The Monster Ball Year 2

by Heather Hildenbrand

  Those days were long gone as were her followers. Now, she was a relic. A line in a history book if even that. A legend, a story. A bit of folklore. Remembered by the O’Briens and few else.

  It was a lonely existence. If only—

  No. It did no good to dwell. Choices had been made, both by forced hand and heartbreak. What was, was.

  Still, and it was rotten to think so, but damn Colm O’Brien for settling in Glastonbury. As if she needed any more temptation, let alone regrets. Or memories surfacing when she’d done her very best to tuck them into the deep, dark recesses of her mind.

  She sighed, shifting the harp until it settled more comfortably against her back. In and out, that would be the trick. She could do this. If she were lucky, Annwn would be nary the wiser about her presence. She did not want to visit the fae Otherworld, nor did she wish to converse with any of its denizens. It was bad enough that she was in England.

  Aoibheall drew her scarlet cloak around her shoulders and covered her riotous curls with its hood. She pivoted from the concrete road, into the safety of the town, sticking close to the stone and wood buildings.

  Fae typically didn’t like cities. They were filled with iron and humanity, twin shining examples of the past’s erasure. Except, today, Glastonbury was busy, its streets clogged with flamboyant people bustling to and fro. Anticipation and music saturated the very air with the exuberant scent of scarce spring crocuses in summer. And fae were moths to a flame when it came to music. Which meant . . .

  She paused, searching out the epicenter of the region’s energy. It was nearby, not quite in the town proper. Pilton, perhaps?

  Still. It was too much, too close. She cursed the O’Brien anew as she melted into the crowd. Most humans ignored her, instinctively stepping to the side as she passed. A rare few’s attention flitted her way and then skittered quickly as if they knew, deep in their souls, that she was not one to be trifled with. Aoibheall always figured the humans who could sense her had drops of fae blood running through their veins.

  Even amongst the fae, banshees were outcasts.

  As she did with the rest of his family, she followed the thread binding her to the O’Brien, its tug adamant yet waning, until she located his lodging. Colm O’Brien resided on a drowsy road as far away from the Tor as one could get and still be in Glastonbury. The building reeked of age and tragedies, its walls white, its trim russet.

  She sensed the humans inside, a man and a woman amorous in both mood and activity. She debated allowing them to finish, but time was running short. The thread was fraying.

  She directed a quick, gentle apology along the breeze caressing the abode. Then, she rounded the home toward the small courtyard in the back, gathering all of the shadows she could find. It was an abnormally cheerful, bright day. Death was always kinder in the inky softness of a night’s embrace. To perish in sunlight was a stark shame.

  Too bad she never got a say when the O’Briens were to leave the land of the living.

  Unlike her sister, she was not one for theatrics. In and out, that was her motto. She had a job—she’d do it and leave, ensuring there were no encounters with a certain . . . someone. What was left of her heart would remain intact. She floated upward, toward the window she sensed was directly across from the room Colm O’Brien was occupying. She willed her harp into her hands. And then she played the young man a farewell song, tears streaming down her face.

  The home gradually stilled. All of the lovers’ heat and passion bled away, replaced first with bewilderment and then terror. Aoibheall wept harder, grieving the loss of a brief, bright life and his wife’s uncertain future. Twenty-nine was too young to both become a widow and to bid goodbye to cherished dreams and possibilities. As Aoibheall knew all too well, an existence without the love of one’s life was not an easy one.

  She offered them the gentlest of dirges. The O’Brien and his bride deserved nothing less.

  As she plucked the last notes upon the harp’s golden strings, she lowered to the ground. Aoibheall wanted nothing more than to withdraw, giving the lovers inside time to make their farewells.

  A brief round of clapping stilled her retreat, followed by a husky, “Bravo!”

  Someone was lounging in one of the courtyard’s wooden chairs—more specifically, the one fae she hoped to never lay eyes upon again.

  Colm O’Brien had done her dirty, moving to England.

  Chapter Three

  Meeting

  “If it isn’t fair Aoibheall, gracing this side of the Irish Sea after so long away.”

  She tensed, her knuckles as white as any calla lily as she gripped her harp. She sucked in a deep breath, willing her features to settle before fully facing the fae who’d found her.

  The scents of pine, fern, and snapdragon battled her senses. There he was, humility, magic, and deception wrapped in one. Her pulse stuttered. She cursed her heart’s softness.

  “Gwyn.”

  Her voice was steady. Good.

  He gracefully rose from the weather-beaten chair as if it were his throne. Antlers curved above his sandy hair, which was longer and messier than the last time she’d seen him. His face was caked with drying mud, indicating he was fresh from a hunt.

  It seemed impossible, but his wildness had only grown in the years since their last encounter.

  Kaleidoscope hazel eyes, glittering like emeralds, flicked toward the uppermost windows. “An O’Brien in England. How times have changed, my lady.”

  The scraping of a window heaving open preceded a human woman, close to hysteria, calling, “Can you see her? Is the banshee still here? It was a banshee, wasn’t it?”

  Aoibheall pressed herself closer to the house and bade her gathered shadows to offer protection, only for Gwyn ap Nudd to say, in the furthest tone from a whisper, “Have no fear. I’ve cloaked our presence.”

  He drew nearer, invading her senses with too many aromas, both magical and natural. He even smelled wild, of loam and rain, of blood and leaves. Her stomach churned with memories, both good and bad.

  From within, Colm O’Brien shouted, “Don’t be daft. Banshees aren’t real!”

