by C. E. Murphy
"The pregnant gwyld was clever and wise, took you away from prying eyes. Should have known it couldn't last, power like yours can't be passed." Her voice was singsong and scaly, grating against the ringing in my ears. I tried jerking my head back. Not even a banshee could like a head butt to the bridge of the nose, right? But the weight of her hand was too much to move. I considered giving up and dying. It was pretty clearly in the books. On the other hand, she was saying something interesting, if I could get enough oxygen to my brain to work my way through her bad poetry. "Master sees and Master hears, gains his strength through bloodred tears. Thirty years he's gone unfed, shaman's gifts protect the dead."
The words burrowed into my brain, extracting details about my life in exchange for my fumbling grasp of what the banshee was telling me. I whimpered into the snow and tried hard to hang on to the idea of my name wrapped safely up in airbags and seat belts. I felt the scrape of her voice slide off that thought, and nearly laughed with relief. I could keep her away from the most important things. At least if I was going to die, I wasn't going to die with my soul eaten.
Power erupted in my belly like molten gold being poured into me. I straightened my arms, suddenly filled with strength, and shoved up, lifting the Blade's weight as if it were inconsequential. I whipped around, flinging her off me, and she landed yards away, skidding through the snow on hands and knees, back arched like an angry cat. For an instant, the banshee cries stopped, leaving a silence so profound it hurt me in my bones.
I had no time to wonder where the new strength was coming from. I drew on the memory of my mother, throwing up a jail cell made of her own will, and copied it. Bars of blazing silver flashed up out of the snow, slamming closed around the banshee. She threw her head back and keened, a high piercing note that shivered all the way to the bloody moon. My bars wavered under the onslaught, and her voice strengthened, the moon itself seeming to hang lower in the sky the longer she wailed.
Black threads of power, the sacrificed lives of three women, wound together and responded to the banshee's cries. They leaped through the bars I'd built, piercing her bony body. She grew in size and in power, feeding from the blood lines, which throbbed and pulsed like arteries as they spread across the snow. I dug deeper into the fresh power I'd found, discovering an ocean's depth of energy waiting to be tapped. It ran deeper than I did, the same kind of power that Billy had tapped into earlier that day. The love of family, the protective streak that went beyond what a single person could encompass. I could use it, but I doubted I'd live through it.
It didn't matter.
The ocean of blue crushed down upon the banshee, pressing down to sever the blood lines. They flattened, carrying less sustenance but refusing to shatter. I felt half-moon cuts opening up on my palms, my hands fisted so tightly that blood couldn't escape the tiny slices my fingernails made. The banshee kept screaming, her voice muffled by the weight of my power, but not yet broken. I set my teeth together and reached deeper into the core of power I'd tapped, willing to die as long as I took the other bitch with me.
Sheila MacNamarra put her hand in mine, pale and wraithlike in the bloody moonlight. There was no substance to her, only a terrible force of will, and with her touch a heart of coldness broke inside me. I gave her one shocked look and she returned it with a smile as warm as the summer sun.
"We started this nearly thirty years ago, now didn't we?" The lilt in her voice turned thirty into tarty. "Let's put an end to it, shall we?"
That morning, and almost thirty years ago, I'd thrown her a fastball of my own power. Now she made good on the gift, returning it threefold. The depth I'd reached, the unexpected strength, wasn't mine at all, and it wouldn't, in the end, tap me out. It was my mother who would die for it. My mother who had already died for it.
Golden strength and red temper flowed into me, blending with my own silvers and blues in a way I hadn't seen before. She shored up the silver bars of the cage I'd built, added her weight to that of the deep blue sea. Out of the corner of my eye I saw her nod, and found myself walking forward, my fingers trailing in the golden depth of her strength.
I slipped between the bars of the cage I'd built, putting my hand all the way into Sheila's power, and withdrawing a sword made of fire. I recognized the shape of it: a rapier with a sweeping guard that flickered and warmed my hand without burning me. Flames shimmered to a deadly edge along the slender blade. The Banshee's screams erupted all over again, but the power bearing down on her muffled them and left my beleaguered ears in no real danger.
The black lines of blood magic that fed her parted under the sword's blade where they'd refused to disintegrate under raw force. A scalpel, I thought. My mother was a scalpel. And I came so close to never knowing that. To not understanding.
