Banshee Song (A Steamy Paranormal Fantasy Romance)

by Jen Katemi

  “Want me? Then you’ll have to come and get me.” I open my mouth and scream at them as loudly as I can.

  Everyone in the room staggers back, clapping their hands over their ears. I keep the scream going, using everything innate within me, on top of everything I’ve been taught as a singer, to control the note until I hear glass shattering in the background. Good! When the groans of pain around me become audible—even through the scream—I turn and begin to run.

  I ACHIEVE AN EMBARRASSINGLY short distance before one of the loups knocks into me from behind. I topple to the ground. It sits on top of my back, crushing my lungs with its weight, and sniffs greedily at the back of my neck with its disgusting wet muzzle. I almost retch right here on the fancy rug when a hot wet tongue licks my skin.

  “You can have her after the ritual. If there’s anything left.” The voice above me is that of the lead necromancer. He is addressing the abomination on my back, but clearly, his words are designed to fill me with dread.

  Instead of dread, hatred for him and his cronies suffuses my whole body. I have never felt more helpless, and never felt more motivated to hurt another human being. Even kill them, if I can, despite the fact that I will no doubt have to endure the banshee call of death. I am willing to put up with that, to rid the world of beings as evil as this bunch of monsters.

  I might be fired up to hatred, but my situation doesn’t bode well for being able to act upon it. Instead, the weight disappears off my back and I am unceremoniously hauled to my feet by a clawed hand. A woman I hadn’t noticed among the crowd steps forward and gestures to the abomination to bring me to her.

  She is dark-haired and robed, like the men, and when she tosses back her hair, I notice her ears are rounded. She’s not fae, then. Perhaps she is human, or part-human, like me. A witch? Whoever she is, I sense no avenue of assistance will be forthcoming. She exudes the same oily feel as the others.

  She leads the way through the castle hallways and the abomination drags me along in her wake. The clawed grip on my upper arm remains unrelenting and provides no opportunity for escape. We head down a narrow set of stairs and through a large wooden door at the base, and then along more winding hallways until we reach a large, columned room in which a sunken pool sits in the middle. Purple-tinged steam rises from the water, and I almost choke at the cloying humidity. Two women, obviously servants by their submissive demeanor, are waiting by the edge of the pool with towels in their arms.

  “Leave us now,” the woman instructs the loup. “The room is protected and she cannot leave unless I provide permission.”

  It still seems strange to refer to the creature as a loup, even in my own thoughts. Loups are by definition supernatural creatures who have gone mad, and generally, they display no control or reason whatsoever. I notice a strangely patterned medallion around its neck and wonder if that has anything to do with its apparent obedience to these necromancers.

  The loup who attacked me in the apartment building was wearing one of these... If I were to rip it off...

  If it is the necklace keeping the loup obedient to its master or mistress, then me removing it would probably just result in my instant death, and probably the deaths of everyone else in this room, given what a normal loup is like.

  Before I can fully decide one way or the other what to do, the loup is gone, and the woman moves to the door and barks instructions over my head.

  “Bathe and clean her from top to toe, and then dress her ready for the ritual,” the woman says to the other two. Then she turns her gaze on me. “If you resist, I will have these servants killed, and bring in two vampire loups to finish the job of bathing you. Either way it will be done, but if you resist, their deaths are on you. Do you understand?”

  I glance at the two serving women, who are staring at me in fear. They know their fate lies in my hands, and now, I know it, too.

  “Yes,” I say through clenched teeth. “I understand.”

  “Good. Now hurry along and bathe. We don’t have much time before Her Majesty will return, and you need to be ready.”

  Ready for what? What the hell is this ritual they keep speaking of? I have no opportunity to ask her any questions, because she disappears out the door and then slams it behind her.

  I lunge at the door and wrestle with the handle, but it is locked. I stare wildly around, looking for another door, or a window, but there is nothing.

