection. Is it only a reflection? It seems more real than that, but the veil between the worlds of light and dark, the living and the dead, stays razor thin this night.
Is that not the true reason we gather here?
I should expect nothing less than magic unbound, the suspension of the laws of time and space at this eighth and most spiritual interval of the year.
“What did you see, Bard?” the Cailleach asks, her voice harshened by age and wisdom. “Yer expression indicates yer seen a ghost.”
“I saw…I saw…” I steady my thoughts with a deep inhalation of autumn air. “’Twas nothin’.”
The Cailleach Beare smiles a toothless grin, made all the more gruesome in the dancing firelight of the secluded forest circle.
“Come, let us not wait ‘til mornin’ to chase away the ghosts of the future,” she cackles, tugging at the ragged pelt I’m wearing about my tense shoulders. “Let us examine yer stone now. I will fetch it from the fire.”
As if hypnotized, I leave the others waiting their turn at the cauldron and return to the bonfire. “That one,” I advise, pointing to the stone I’d cast into the flames. The Cailleach prods it loose with a poker and crouches low to examine it, waving away the rising steam with a wizened hand.
“’Tis true,” she confirms after a moment, rising to lift her arms to the sky. “Love and happiness shall abound for the Order, bringin’ forward a soul mate for the Bard, our leader, this Yule.”
She looks down into my eyes, widened with surprise by this revelation, and brings her clawed fingers to my shoulders in praise.
“Blessed be.”
Chapter One
Savannah
December 17
Outside Dublin City, Ireland
The satisfying sounds of last night’s cheering crowd still echo in my ears. My mind’s eye pictures the adoring faces pressed to the edge of the stage, arms outstretched in hopes of some passing touch of my hand. I attempt to oblige them as often as I can, skimming the reaching palms and fingertips as I walk the curved perimeter, noting the expansive sea of faces beyond them that stretch to the far limits of the concert hall.
I know where my bread’s buttered. Even though I sometimes feel as if I’m in a tiny closet with the walls pressing in on me, I’m thankful for each and every fan. Even those I never touch except with the melodies and lyrics of my music.
But that’s enough. It has to be.
The heart beating inside the music is what’s important, not the cursory touch of my flesh or my sparkly couture clothing or my deluge of instruments. I didn’t follow this rough and lonely road to stardom to gain physical admiration, fame, or even money. Artists are a breed apart, infected and driven forward by an insatiable and sometimes unforgiving muse.
We do it for the love of what we create. Nothing more. Nothing less.
The money and fame that follows is both a blessing and a curse, a dichotomy I still struggle with most days. I also struggle with the long hours of traveling between shows. The fishbowl I live in. My every look and gesture dissected in tomorrow’s headlines.
I shake myself from my inner visions and focus on the bleak landscape outside the window of the bus. Christ, is that frozen white shit snow? Being a California girl through and through, I never thought I’d actually see it in real life. I never tour in winter, and if my manager demands it, I keep it close to home. And heat. Although it’s now mid-afternoon, darkness seems to hug this northern climate like a gray blanket, regardless of day or night. How I miss home at times like these, along with my welcome shot of daily Vitamin D via the scorching sun. We’ve been in Ireland almost a week, and I haven’t seen my old friend Sol yet, or many shades of green.
Emerald Isle, my ass.
The Savannah Starr European tour felt ages away when my promoter first scheduled it. At the time, London, Manchester, Lyon, and Munich sounded like fun. Something different and a golden opportunity to expand my reach. I’d never been, and I’m always up for some sightseeing and good times along the way. But somewhere during the planning, he’d thrown in Dublin, Waterford and Glasgow, and changed the dates from November through December in spite of my violent protests. The success of the Waterford show last night aside, it seemed a very bad idea considering the fat flakes of snow that now whipped diagonally across our windshield.
“How much farther, Mel?” I ask my driver, catching his eye through the rearview mirror, checking his limited reflection for any sign of worry or nerves. I hate weather. I hate snow.
I hate fucking bleak Ireland.
Mel Tobin spares me a furtive glance over his shoulder, unwilling to take his eyes off the narrow road that grows even narrower with the drifting snow collecting at its rocky edges. Heavy forest arches over the roadway, creating a tunnel effect. I half expect Stephen King to pop up and tell me he thought he’d write his next horror novel while on his European vacation and ask if he can tag along for the ride and pen something horrific. A shudder runs up my spine. This country is as spooky as shit.
