by A. S. Green
Hell Hound’s Revenge
Fae of the North Shore
A. S. Green
Tortoise House Press
Copyright © 2019 A.S. Green
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.
Contents
Map
Glossary
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Newsletter
Afterword
Also by A. S. Green
About the Author
Map of the North Shore
Glossary
AUTHOR’S NOTE: The pronunciations given are only a close approximation to the Irish language and are provided for the sole purpose of assisting the reading experience.
Pádraigs (PAH-dregs) - Slang term used by the sídhe to describe human beings. The term derives from Naomh Pádraig (anglo: St. Patrick) who claimed to have rid Ireland of the sídhe, among other things.
Sídhe (SHEE) - the general term for the faerie clans as a whole.
Bean Sídhe (BAN SHEE) - a type of sídhe identified by their amber eyes, youthful faces, and snow white hair. They are reclusive and generally avoided because they only appear to herald an imminent death.
Cú Sídhe (KOO SHEE) - a faerie hound; also known as a hell hound. A sídhe of dual nature sometimes appearing as a man, other times appearing as a terrifying creature resembling a wolf the size of a small horse, with blazing red eyes and great strength. At the time of St. Patrick, the cú sídhe were in servitude to, and the guard dogs for, the daoine sídhe. Though they later rebelled and earned their independence, the cú sídhe retained their natural instinct to protect.
Daoine Sídhe (DEEna SHEE) - a type of sídhe known for their formality and conservatism. Families are close knit and proud—the older generations often taking an air of superiority based on their former ranking in the sídhe social hierarchy. They have varying abilities to create hallucinations designed to confuse others’ perceptions of reality, though these talents have been mitigated by their adaptation to pádraig society. The daoine are easily identified by their lavender eyes.
Leannán Sídhe (leh-NAHN SHEE) - a type of sídhe known for beauty and music, for bending others’ wills to their own, and for absorbing the life force from their prey. They can communicate through dreams and are most dangerous in groups. The leannán have a penchant for dressing in black, a sign of mourning for their former lands in Ireland.
Púca (POO-ka) - A skilled shape shifter that prefers the form of a rabbit, colt, or beautiful black-haired woman. A púca will lead someone away from harm or, just as easily, kill them herself.
Nuckelavee (NUH-kuh-la-VEE) - a horse-like demon that emerges from the sea to cause havoc on land.
Danu (Da-NOO) - a deity in the Celtic pantheon; the mother goddess. Creator of the sídhe.
Mo cuisle (mah KOOSH-lah) - Term of endearment. Literally “my pulse.” Shortened form of a cuisle mo chroidhe, or “pulse of my heart.”
Anamchara (AHN-am KAR-ah) - Soul mate; fated mate.
Cailín (Cah-LEEN) - Girl.
Glamour (GLA-mer) - n. enchantment; magic; v. to glamour. The act of creating something by means of enchantment or magic.
Eitilt (EH-till) - v. “to fly.” It is the origin of the anglicized slang term “to tilt,” used by the North Shore sídhe to describe the act of dematerializing and transporting themselves through space.
Chapter One
CORMAC
Mid-September
North Shore, Minnesota
Cormac MacConall stood deep in the shadows of the jack pines and lifted his nose to the breeze. Blood, he thought, and the scent was still fresh. It didn’t belong to anyone he knew—he was nearly sure of it—but that knowledge brought him no relief. It was still another wounded. Probably even dead. And on his watch too.
It wasn’t the first time.
He narrowed his eyes and filtered past the scent of sap and mineral-rich water that rushed down the river toward the Devil’s Kettle, one of the many waterfalls that popped up in the hills near Lake Superior.
His large paws moved silently along the bank, his nose to the ground, creeping forward. Then, when he reached a narrow spot where he could cross, he settled back on his haunches and sprang forward, landing gracefully on the other side. When he climbed the opposite embankment, he found himself standing outside a circle of ash trees.
Cormac’s lip curled instinctively at the sight of the faerie ring. In centuries past, it had been his clan’s job to guard such places, and nothing good had ever come of it. He lowered his large head and stalked forward, flattening his ears. The wiry black hairs on his back stood up in response to the smell, and a low growl rumbled involuntarily from his throat.
But then, as he entered the ring, he went silent and jerked his head. With so much blood in the air, he had expected to find a corpse—maybe that of a dead animal; maybe another mutilated fae. What he hadn’t expected was to find a living creature.
A newly matured female, maybe early twenties, was crouched on her hands and knees with her shapely ass poised in the air. Given that her scent read as “fae,” plus the mere fact he found her in a faerie ring, Cormac knew she was a member of the sídhe. However, with her back turned, he couldn’t determine her clan.
