Curse of the Gianes

by AM Riley

  “Anything,” answered O’Grady as he always did.

  Maeebsef strummed a minor chord. “Perhaps a love song?”

  O’Grady chuckled. “What? No more dragon stories?”

  Maeebsef’s fingers plucked out a series of notes. “Dragons may fall in love.”

  “Sweet boy.” O’Grady let his fingers drift slowly down the fall of Maeebsef’s hair. “In your world, anyone may find love.”

  “Even humans,” said Maeebsef. He strummed a couple chords. Then O’Grady heard the strings muted by his hand. He opened his eyes.

  Maeebsef’s head was turned so that he could give O’Grady a thoughtful look. “O’Grady? What does a premonition feel like?”

  “Mmmm. Depends on the event.” O’Grady’s head dropped back again, his eyes almost closed; he stroked and petted all his favorite places on Maeebsef. The down on his spine, that soft fatty swell below his waist.

  “I think I may be having one,” said Maeebsef, and he leaned sideways to place his instrument on the nightstand. “O’Grady, I think Seamus needs our help.”

  O’Grady rumbled in the negative. Drifting in euphoria, he caught at his faerie and stroked his skin. “I’d know of any danger to a clansman.”

  “Danger to his heart, O’Grady?”

  O’Grady sighed, willing his eyelids to open enough to look into Maeebsef’s serious face. “Not necessarily.” And he whimpered as Maeebsef slipped out from under his hands and picked up O’Grady’s hairshirt, tossing it to him.

  “You can’t be serious.”

  “He needs you, O’Grady.”

  “Tonight?” wailed the Banshee, petulant as a three year old.

  Maeebsef’s lips quirked in a smile and his eyes sparkled like amethysts.

  “We’ll have many nights, O’Grady.”

  ***

  “Life sucks and then you die,” sang Seamus, slamming a desk drawer closed.

  Parker, sitting at the desk opposite, gave his partner a grim look. “We’ll find something, Seamus,” he said. He lifted a folder from the top of the fucking Tower of Babel of folders that he’d just placed on the corner of his desk and slapped it open in front of himself.

  Seamus gazed across the chaos of his own desk at his partner's immaculate work area with a degree of grudging affection. Parker hadn’t once questioned Seamus about how he knew the suspect was the same guy that’d shot Riley. He just accepted it as truth, on Seamus’ say-so, and worked shoulder to shoulder with Seamus to prove it.

  Problem was they hadn’t proved it yet. The guy was still held at County, serving time for firing a gun. He hadn’t hit anyone, there’d been no reported robberies, he claimed that it was an accident, and the public defender had gotten him thirty days. But this was day thirty and Seamus hadn’t been able to find one bit of corroborating evidence that would convince a judge to hold him any longer.

  The red light on his phone was flashing. Seamus grabbed it up, “Yeah.”

  “Lieutenant Brady?” it was Tom down at County, his voice a little breathless for an old veteran. Prickles ran up Seamus’ spine. “Whatsup Tom?”

  “I think you wanna get down here, Lou,” said Tom excitedly. “This guys begging to give up something big.”

  ***

  “So we’re processing him, you know, just like regular and all a sudden the guy starts screechin’ like something’s killing him…”

  Seamus listened to Tom’s blather with half an ear, but his eyes were on the Banshee in the corner.

  “What’d you say to him?” he asked O’Grady who was sitting cross-legged, mid-air like some genie from a fucking faerie tale.

  “Nothing!” expostulated Tom.

  “The truth,” O’Grady shrugged. “That I am the Banshee of an ancient Irish clan and that I would pursue him through eternity if he didn’t confess his crimes.”

  Seamus squinted at O’Grady dubiously.

  “And that I found him quite attractive.” O’Grady loomed larger than Seamus had ever seen him. About sixteen feet of heaving manliness. “He seemed intimidated.”

  Seamus laughed. “Jeez,” he said, “that is so fucking illegal.”

  “No,” said Tom. “No, we have been immaculate, Brady, I swear. Forced his rights on him repeatedly. Lawyered him up out of county pocket immediately. This is a good confession, Brady. We’ve got him.”

  Seamus tsked. “Lawyers’ll plead incapacity.”

  “Undoubtedly,” said O’Grady. He smiled. “I shall have to prove them right.”

  Tom sighed. “Yeah, I know. But still we’ve got him.”

  “Hey.” Seamus stood briskly. “You did good. Thanks.” He held his hand out to Tom, but his eyes were on O’Grady.

  ***

  Halfway across the parking lot, Seamus turned. “Uh, you gonna keep following me? Don’t you, like, have catastrophes to forewarn or whatever?”

  O’Grady wavered, looking offended. “Seamus Brady, I thought we had moved beyond a professional relationship.”

  Seamus regarded him with narrowed eyes. “Fer an Irish bogeyman, you don’t bullshit so good, O’Grady.” He got into his car.