“I thought maybe three hours if I took this alternate route around that bad traffic accident.” He sighs and gives a shrug. “Sorry Savie, didn’t count on weather conditions like these. The radar didn’t pick it up. Hopefully, we can still make the last ferry out of Belfast.”
“Hopefully?” I repeat, trying to sound sarcastic, but really feeling like I’m going to puke all over my new Jimmy Choos. I have no clue where the hell we are, and the only thing that frightens me more than long Trans-Atlantic flights is the prospect of missing my next gig. Singing is like breathing, and not doing it is like having the oxygen burned from my lungs. “And what if we don’t?”
“Relax, Savie. You’ve got everything you need right here on this gypsy caravan that passes for a bus in this country. Your clothes, your makeup, your electronic gadgets. Food and booze in the cooler. So many instruments you could outfit an entire orchestra. Don’t worry. There’s always another ferry.”
“Another ferry?” I gape, itching to slap something, even my own face. “When? Next week? No way. I’m not spending one more night than I have to in Leprechaun Land, thank you very much. There’s no pot ‘o gold at the end of this fucking all-white rainbow. Can’t you go any faster?”
Mel laughs. “Careful. The wee folk might fly into an Irishman’s rage for dissing them like that. And this ain’t the I-5, in case you haven’t noticed. Speed limit’s somewhere between snail and sheep, not to mention this vardo topping out at about sixty.”
“What the hell language are you speaking?” I scoff, trying to lighten the somber mood that I’ve created for myself. It’s like Mel’s just stepped out of a tourist brochure, testing the new lingo. “Maybe we should have hired out a horse and wagon.”
“You’re catching on. A vardo is a gypsy covered wagon that’s pulled by horses.”
“Whatever. Thanks for the history lesson, Mel. Anything as long as it gets us to the ferry terminal on time.”
Mel chuckles and reaches for the radio handset on the dash. “We’d better check in with Freddie on the other bus and let them know we might be late. They were lucky to be ahead of that twelve-car pileup. But ole Mel’s never been late yet, and I’m not about to break the streak now.”
I flop back into my plush leather seat and cross my arms in frustration. No matter how much money and fame I procure, I can’t bribe Mother Nature.
I blow out a breath. “Just step on it, will you?”
The small bus isn’t uncomfortable, but I still can’t get used to the sight of Mel sitting in the right-hand driver’s seat, or driving on the left side of the road. My luxury bus is parked at my estate in the Hollywood Hills, collecting dust. I’d
give anything to have my custom Jacuzzi tub to soak in instead of a cracker box of a cold shower. Sadly, roads like this couldn’t accommodate that behemoth of a bus, even if I could have hauled it over the ocean. A road this narrow has no room for anything larger than this. We’re screwed if there’s any oncoming traffic.
Like other superstars before me, I trust the tour organizers to procure the best services available for me while overseas. It isn’t like I can demand the European tour manager fly my private buses in from LA. This isn’t even a full tour. I guess I could have demanded it, but that would put me right up with Julianna Jax’s crazy dressing room demands of black flowers and white furniture. I’m not a diva. Okay, maybe I’m a little bit of a diva, but only because I like things the way I like them, not because I’m a total spoiled asshole. So even though no one would deny a four-time Grammy Award winner her home away from home on wheels, I never even considered pitching a fit about coach transport.
I shift in my seat and draw my coat more tightly around me as the temperature cools. For now, this will have to do, and I vow to make the best of it. With my extensive wardrobe and personal belongings, I always travel in a separate bus from my band and equipment, but at the moment, I’d welcome their company. The forest and flat fading light seem to close in on me, choking out my normal positivity. Mel speaks into the transmitter, trying to reach Freddie, but nothing comes through except the scratching of annoying and useless static.
“Repeat, this is Savannah One, come in Savannah Two. Freddie, you there, man?”
More static, then just an oppressive silence that’s louder than thunder to my sensitive ears. Mel slams the handset down, and my heart gallops in response. Now we’re stuck out in the middle of bumfuck nowhere without communications. I pull out my cell phone and check the bars even though I already know the story.
None. Nada. Zilch.
“Fuck. Radio’s out.”
He slams his hand on the steering wheel for good measure. Since I’m the boss, I suppose I should be the calm one when all I really want to do is start screaming to turn this diesel POS around so I can catch the first flight back to The Golden State. Even though there’s nothing I fear more than flying, I can just pop a tranquilizer and white-knuckle it. Mel isn’t normally the nervous type, which is a good thing. I can panic enough for the both of us. Hell, I can panic enough for my entire backup band and crew.
Solstice Song (Pagan Passion Book 1) Page 1
