Harry Little, Leprechaun

by Michele Bardsley

  Dedication

  Renee George’s brilliant suggestions made this story extra funny and extra awesome and extra chocolate.

  I heart her forever and ever.

  Something Leprechaun This Way Comes

  EVA O’HALLORAN’S cleaning efforts had given luminescence to the once thickly grimed pane. Well, as luminescent as glass could look at midnight on a Tuesday.

  She and Lorcan had purchased one of the larger downtown buildings to renovate into a bookshop for the parakind community. More and more paranormals were relocating to Broken Heart, Oklahoma and the township had grown to nearly 5,000 residents. The need for businesses and services for the undead, the furry, and the sparkly was making the town viable again.

  Screeeeeeech!

  What an execrable sound! With her vampiric hearing, the metallic shrieks equated to a thousand fingernails raking across a thousand chalk boards. Eva dropped her cleaning supplies and covered her ears. Through the effulgent picture window, she watched a rickety vehicle pull halfway onto the sidewalk and park.

  Eva lowered her hands, staring at the monstrosity that squatted in front of the shop like an ugly toad. The dark green color might have been okay if it hadn’t been pockmarked with large areas of rust and swirls of neon graffiti.

  “Hi, sweetheart.”

  At the sound of her husband’s voice, Eva turned. He’d been moving boxes and re-arranging shelving. Dust slashed his adorable chin.

  Lorcan was the kind of handsome that belonged to action stars. In fact, with his longish dark hair, silver eyes, and sharp cheekbones he looked much like a young Pierce Brosnan. Her gorgeous hubby had a boxer’s build, he was well-muscled, and made jeans illegal just by wearing them. He was the handsomest man in town. Just about, anyway.

  Lorcan had a twin brother, Patrick, who shared the same Remington Steele looks.

  Lorcan’s gaze flicked over her shoulder. One black eyebrow winged upward. “What is that?”

  “I’m not sure,” said Eva. She reached up and rubbed away Lorcan’s dirt comma.

  “Perhaps Bigfoot vomited a Volkswagen.”

  His lips trembled as he tried to remain stoic. It took only seconds for him to surrender to laughter. If one were to look up “stern” in the dictionary it might well have a reference note: For example, see Lorcan O’Halloran. These days, her husband was much more joyous and so was she. Spending eternity with her true love was a gift—one she was beyond grateful for.

  “A stóirín.” He leaned down and brushed his lips across hers. The tender gesture was a promise—a promise to turn this singular daytime kiss into a night of passionate lovemaking.

  “Let’s go home early,” she said, smiling.

  “I concur.” Lorcan took her hand and kissed her knuckles. “But first we must investigate Bigfoot’s chunder.”

  Eva gasped. “I can’t believe you worked in chunder from our word war list! I don’t know if I’m impressed or jealous.”

  “You can ponder it while you do the dishes.”

  “Ugh!” She rolled her eyes. “At least I’m not doing the cat litter.”

  Lorcan’s expression turned into mock anger. “Someone with canine tendencies, such as myself, should be excused from scoopin’ the poop of his natural enemies.”

  “Enemies?” Eva grinned. “Who went all wolf last night to play with his two spoiled rotten cats?”

  “You’re welcome for tirin’ ‘em out so we could sleep.” He cleared his throat.

  “Besides, I get better kitty snugglin’ when I’m wolf.”

  Eva chuckled.

  Lorcan guided her out the front door. They stood near the bookshop’s entrance and eyed the VW bus.

  The side door squealed and shuddered as it was wrenched open.

  People emerged from the vehicular atrocity: a mated vampire couple holding hands and making moon eyes at each other; a female ghost who probably died in the 1970s given her red platform shoes, bell-bottom jeans, oversized purple glasses, and long, wavy hair; a male zombie who looked like a decaying businessman complete with cheap suit and a moldy briefcase; and finally, a male in his early twenties wearing black jeans and gray Converses. The young man’s eyes were the color of Arctic ice, his hair black and spiky, and his expression one of boredom.

  Everyone wore the same green T-shirt with this catch phrase emblazoned on its front: A Little Irish Goes a Long Way.

  Eva studied the crowd. “How is it possible for a spirit to wear an actual T-shirt?”

  “I have no idea,” murmured Lorcan.