The banshee stopped screaming when the lines were cut, her gaze fixed on the red moon, as if waiting for rescue to come. I glanced up at it, then shook my head. "He's still locked behind bars." Not bars. Behind a fallen cave mouth, the broken stones held in place by my mother's will. My mother, who, with my help, had disrupted the sacrifice that would feed him, almost thirty years ago. And with her help I'd done it again tonight. "Still hungry, too." I leaned in, my hands shaking. "Too weak to help you, bitch."
Surprise creased the Blade's narrow face as I took her head, the fiery rapier ripping through her neck with the sound of paper tearing, loud in the absence of her cries. I caught her falling head with a grace that bewildered me, fingers knotted in her thin hair, and walked away from the dusty bones with a spot of emptiness building inside me. All the power that had been brought to bear, both mine and the dark stuff birthed by the banshee's murders, faded, clear moonlight reestablishing itself over the frozen fields. My mother, wearing the cable-knit sweater and jeans she'd worn in her youth, folded her arms beneath her breasts and smiled at me.
"Mom…" I hadn't ever called her that before. It made my throat tight, and her smile fragile. "You brought me to America to protect me from that thing, didn't you?" The banshee's rhymes finally made sense. "So it couldn't find me."
Her smile flickered, still fragile, and she lifted her chin. I saw, quite clearly, the silver Celtic cross of a necklace that rested against her collarbone, momentarily exposed by the shift of her sweater. I pressed my fingers against my throat, where the same necklace now rested.
"I thought it was for the best, lass. You told me, you see. Before you were born, you told me I hadn't succeeded in destroying the Blade. It was all I could think of to do, to protect you."
I closed my eyes briefly, remembering the way joy had bled from her expression and left resolution in its place. I nodded in a jerky motion, and made myself open my eyes again. "Thank you."
"I thought I could explain when you were grown. When you came to see me. But you weren't ready." Grief colored the shadow of her smile. "So closed off, Siobhán. Whatever happened to you, that turned you away from the wonders of the world?" She lifted her hand, staying my answer before I had a chance to give it. "There's no time, not anymore. There hasn't been since the beginning. Bitter ashes, isn't it, but that's the price of Gaelic blood, my Siobhán. For all their wars are merry."
"And all their songs are sad," I whispered. Surprise brought out her smile and let it fade into pleasure at my recognition of the quote.
"It was all I could think of to do, loose myself from the world. I could see it in you, Siobhán. Joanne. My Joanne. That the moment was coming when you'd have to choose. I thought if I could hold on in spirit, I might protect you for a little while. Distract the darker things while you grew to understand your gifts."
"You did." My throat was still tight. I tried swallowing against it, but came up dry. "You were here. I would have died tonight. Thank you. I…will I see you again?" She was fading around the edges now, like the Cheshire Cat. I knew the answer even before she shook her head, and looked away to hide the shock of loneliness I felt stab through me.
"The space of the winter moons was all I could bargain for. I was afr
aid even it might not be enough."
"Bargain?" I looked back at her, what was left to see. She looked younger somehow, the smile that curved her mouth belonging to a woman I'd hardly known.
"Goodbye, Siobhán. Know that I love you." There was nothing left but her smile, and then even that was gone.
* * *
Morrison had joined Billy and Gary at the bleachers when I walked back to them. None of them seemed to see me coming. Gary clutched his chest and sat down with a thud, glaring at me as I clumped up to the bleachers. "What the hell happened out there, Jo?"
"What'd you see?"
"Not a goddamned thing! You ran off and now you're back!"
I looked up at the sky. The moon seemed higher than it had been, more solid and real somehow. "It didn't seem that long to me."
Morrison was staring grimly at the head I still carried. "Is that the killer?"
I lifted the head a few inches. "Yeah."
"Where's the rest of it?"
"Out there." I turned around, waving the banshee's head at the field.
There was no body lying in the snow, nor any sign of the wrestling fight I'd had with her. The only footprints at all in the new snow were mine, leading up to the bleachers. Even they only seemed to begin a few yards away, just on this side of the closest blood line that had been drawn with one of the victim's entrails. I stood there a few seconds, waiting for a clever explanation to pop into mind.
Nothing did. After a moment I looked at the head again, then over my shoulder at Morrison as I hefted it. "Do you want me to bring this in?"
It took a long time for him to say no. I nodded and gave it a swing or two, then threw it back the way I came. It arched and hit the snow with a soft poof, powder flying in the air. When it cleared, there was no mark that suggested anything had landed on the smooth white surface.