  “Come, my lady.” One of the women steps forward. “It is enchanted. You won’t escape this room. Not unless they want you to. Now, why don’t you undress and climb into this nice warm bath?”

  As if in response to her words, the scent of lavender, and other herbs, and that underlying oily smell that permeates the very air we are all breathing, rises up like a creeping mist and curls its tendrils around me.

  Despite the warmth in the room, I shiver. The last thing I want to do is immerse myself in that purple-tinted water, but it seems like I don’t have any choice in the matter.

  What the devil has that evil ex-queen planned for me?

  Tarrien

  WE ARRIVE BACK AT RENNA’S quarters in the royal palace and I disentangle my hand from hers. She has brought us directly to her spell room, which should save us precious time.

  To her credit, Renna moves quickly through the room toward a row of cupboards, and I begin to see that she is, in fact, concerned for her daughter. I am still annoyed by her threat to have my family killed, but I must put that aside for now if we are to do this, together.

  “Tell me what you need,” I say, staring around at the shelves of strange containers and old books. Fae magic is innate within us, though there are some, like Renna, who have also taken on more human practises such as those of witches or wizards. Or even necromancers. I scan the room, searching for any trace of purple, but nothing jumps out.

  She pushes me aside and rushes to a wooden cupboard, withdrawing a container covered in strange markings.

  “I only need this, and your power to amplify it,” she says, bringing the container to a bench in the center of the room. “Come.”

  She beckons and I hurry across. She opens the container and tips it up, and a smooth gray stone drops to the bench. It is innocuous looking, though almost as big as her palm. When she picks it up and holds it, the stone begins to glow with a pale blue light.

  “It’s a tracing spell. I bought it from a witch many years ago, but have never had the need to use it, before now. Place your palm over the top, Tarrien.”

  I do as I am told.

  “Good. Now that it is cradled within our palms, I need you to concentrate. Do what you would normally do when seeking out someone’s whereabouts. I will channel my magics through the stone at the same time, and together, we should be able to find Indigo. If she is still...”

  Renna swallows, and for the first time ever, pity stirs within my breast when I look at her. She does care. Not in the way a normal mother should. Not in the way my mother has always cared for my sister and me. But it seems that I was wrong. Renna really does want Indie to be okay.

  “We’ll find her in time, Renna. I promise.” I send out my magic, feeling the boost from her power through the stone, like a rush right through my veins. Does she feel the same, from me?

  Renna’s lips move as she whispers an incantation, and then, out of nowhere, I sense Indie’s essence. It whispers through the ether, faint and nebulous, but it is there. I suck in my breath at the same moment Renna gasps and drops the stone.

  “She’s alive. I felt her, but...” I frown, unable to pinpoint exactly where she is. “I don’t understand. It didn’t feel like Faerie, and yet... it did. How is that possible?”

  Renna rubs her palm, over and over, until I lean forward and gently stop the movement. She raises her eyes to mine, worry etched deep in their green depths.

  “I felt her, too. She’s in... the Badlands,” she whispers, and my heart jumps.

  No.

  “They took her to the Badlands?” The halfway place, right on t
he edge between Faerie and the Nothing. Ruled by monsters and outlaws, of the worst kind.

  Nausea rushes through me. I can’t imagine a world—any world—in which Indie is snuffed out to nothing. And yet, if she takes a step in the wrong direction, trying to escape by herself...

  “If she tries to get away from her captors, she could cross over into the Nothing, and cease to exist.” Renna voices my concern and then grips the edge of the bench, hunching forward.

  Against my instinct, I round the table and put my arm awkwardly across her shoulders. “I won’t let her. Do you hear me? I will not let that happen, Renna.”

  She nods but doesn’t meet my gaze. “I am sorry for what I threatened earlier. About your mother and sister.”

  Shock sends my eyebrows soaring skyward. Renna apologizing? That’s a first. It shows the extent of her worry. Have I gotten her completely wrong, all these years? I am beginning to doubt my own views on everything, thanks to these contrary banshee women.