He used the process of elimination. First, it seemed luck was on his side because her hair fell in long dark spirals against her back; she wasn’t one of the white-haired bean sídhe, which meant he’d live to see another day. She also wasn’t wearing black, so—more good news—she likely wasn’t a leannán sídhe, and his mind would remain his own. She wasn’t a cú sídhe, because he knew his own clan. That left the daoine sídhe, but without seeing the female’s eyes, he couldn’t know for sure.
The daoine clan had made the greatest attempt to adapt to pádraig society, with the exception of their lavender eyes, of course, which they could not change but could hide with contacts. While their willingness to adapt had allowed them to find paying jobs, it had done a number on their talent for hallucination, which had faded over time. In short, the daoine were the least dangerous of all the sídhe clans, and also the most vulnerable. What the hell was she doing out here alone?
She had an open suitcase beside her, which was covered in travel stickers. Inside, he spied some balled-up clothes, the spiral edge of a sketch book, and a snow globe of all things, but nothing useful for surviving outdoors.
Cormac lifte
d one paw to go. He had work to do. But then the female started cursing and moving her arms rapidly, elbows jerking back, oblivious to his presence. That lack of vigilance could get her killed.
“Fucking… Shitastic… Stupid!” she cried out in furious exasperation.
No sooner did he hear her voice than a terrible rushing sound filled his ears. He shook back his head and shifted from the hound into his other—more communicative—form. The illusion of human clothes shifted with him.
It took another second before his tongue was nimble enough to issue a warning. “Ye shouldn’t be out here alone, cailín. It’s dangerous.”
The sídhe shrieked and jumped to her feet, whirling with arms extended. In each hand she held a worn stick, now tipped up as if they were her only weapons.
At the sight of her face, the rushing sound hit him again, filling his ears and nearly bowling him over. The instinct to protect pulled him closer to her even as his rational mind begged his feet to run.
Oh, sweet Danu. It couldn’t be true. She was a pádraig. A human!
There was no mistaking his reaction. It was just like his father told him it would be. Your head will feel like it’s caught in a tornado, son, and it will suck all the air from your lungs. He remembered his father laughing as he recounted his own experience meeting Cormac’s mother. May Danu help ye, boy, and for God’s sake, keep a firm hold on your hound.
Cormac took a step closer, and his stomach lunged for his throat.
Go, he thought. Run. Fate wouldn’t be this cruel. Not even to you.
But he couldn’t go, could he? She might be hurt. Despite her devastating attack on his senses, he still had not lost the thread of fresh blood in the air.
His eyes scanned the delicious curves of her body, but there were no signs of injury. At least as far as he could see. Was it… Was it merely menstrual blood he was scenting?
Her wide-eyed gaze hit his face, and then descended his body before slowly rising again. She sucked air into her lungs, her high firm breasts filling out the silky camisole under her unbuttoned flannel shirt.
Cormac’s cock twitched in his pants. It was not a sensation he enjoyed having in response to anyone, but especially someone like her. Fuck, why did it have to be someone like her?
A pádraig would never be accepted into sídhe society because there were only two types. The first: those too mundane for the sídhe to give any notice. The second: those disciples of St. Pádraig who had hunted his kind for centuries—the Black Castle Brethren, or Black Castle for short. It was they whom he hunted. It was they who deserved his vengeance.
“Where in the hell did you come from?” the pádraig asked with a surprising amount of attitude.
Cormac rocked back on his heels. The girl obviously had no idea how accurately she’d hit the target. Cormac was cú sídhe—a hell hound—though he doubted he actually came from hell. More like hell came for him. Again and again and again.
“Ye wouldn’t believe me if I told ye,” he said, lifting his nose to the air. Where was that fucking blood coming from?
Her expression shifted from surprised annoyance to fear, and he couldn’t fault her for that. As a cú sídhe, Cormac was a large hound, red eyed and terrifying. As a man, he was no less of a threat—tall, broad shouldered, and thickly muscled. His glamoured clothes were utilitarian and designed for living rough.
Her tiny fists clenched at her sides, those sharp sticks pointed at his groin.
Sweet Danu, he thought, mentally invoking the goddess’s intercession. Did this girl really think she stood a chance against him? Not that he meant her any harm.
Though maybe that was the way to go. Scare her stupid and send her screaming back to the main road and far away from here. She’d eventually run into someone who could help her.
And best of all, he could get back to his hunt.
“Back off,” the girl said, moving the sticks to her left hand and putting the other hand in her pocket. “I’ve got mace.”