  O’Grady wavered, shrank, and appeared again in the back seat. Seamus saw him filling his rearview mirror and punched the steering wheel lightly. “Okay,” he said. “Just spill it. What now?”

  O’Grady rolled his eyes innocently. “Have you spoken to Lyre of the Gianes of late?”

  Seamus’ stomach clenched into a knot. “No.” He glared at O’Grady.

  The Banshee diminished somewhat there on the back seat. “May I ask why?”

  “Listen,” said Seamus. “I’m a loser but even I can only be told to fuck off so many times afore I lose interest.”

  “Ah,” said O’Grady. “He did that?”

  “Fuck yeah.”

  “I see.” And the air bucked once and the back seat was empty.

  “Shit.” Seamus had to hold his keys in his shaking hand for a full minute before he was able to get them into the ignition.

  Great, now he was thinking about him again. Trust the family Banshee to dig up old wounds.

  Seamus had cried when his mother had passed. He had cried, privately, after Riley’s funeral. Generally, though, Seamus didn’t cry. That just wasn’t how he handled his hurts. But when he’d come home from Lyre’s apartment that night, he’d sat on his bathroom floor and cried until he was sick.

  It was the fucking uselessness of it that tore him apart. He could hear Lyre’s voice in his head, again, telling Seamus that he loved him. He could see Lyre’s back, flinching away from his touch. It stabbed him in the guts, even while it made him wild with rage at whatever had hurt Lyre so much. It fucking drove him nuts that he couldn’t do anything about it.

  Seamus drove back on auto pilot, slammed through the doors of the station and plunked down at his desk, barely acknowledging the greetings as he came through. He sat staring down at the file in front of him until he could blink away the blurring in his eyes, then he got back to work.

  ***

  The ice over the Shepherd’s pond was melted. Lyre sat in a boat and gazed across the lake toward the boathouse.

  Faeries generally don’t cross water, but Lyre had long ago learned that taboos aren’t always valid. He lifted the oars and watched water run down their worn blades.

  Joseph seemed so far away these days. Lyre supposed it was meant to happen. Even the wraiths of humans can’t last forever. But he imagined it had more to do with Seamus. The man had burnt through the mist in which Lyre had dwelt for so many years, so vital and alive that Joseph’s memory truly paled next to it.

  Lyre stroked the oars through the water, the boat hissed as it slid from the shore. Magic tingled under his feet.

  “Are you determined to be an outlaw?”

  Lyre jumped, glamour falling over him and spreading across the water. “MUST you creep up on a body, O’Grady?”

  O’Grady watched the glowworms twitching on the water as they faded and frowned with puzzlement. “Of
course.”

  Lyre swung his oars into their locks, letting the boat drift, and bent forward, elbows on knees. “And pray what brings you creeping around me again, Fearshee?”

  “A clansman,” said O’Grady, as if this were obvious.

  Lyre bit his lip. “Let me guess which one.”

  “You shouldn’t have to think long, Lyre of the Gianes,” said O’Grady. “He bein’ the one you pine for.”

  Lyre’s head drooped.

  “I’ve been thinkin’…” said O’Grady.

  “Saints preserve us,” muttered Lyre sincerely.

  O’Grady glared at him. “My clansman has an uncanny ability to see folk, have you noticed?”

  “No, O’Grady. Yes of course I’ve noticed.”

  O’Grady tapped his cheek in an exaggerated expression of thoughtfulness. “Now what other Irishman can you think of with that particular gift?”

  Lyre shrugged. “Perhaps it’s genetic?”

  “Perhaps,” said O’Grady. “Perhaps it’s magic.”

  Lyre didn’t see any point in this speculation, so he was silent.

  “Perhaps,” said O’Grady, “it’s a curse.”

  Lyre tilted his chin up, looking at him curiously. “What sort of curse?”

  “Love is a curse,” said O’Grady. “I think some o’ the humans swear life is a curse. Perhaps it’s like the curse of the Gianes. There’s a blessing in it.”

  “What blessing?”

  O’Grady looked off at the furze of trees on the other shore. “Every day I have with Maeebsef, every moment, is sweet, now. The curse gave us that.”

  “It’s not the same, O’Grady,” said Lyre. “Maeebsef isn’t mortal.”

  “Still, I lost him.” O’Grady’s voice was rough, as if reliving that.

  “I…I don’t know, O’Grady. What if…”

  “Aye, the What If,” said O’Grady tiredly. “By the Saints, if I had a penny for all the life the clansmen fail to live for fear of the great What If. And you know, Lyre of the Gianes? ‘Tis never the What If that’s regretted in the end, is it? ‘Tis the lack of doing.”

  “But the curse...”

  “Back to curses again. Why it seems all this moaning and complaining is just persons making excuses for not coming together.”

  Lyre glowered.

  “I see. You’re afraid,” said O’Grady, and he tsked. “Cowardice. I would have thought a Gianes above it.”

  Lyre turned his head away.

  “His heart is breaking,” said O’Grady. “If I did not owe you a debt for how you have helped Maeebsef, I would feel the need to haunt you, Lyre.”