  I squeeze her a little. “I will get her back.”

  I have to. The alternative is unthinkable.

  “Once you are in the Badlands, you will sense where she is. You will be able to find her, Tarrien. But you need to hurry. Please.”

  I release Renna and reach for my ring. I am going to require assistance for this search and rescue mission. I will need several of my fellow winter warriors on board—those with the greatest power to resist the call of evil. Especially if we’re heading into the Badlands.

  Time to go to war.

  Chapter Nine

  Indigo

  IN THE END, I ACQUIESCE quietly, stripping off and bathing as quickly as I can, refusing to let either of the women touch me. I have to admit, the warmth of the purple-tinged water is more soothing than I expected. When I climb out of the pool—I can’t call it a bath; it’s too large—one of the women hands me a fluffy white towel.

  I stare around, looking for my clothing that I left in a pile at the edge of the pool. Nothing.

  “Where are my clothes?” I wrap myself in the towel and raise a querying brow at the woman.

  “You won’t need them, dear.” The other woman materializes out of the shadows. She has a long satin gown draped across her arms. “Here, you can wear this instead.”

  “Yeah.” I eye the plunging neckline and sheer nature of the fabric as she holds it up. “I don’t think so. Give me back my own clothing, please.”

  The woman’s mouth turns down in disapproval. “They are gone. It’s either wear this, or appear in front of the conclave naked, and that wouldn’t be very nice, now, would it?”

  Right. I purse my lips, trying to hold in a curse word.

  “Well,” I say at last. “Judging by the look of that, there’s not much difference between the two options. But I guess I don’t have a choice.”

  I’m getting a little sick of having my right to choose taken away from me.

  I wonder what she means by conclave. Is this a necromancer stronghold, and the conclave is their group meeting? A shareholder’s meeting, wizard-style.

  Why is a fae queen—an ex-communicated one, at that—here and apparently calling the shots? Necromancers are a secretive breed, from what I understand. Full of pride and powerful in their own right. Why would they kowtow to a banished fae royal?

  The whispers over the years about evil intentions and bad magic have always been just that. Whispers. Rumors. I’ve never had any call to pay attention. I’ve never even met a necromancer before. Unless...

  Was it wizard magic that killed my friend six months ago? Courtesy of a piloted loup? The seeds of that idea were already planted in my mind after the attack on my neighbor. Now, those seeds have sprouted, and the reality that Sienna probably died because she was my friend, sends ripples of horror through my system.

  At the time, I believed the police who decided it was a random attack. Though I blamed myself for a long time, my therapist helped me understand that what I was experiencing was likely survivor’s guilt, which is not uncommon in situations like that.

  Sienna and I had just left the theater after a show and planned to head across the street for drinks at the cabaret club. We were standing on the sidewalk, chatting, when I realized I’d forgotten my wallet. I ran back inside to retrieve it from my dressing room, and was on my way out again when the banshee call struck.

  Calling in the death of my best friend was by far the worst moment of my life.

  By the time I was able speak coherently and stagger back outside, it was too late. Sienna was dead, her throat a mangled mess and one of her ears torn off. A crowd of horrified onlookers had formed around her body, which is likely why the killer ran off. It was deemed by the police as an interrupted robbery, though why a thief would take the time to bite out her throat but leave her handbag lying on the street next to her, was a question that remained unanswered.

  As I collapsed beside her that night, still sobbing and crooning in the wake of the banshee cry, it seemed to me that an unpleasant purple haze lay over my friend. It eventually dissipated in the night breeze, and I hadn’t thought any more about the haze. Until now.

  A necromancer killed my friend. Which means... it wasn’t a random attack. They were likely after me.

  Fresh guilt washes over me, only this time, the guilt is laced with fury.

  Who are these vicious monsters, and what the hell do they want?