He doubted it. “I wouldn’t use it in this breeze.”
“Well, I… I have a black belt in karate.”
“Is that so?” he asked, taking a step closer.
“I’ll scream.”
“Who would hear ye?”
Her face went pale, making the scattering of tiny freckles on the bridge of her nose stand out in stark relief. Her panic hardened her nipples under the silky camisole.
“No one,” he said, answering his own question. “So why don’t ye run instead?”
The girl didn’t take direction well. She opened her mouth to scream.
But before emitting any sound, a heavy drop of thick red liquid landed squarely on her nose with a splat. She made a squeak as her mouth slammed shut, and she slowly tipped her head back to look into the tree branches.
Another drop landed on her forehead, and Cormac followed her gaze. “FUCK!” he bellowed.
“What the hell…?” the girl asked, still looking up.
Above them, tangled in the branches, was a young female form. Or at least…half of one. Judging by the victim’s prim and proper, but now-shredded dress, she was likely a daoine sídhe. She was the second one Cormac had found this week, the fifth this month.
A growl of sympathy rumbled out of his chest. She didn’t deserve this. She probably had a family who’d depended on her. Someone she’d loved. She should be back with her clan. Not here.
Cormac noticed in his periphery that the human girl’s hands were beginning to shake, as were her knees. Pádraigs could be such weak creatures. She stepped back—away from the dripping corpse—and wiped at the blood splatter on her face. “I think I’m going to… I think I’m going to…”
“Be sick” is what Cormac thought she was going to say, or maybe “be on my merry way.” Instead, the girl’s eyes rolled back in her head and her knees buckled.
Cormac caught her as she went down like a cleanly cut tree.
Chapter Two
CORMAC
He knew it. He fucking knew it. The moment Cormac clapped eyes on the female’s firm ass, he should have got the hell away, not looked back, and kept on moving. Now he was moving all right. Headed out of the faerie ring with her sweet body draped over his arms, her suitcase in his hand, and her head lolled over his elbow.
She moaned and muttered something unintelligible. Cormac pinched her thigh just because he was annoyed.
What the fuck was he supposed to do now? A part of him considered leaving her once they got to the bottom of the hill and out of the woods. Pretend like this never happened.
Another part thought he should set her on the doorstep of the nearest church. But it was Monday. How long would it be before someone found her? Would she be safe?
He supposed he could take her to the police. Say he found her like this. Then leave before they asked too many questions, and get back on the road. Get back on the hunt.
He’d been hunting the Black Castle for fifty years, and their defensive strategies had paid off. Despite his keen sense of smell, he still had nothing to show for himself in all this time. Recently they’d been doing something to mask their scent and, without that, how was he to tell one pádraig from another? The exception being the one in your arms.
He dispatched the thought. All pádraigs were alike. Finding the one, or ones, that he sought was like trying to find a needle in a haystack—a haystack made of steep hills, deep ravines, jack pine, cedar, and maple. He always got close just minutes too late. Which was why there was another daoine dead, and the sadistic bastard who’d done it was still on the loose.
What a serious fuck of a day.
Before he started the descent, he glanced behind him at the cairn he’d built to cover the body. Sweet Danu, he was fucking sick of death.
The female in his arms sucked in a deep breath, and he looked down. The stark contrast of her chest inflating to his last morbid thought… Frankly, it startled him.
Her eyes fluttered open and she asked, “Wh- What’s going on?”
“Ye fainted.”
“I don’t faint,” she said groggily. Then she closed her eyes and snuggled into him, as if soothed by the gentle rocking motion of his gait.
Cormac had a sudden flashback of himself as a pup, his father carrying him up the stairs. It was one of the better memories. Most of them had him clenching his teeth against the pain.
The female tucked her face against the side of his neck. Her lips pressed just there. God, the feel of her. She was so damn content in his arms. Everything in him wanted to keep her, to hold her, to protect her forever.
But for her sake, he couldn’t get carried away by fantasies, and his instincts had never served him well in the past.
The reality was, he could do none of those things. Not now. Probably not ever.
Why did this have to happen?
She curled her fingers into his shirt then inhaled sharply. He looked down just as her eyes flew open and locked on his. “Oh, shit! You!” She struggled to get out of his arms. “Put me down. Put. Me. Down!”
Happy to oblige, he dropped her feet to the ground and let go.
She went down on her ass like a bag of sand.
Cormac folded his arms.
She looked up, caught his eye again, then crab walked backwards a few feet before rolling onto her hands and knees. She pushed up to her feet and staggered to the side, sticking out her arm. “Don’t touch me.”