"It's over," Morrison said, almost a question. I nodded. Billy let out a whistle that split the air and shoved his hands in his pockets with an air of finality.
"So who wants to come back to the house for dinner? I bet Mel kept it warm. Why don't you come with us, Captain? There's plenty."
Gary stomped down the bleachers, Billy a step or two behind him. Morrison looked at me. I kept my head turned a little to the side, meeting his eyes. He finally nodded and jerked his chin. "Let's go."
Tension ebbed from my shoulders and I dropped my chin to my chest. "Captain." Not Morrison. I didn't know why.
Morrison turned, eyebrows lifted. I swallowed, trying to figure out the right thing to say. Neither "thank you" nor "sorry" seemed exactly appropriate. I stood there gazing at him until he developed a faint, surprisingly understanding smile. "Come on, Walker," he said, more gently. "We're done here." He tilted his head again and walked down the bleachers after the other two.
I let out a deep breath and followed them all, smiling at the moon.
~
Thunderbird Falls, the next book of the Walker Papers, is available now!
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Acknowledgements
I'm delighted to be republishing Banshee Cries, and would like to tip my hat to Skyla Dawn Cameron for her AMAAAAAZING new cover art, wow.
I'd also like to thank the original editor for this project, Mary-Theresa Hussey, for commissioning it: it's been a pleasure watching this little book do its job all these years, and it wouldn't exist without her!
And lastly, of course, but obviously not leastly, all my love is due to Dad, and Ted, and Henry!
-Catie
About the Author
According to her friends, CE Murphy makes such amazing fudge that it should be mentioned first in any biography. It's true that she makes extraordinarily good fudge, but she's somewhat surprised that it features so highly in biographical relevance.
Other people said she began her writing career when she ran away from home at age five to write copy for the circus that had come to town. Some claimed she's a crowdsourcing pioneer, which she rather likes the sound of, but nobody actually got around to pointing out she's written a best-selling urban fantasy series (The Walker Papers), or that she dabbles in writing graphic novels (Take A Chance) and periodically dips her toes into writing short stories (the Old Races collections).
Still, it's clear to her that she should let her friends write all of her biographies, because they're much more interesting that way.
More prosaically, she was born and raised in Alaska, and now lives with her family in her ancestral homeland of Ireland, which is a magical place where it rains a lot but nothing one could seriously regard as winter ever actually arrives.
She can be found online at mizkit.com, @ce_murphy, fb.com/cemurphywriter, and at her newsletter, which you should definitely sign up for because it's by far the best way to hear what's out next!
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Did you love Banshee Cries? Then you should read Truthseeker by C.E. Murphy!
Lara Jansen is the world's worst liar. Literally.
Born with an uncanny gift to know when the truth is being spoken, Lara lives a quiet, risk-adverse life as a tailor. But when handsome, mysterious Dafydd ap Caerwyn enters her life and claims—truthfully—to be a prince of Faerie, Lara's world is turned upside-down.
Dafydd has traveled from his world—the Barrow-lands—in search of a 'truthseeker' to help untangle the truth around his brother's murder, a crime which the warring factions in the Seelie court can't solve. Lara, determined to take a few chances with her life, agrees to journey to the Barrow-lands with him, but there, discovers that even her gifts don't necessarily prevent people from lying to her...and that charming, irresistible Dafydd has secrets of his own.
Caught between ancient, bitter rivalries and a burgeoning evil wielding dark power, Lara's own abilities grow uncontrollably, and the Barrow-lands may yet discover that truth is the deadliest magic of all….
Read more at C.E. Murphy’s site.
Also by C.E. Murphy
Collected Tales of the Old Races
Year of Miracles
Baba Yaga's Daughter
Kiss of Angels
The Austen Chronicles
Magic & Manners
The Guildmaster Saga
Stonemaster
Seamaster
The Heartstrike Chronicles
Atlantis Fallen
From Coffin to Grave
The Inheritors' Cycle
The Queen's Bastard
The Pretender's Crown
The Lovelorn Lads
Bewitching Benedict
The Redeemer Wars
Redeemer
The Rising
Keys
The Strongbox Chronicles
The Cardinal Rule
The Walker Papers
Banshee Cries (Coming Soon)
The Worldwalker Duology
Wayfinder
Truthseeker
Standalone
Roses in Amber
Siryn
Stone's Throe
Watch for more at C.E. Murphy’s site.