  The serving women slip the dress over my head, and when the fabric slithers down my legs and pools at my feet, I turn and study my reflection in the tall dressing mirror positioned off to one side of the room. Unfortunately, the mirror confirms that the dress is as see-through as I suspected. So much so, that I’m tempted to just rip it off once again and face whatever is coming buck-naked.

  At least that might be less sexually enticing than the hints of nipple and bare mound that appear and disappear every time I move in this ridiculous outfit.

  Is this going to be some kind of sex thing? Where a whole bunch of creepy men in ceremonial robes get off at the sight of the mostly naked banshee woman in a sheer dress?

  Then I remember that some of those robed figures were abominations, and a wave of nausea hits me.

  My heart speeds up and I clutch my hands together so the women can’t see them trembling.

  Hold on to the fury. It’s safer to focus on that, than to fall apart in terror.

  “Come, dear. Take a seat and we will dress your hair.”

  Oh, Dreya. I would give anything to be back in my small dressing room at the theater, my assistant bossing me around as she runs a brush through my hair and helps with my makeup.

  If only I was there with you now, my dear friend.

  The women drag a chair over to the dressing mirror and shove me down into it, and then both of them take turns to comb out my long hair and braid the edges into delicate little plaits.

  I stare at my own reflection while they do their thing. My eyes are wide and scared, and the green color is brighter than usual. I guess they reflect the turmoil of emotions inside. I can barely contain my rage now. I feel as if I’m about to explode with the force of it. My cheeks are faintly flushed, and I can see the pulse at the base of my neck beating super-fast, which means these two women can probably see it too. I wonder if they know how riled up I am, and why. I clutch my hands even more tightly together in my lap, until my nails dig in to the flesh of my palms, forming little crescent marks.

  Eventually the women finish doing my hair, and one of them comes around to face me and then darts out a hand to pinch my bottom lip hard between finger and thumb.

  “Ow, Jesus!” I duck my head away and she makes a tsking noise.

  “Just brightening up your mouth, dear. Now it’s nice and plump and rosy.”

  Great.

  “Don’t touch me again,” I say, and the two women laugh.

  “We don’t need to. You’re as ready as you can be for the ritual, dear.”

  Double great. I grit my teeth and wait for the return of the
queen. Bring it on, bitches. I still have a voice, and this banshee is not afraid to use it.

  In the end, it isn’t the queen who returns for me, but one of the hooded and robed men. At least it’s not one of the loups. He doesn’t speak, just looks me up and down and grins lasciviously. Then he gestures, and I march out ahead of him in the direction he indicates with my head held high and the heat of embarrassment in my cheeks.

  I’m about to enter a whole room full of these monsters, and they’ll likely all be staring at my privates, just like this guy. Ignore the leering, I tell myself. Think of it as a stage performance with an uncooperative crowd.

  Easier said than done.

  After heading down a long and winding set of stairs and along a corridor that has no windows, we reach a set of double doors. I presume we must be underground, and I hope the doors are not going to open up to reveal a rat-infested prison cell, or a dungeon.

  No such luck. A prison cell would have been preferable to what greets me when the doors swing open and I march into the room ahead of my captor.

  I stop short as a wave of illness washes over me. Death has touched this room, many times over. So much so, that even though the previous inhabitants passed over a while ago, the effects are strong enough to linger. I clutch at my belly, trying not to heave.

  The space is cavernous, to the point that I can’t even see a ceiling. The floor is made of stone, and tall pillars are dotted throughout the room, each pillar sporting a flickering candle lamp. Straight ahead of me is what looks like an altar, also made of stone. It could be a place of worship—though this is unlike any place of worship I’ve ever seen. The altar consists primarily of one huge, human-bed-sized slab, with purple candles decorating each corner.

  In front of the slab, a fire pit ringed by a shallow stone wall has been arranged on the floor. Within the confines of the pit, a fire is already stoked and roaring. Above the fire an enormous black brazier bubbles and steams with a purple mist. Gathered around the fire and staring into the rising steam from the pot, are at least a couple of dozen robed figures, chanting in a language I don’t recognize.