  A very short man sauntered around the front of the VW van. He wore the same T-shirt as the befuddled group of paranormals. He also wore black knee britches, striped socks, and shiny shoes with outrageously large gold buckles. Completing his outfit—a sparkly green top hat. His red hair curled out from under the brim and merged with the large beard that covered most of his face. His eyes were as green as new grass. His gaze held a glint that could be called mischievous or diabolical.

  “Welcome to fockin’ Broken Heart!” he cried in a thick Irish brogue. “The only parakind community on this gobshite continent!” He spread his arms out. “Our first stop is downtown. Eat, drink, shop, and shite.” He paused. “Well, those of you who can shite.”

  He chuckled—the same way a serial killer did when he was going to pluck out his victim’s eyeballs. “I want ye to enjoy ye selves, ye manky fockers. See ye in two hours.”

  The tourists shambled off in different directions.

  Eva exchanged a look with Lorcan. Her husband frowned, but not because of the man’s swearing—their friend Jessica had made them immune to cuss words (in three languages).

  Do you know him? Eva sent the thought to Lorcan. One of the main benefits of being a mated vampire was the convenience of spouse-to-spouse telepathy.

  Maybe, answered Lorcan, he seems familiar, but then again, all leprechauns have red hair and big beards.

  Eva examined the creature as covertly as possible. Something about him didn’t sit right. His outrageous outfit aside, this leprechaun seemed less like his cereal-loving counterpart—and more like his horror-movie equivalent. A chill danced up her spine, and she instinctively moved closer to Lorcan.

  The leprechaun appeared not to notice them. He dug into his jacket pocket and withdrew a pipe. Tobacco flakes drifted onto his shoes. He didn’t seem to care. He dug into another pocket and withdrew a match that he struck on the bus’s rusted bumper. He lit the pipe, extinguished the flame, and stuck the matchstick back into his pocket. He drew on the pipe, grunting in satisfaction as he smoked.

  The vapors smelled like sewage. Eva’s gorge rose and she waved a hand in front of her nose, as though that might help dispel the noxious fumes. Annoyance soon outweighed her apprehension. He might rank “ten on the creepy scale” (as her friend Jessica might point out), but she wouldn’t tolerate sidewalk-parking and air-poisoning.

  “Please put out that pipe.” Eva offered a smile to soften her words. “There’s no smoking in Broken Heart.” She paused. “Unless you’re a dragon.”

  The man swiveled toward her. “Those fockin’ scaly bastards can smoke?”

  “Smoking is part of their biological processes,” Eva explained. “So, it’s not the same issue.”

  “Hmph. Seems like fockin’ leprechaun profilin’ to me.” He dumped the pipe’s

  contents onto the sidewalk and stomped on the embers until they were nothing but ash.

  He tucked the pipe back into his pocket.

  “Thank you, sir. Now, would you be so kind as to move your bus? There’s no

  parking on the sidewalk.” Eva glanced at Lorcan. He gawked at Mr. Creepy; his expression one of intense concentration.

  “I s’pose those
gobshite sky demons don’t have parkin’ rules, either. Hmph. If such a fockin’ thing was against the fockin’ law, fockin’ signs would be posted.” His smarmy smile set Eva’s teeth on edge. “So, no, I won’t move me fockin’ bus.”

  The leprechaun’s gaze shifted from her to Lorcan. “Fock me backwards an’ call me Nancy. Where’s ye family, boyo? I owe ye back-stabbin’, low-dealin’, shite-eatin’

  vampires!”

  “Sweet baby Toutatis and all the druids,” whispered Lorcan. He grabbed Eva and held her close. “We are so fucked.”

  They disappeared in a burst of atom-exploding travel magic.

  The L Word

  EVA AND LORCAN arrived in Jessica and Patrick’s cozy living room, whereupon her husband screamed, “Harry Little!”

  “What did you say?” Brigid’s eyes widened. The goddess of healing, metallurgy, and keening—as well as the biological grandmother of Lorcan and Patrick—looked thunderstruck. Her already creamy white skin went whiter still—rather a difficult thing to do when most of her visible body was covered in swirling, ever-changing gold tattoos.

  The mug in Brigid’s hand shook so hard that liquid splashed out. She awkwardly slid the quivering cup onto the coffee table, completely missing the coaster.