  He watched those white blond curls lifting and falling in the slight breeze, on Lyre’s silent head for a few more minutes.

  “Very well, then,” said O’Grady. “Enjoy your suffering, but leave him alone. I will not abide harm to my clan…” and O’Grady faded and floated into the mist.

  Lyre bowed his head to his crossed arms and let his boat drift.

  ***

  “Just heard, Brady.” The hand on his shoulder gave it an extra squeeze. “Good collar.” Seamus nodded and smiled, tight lipped, at the patrolmen as they passed him. An attack on one of them was an attack on them all. The whole precinct felt better knowing that the guy who’d shot Riley’d been nailed. Not tried and convicted, of course. But still it was a victory.

  Parker closed up his neat little desk. “Join me for a drink, Seamus?”

  Seamus actually felt inclined to do so. It surprised him, but there you were. “Thanks, Par… Joe,” he said. “I’m tired, though. Tomorrow?”

  “Sure,” said Joe, giving him a big smile “Good bust, Seamus. See ya tomorrow, partner.”

  “Yeah, buddy,” said Seamus. “Night.”

  Seamus punched his card, cramming his fists in his pockets as he stepped into the street. It was later than he’d thought. The gray going thick and wet like it did before nightfall. He hopped up the damp cement steps, grit crunching under his feet, the smell of sooty snow and exhaust and cinnamon.

  Cinnamon?

  He looked up. Lyre sat on the concrete edge that lined the steps where they rose to street level. He wore a gray colored coat, too lightweight for this weather, Seamus imagined, except he’d grown accustomed to Lyre’s strange clothing habits. The dark hue brought out the green in his eyes. Those eyes blazed across the twilight toward him now.

  “Hello, Seamus,” he said. And pushed a lock of longish hair behind one pointed ear.

  “Hi.” Seamus toed the grimy pavement at his feet, the blood pounding in his ears. He could hear himself breathing.

  “O’Grady paid me a visit.”

  “Oh.” Seamus nodded. Yeah, the old busybody was trying to help again. Damn him. “He tell you to come by, then?”

  “No.” Lyre stood and descended the steps. His suede boots seemed impervious to the slush on the ground. “He told me to leave you alone.”

  He stood looking down at Seamus; green eyes wicked in that pale face. Seamus had to laugh. “You are a very bad faerie. You hungry?”

  “I don’t…”

  “Right. You don’t eat. Well, let me buy you a cup of tea at least.”

  Lyre looked down, frowning.

  “Fine, then,” snapped Seamus. And he made to run up the steps.

  “Wait.” Lyre’s voice stopped him. “I’d…I’d like…tea, Seamus.”

  Seamus turned and looked at him. The points of Lyre’s ears were red. It was fucking adorable. “I see.” Seamus took a big breath, as one does before jumping into a pool. “That, uh, not lying thing still working?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “Well, then, gotta ask you something.”

  Lyre looked up, eyes serious. “Ask away, Seamus.”

  “You gonna bolt this time?”

  Lyre’s brows twisted into that worried line above his nose. “Are we still talking about tea?”

  Seamus turned his head so Lyre wouldn’t see the smile trying to form on his lips. He looked up at the line of grimy windows that lined the building above their heads. “Guess that depends on you. You still feel the same way?”

  Lyre nodded, throat working. “Yes,” he said, hoarsely.

  Seamus nodded. “Yeah, okay. Me too. Okay then,” he said. “We’ll do tea. I’ll even let you drink the cream.”

  Lyre smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Ambrosia,” he said. “Milk and honey.”

  “Ah,” said Seamus. “I shoulda known it was some faerie thing.” He could feel the shape of the air between them, so alive with wanting to touch. So thick with the fear of it.

  “Hey,” said Seamus. “While you’re drinkin’ yer concoction, you can give me some advice.”

  “Advice?”

  “How to handle the family Banshee,” he said. “He’s a fucking nightmare. Always about, poking in and out of my business. Figured you might have some insight.”

  Lyre’s eyes sparkled. “I can do that,” he said, and his hand reached for Seamus’. Easy as that. Cool, strong fingers intertwined with his.

  Seamus kept nodding. “Yeah, okay.” He squeezed Lyre’s fingers. “We gonna try it then?”

  Lyre looked at him with wide eyes. “I think so.”

  Seamus felt it, like tendrils of seaweed in those pictures on the faerie websites he’d been surfing. The enchanted waters around him closing in a globe. He was drowning, going under for the last time.

  “Right then,” he said. “I’m in your hands.”

  THE END.

  The poetry quoted within this story is that of a little known poet, Padraic Pearce. He and his friend, Francis Sheehy-Skeffington, were heroes of Irish independence, executed as a result of the Easter Uprising of 1913.

  My character is entirely fictional and I do not mean to imply that any descendants of Mr. Sheehy-Skeffington are gay or policemen, although I would not be surprised to learn that they consort with faeries.

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  A Torquere Press Everyday Spectre - 1