  Eva had never seen the Brigid on the edge of hysteria.

  Lorcan plopped onto the couch next to his grandmother. Eva sat next to her husband and put her hand on his thigh. The Lorcan she knew was steady, calm, and logical, not to mention he was always more contemplative than reactionary. He rarely got upset—at least in circumstances that did not include arguments about their work in etymology.

  Seeing him distressed—and even more worrisome, frightened—made her uneasy. Given her own emotional responses to that wretched argumentative beast, she couldn’t blame Lorcan for being fretful.

  “Harry Little,” repeated Lorcan, “is in Broken Heart.”

  “What’s a Harry Little?” asked Jessica.

  “A leprechaun.” Eva glanced at Jessica and Patrick, who occupied the love seat on the other side of the coffee table. Jessica appeared thoughtful, but unconcerned. Patrick looked like he was getting ready to keck.

  “His name is Harry Little—and he’s an actual leprechaun. So he’s … Harry Little, Leprechaun.” Jessica snort-laughed. “Is he also a hairy little leprechaun?”

  “Harry Little’s a walkin’ curse upon humanity, he is.” Patrick rubbed his temples as though he had a headache, an impossibility given vampires didn’t have physical stress responses. After all, they had no blood pressure.

  “Harry enjoys the misery of others. He revels in destruction, and he thrives in chaos.” Brigid lifted her hands in a despairing gesture. “We’re doomed.”

  Eva realized that whatever had happened between Harry and the ancient Celts had been momentous enough to leave emotional scarring—even after thousands of years. She met Jessica’s gaze and saw the What the hell is going on? question in her friend’s eyes.

  Eva gave a tiny shake of the head.

  “Brigid, I’ve seen you implode people,” said Jessica. “And Lorcan ate, like, eleven people once.”

  “I bit them,” he corrected.

  “Chewing was involved.” Jess turned to her husband and placed a comforting hand on his knee. “Babe, you once ripped the arms and legs off a guy.”

  “Zombies don’t count,” said Patrick. “Technically he was already dead.”

  “C’mon! Bloodsuckers rule!” Jessica’s expression was a cross between amazement and irritation. “Y’all are scared of a leprechaun?”

  “Bean Céile, scared isn’t the right word.”

  “The right word is terrified.” Lorcan clutched Eva’s hand, squeezing so hard that her knuckles popped. He sent her an apologetic look. “Sorry, love.”

  “It’s okay.” She offered him an encouraging smile. “I’m sure we can figure out what do to about Harry.”

  “I’ll tell you want we need to do. We need t’ close the businesses. Hide the children.

  Shutter the houses. No!” Brigid lifted her finger in a gesture of imperial decision-making.

  “We’ll abandon the town.”

  “We can’t abandon Broken Heart,” protested Jessica. “This is the only place I can eat chocolate.”

  “Priorities, sonuachar. I’ll get Richie. You grab some clothes. We’ll move to Switzerland. We have a castle there.”

  “Ugh! I hate snow. It’s cold, it crawls into your shoes, and it…” Jessica trailed off and stared at her husband. “We own a fucking castle?”

  “Yes.” Patrick smiled for the first time since he’d heard the news about Harry Little.

  He brushed a loose strand of hair off his wife’s brow. “’Tis very large estate. We could take the whole town with us and still have room to spare.”

  Jessica sighed with disappointment. “I can’t believe I’m the one saying this, but…

  We’re not running away. We’ve faced wraiths, ancients, ghosts, mages, ETAC, demons, curses, and asshole pixies. What’s one hairy little leprechaun compared to all that?”

  Brigid straightened. “’Tis a fair point, Jess.” Determination lit her green eyes. “The last time we dealt with him, Harry was tormentin’ Ireland something fierce.”

  “Snakes.” Lorcan shuddered. “Every type an’ kind you could find anywhere on the Earth.”

  “Ireland never had snakes.” The fact popped out of Eva’s mouth. She offered her husband an apologetic smile. “At least, that’s what I’ve read in its histories.”

  “You’re right, love.” Lorcan patted her hand. “Irelan’ didn’t have snakes—until Harry Little put ‘em there.”

  “And we chased ‘em out,” added Patrick.

  Hmm. This story seemed familiar to Eva. Ireland. Snakes. Chases. She drew in a sharp breath, drawing the attention of the others.

  “What is it?” asked Lorcan.

  Eva gaped at her brother-in-law. “You’re Saint Patrick?”

  “Oh, he certainly is.” Lorcan’s words were buttered in merriment. His grin reflected the well-worn polish of an oft-told story. “We all pitched in to save Ireland, t’ be sure.

  But when the legend was finally written down—the fearsome Saint Paddy rid Irelan’ of the snakes.”

  Patrick glared at his twin. “Shut up.”

  “Sweet. I’m married to the dude who saved Ireland from creepy-crawlies.” Jessica rubbed her hands. “I have so many questions. Here’s the first one: why is green beer associated with St. Paddy’s Day?”

  “Green beer is America’s fockin’ version of drownin’ the fockin’ shamrock,” said a thick Irish brogue.

  Brigid yelped, Patrick clutched Jessica, and Lorcan closed his eyes. Eva turned and saw Harry standing next to the couch. He leaned on the cushioned arm, his serial-killer grin wide as he returned Eva’s stare.

  “I t’ink the fockin’ custom started in Boston … or New York ‘bout a hundred years or so ago.” Harry turned his attention to Patrick. “Why don’cha fockin’ tell us what drownin’ the shamrock means? Ye fockin’ invented it, boyo.”

  “Imeacht gan teacht ort! ” Patrick’s eyes flashed red.

  “Oh, I’m not goin’ anywhere.” Harry tugged on his beard. His gaze flicked over the vampires and the goddess. “On March seventeenth, Irelan’ celebrates Lá Fhéile Pádraig.

  It means ‘The Day of the Festival of Patrick.’ Ha! Ye’d t’ink the holiday would be named for ol’ Harry, now wouldn’t ye?”

  “What do you want?” The question came from Brigid. Her voice sounded like the swish and ting of clashing swords—the verbal auspices of battle. Still, Harry’s visceral reaction held no evidence he gave two damns about the goddess’s ire.

  “Damnú ort! What do ye fockin’ t’ink?” For a millisecond, the leprechaun’s lips curled into a snarl and his eyes blazed with rage. “I want me fockin’ gold coin, ye thievin’ deamhan fola!”

  Vampires Stole the Leprechaun’s Lucky Charms

  FOUR VAMPIRES AN
D one goddess holed up in the basement boudoir of their friends’

  charming Victorian house. The house sat on acreage several miles outside of town and was as far as they could go without actually leaving Broken Heart.

  The bedside lamp created a soothing swath of light in the otherwise dark room.

  Seating was plentiful. The bed was humongous, and there was also a chaise lounge, a loveseat, and a couple of overstuffed chairs. Still, the supernatural beings huddled in the middle of the space like dim-witted heroines in a horror movie.

  “You might’ve mentioned that you stole his Lucky Charms,” said Jessica straight-faced.

  Eva couldn’t resist the laugh that burst from her lips. “You couldn’t wait to make that joke, could you, Jess?”

  “Are you kidding? I’ve been waiting to use it since you said the word ‘leprechaun’.”

  Patrick kissed the top of his wife’s head. “That’s me darlin’ Jess.”

  “We should let Elizabeth and Tez know we’re hiding in their bedroom.” Lorcan reached inside his front jean pocket to pull out his cell.

  “I’ll text ‘em.” Brigid pulled out her smart phone. She met everyone’s surprised stares and blew out an irritated breath. “Och! What are you gawpin’ at? I like modern technology, too.” She expertly tapped the virtual keys. “Besides, usin’ magic would draw Harry right to us.”

  “I think we should tell the whole story.” Lorcan clasped Eva’s hand and walked with her to the loveseat.

  Brigid finished her text, pocketed her phone, and claimed one of the fluffy chairs.

  Eva looked at the goddess’s filmy green dress and wondered where she could possibly keep the cell. Eva supposed it was just one of the many mysteries about Brigid.

  Patrick and Jessica sat on the bed.

  “Harry’s gold coin is more like an unlucky charm,” said Patrick. “It’s the source of his magic—magic that he never used for any good purpose.”

  “He loved to play practical jokes,” added Lorcan, “but his tricks usually ended with someone gettin’ hurt or killed. Then Harry pulled his worst prank by bringin’ snakes to Irelan’.”