  Gwyn chuckled, and it was raspy and delicious and so alluring that Aoibheall nearly followed suit. Only, her cheeks were still damp with regret, and she no longer found humans’ deaths amusing. And Gwyn was here, and time had not been benevolent and healed her ruined heart yet.

  “Sweet Jesus above,” the woman cried, “we need to get you to a doctor!”

  Gwyn cocked his head toward the house. “Shall we inform them that a doctor won’t help?”

  He knew, then. Understood what she now was, what she did, and saw for himself just how far she’d fallen from her pinnacle.

  She drew the harp to her bosom, holding her chin high in just the way stubborn pride would allow. Nothing could save the young man now: not money, not a doctor, luck, nor prayers. She could say the same for herself.

  Aoibheall discreetly cleared her throat. “Might I inquire as to why the Lord of the Hunt has graced me with his presence?”

  Disappointment briefly settled across the line of his shoulders before he straightened. She waited, perhaps even wished, for a belated explanation. It remained locked away as he instead said, “There were reports of Irish fae in the area. It’s my duty to check out anything amiss.”

  Gwyn ap Nudd had thousands of fairies and soldiers at his beck and call. Any of them ought to have investigated her presence. This was nothing more than another of his attempts to play with her.

  “My son is to be King of the Fae, ruler of Annwn, Lord of the Dead, and leader of the Wild Hunt.” Nudd Llaw Ereint towered over her, dark as night and angry as the storm pounding the land so many centuries before. “He is fated to be with Creiddylad, in Britannia, not Éire and its primitiveness. You are naught more than a toy to him.”

  Then, her outrage was justified. She had been a fairy queen, a goddess. Less than a fortnight afterward, though, while she was visiting her sister, Clíodhna gifted
Aoibheall a small, jeweled box. “I found it at the river,” Clíodhna had told her, “and instantly thought of you.” It was exquisite, its gems the same fiery shade as Aoibheall’s locks. But then she opened it, and the gift transitioned into a curse, stripping away their divinities and worshippers in less than a heartbeat.

  Both the fae she had fallen impossibly in love with and her purpose were lost, all within the same moon’s lifespan.

  Aoibheall dropped into a curtsy, head lowered. Gwyn’s modern boots were caked to the ankles; his pants splattered with blood and dirt. Amiss. Yes, she—they—were amiss. Just as they should be if they ought to be anything at all.

  The movie screen in her mind roared to life, replaying the very worst of memories: an impassioned kiss shared between fated lovers, one that cleaved apart Aoibheall’s heart and ground hope and dreams to dust. Creiddylad was so lovely with her pearlescent hair and lithe body entwined in Gwyn’s arms.

  Aoibheall wanted to purge the contents of her stomach. To rage and keen, not for the O’Briens but for herself.

  The recollection smarted just as vibrantly today as it had years before. Harps and wails, she was a nitwit who couldn’t learn her lesson.

  She still loved him.

  Aoibheall refused to let him know this, though. She said, cool as the ocean’s draughts at winter, “I beg your forgiveness, my lord. I ought to have informed the Court of my intent to travel beyond Éire’s borders and into this domain.”

  “As you can see, you are not wanted. Rally your pride, queenling. You still have your Court in Éire.”

  She swallowed the robin’s egg growing in her throat and angrily banished the memories. Nudd Llaw Ereint had done her a favor that day. She’d nearly forgotten her purpose, herself. She’d briefly, madly considered the concept of they instead of I.

  To the fae, there could be no bigger sin.

  A gloved finger slid beneath her chin, nudging her attention upward. She refocused on the Gwyn before her, erasing the one from so very long ago. The Lord of the Hunt’s brows furrowed, cracking the mud into spider webs across his forehead. “Aoibheall.”

  Those two syllables from his mouth, so insincerely gentle yet maddening. Eefv-ayl. She used to love how her name sounded in his husky voice. Now, it was the swift slice of a blade through her chest.

  The air pinched in the silence between them, awkward and agonizing. She would not be the one to break it.

  She had held out this long. She would continue to do so until the sun no longer rose.

  “Aoibheall.” Her name was so quiet, so resigned this second time. “Is this how it must be?”

  Oh, he was talented, so good at transforming into the damaged party.

  She offered her former lover nothing, not even when her eyes began to sting, and the muscles in her chest tightened so intensely she feared she might pass out. She would not embarrass herself further than she had when she’d fled Annwn all those years ago.

  He’d gotten all of the tears from her that he ever would.

  In the near distance, a pair of doors slammed. Lights glared moments before a car took off down the gravel drive.

  Gwyn did not pay the fleeing couple any mind. He remained focused on her, and the weight of his gaze rooted her into the pavement. He was trembling so very faintly.

  Finally, “There is nothing to forgive. You are free to do your business whenever and wherever on this isle as you wish, my lady. You are bound to no impediments.”

  He sounded tired, and it had nothing to do with the hunt. The scent of snapdragons overwhelmed her, churning her stomach.

  She wanted to laugh maniacally. If only her pride would allow a confrontation, especially on the heels of such a supposedly magnanimous, unheard of gift. No fae on either side of the British Isles was granted such a privilege.

  It was another of his games.

  Why couldn’t she stop loving him? Why?

  Instead of sprinting away as she yearned to do, Aoibheall nodded, just once. “Colm O’Brien will die tonight.”

  She needed not to tell him as she, as a solitary Irish fae, was not part of his Court. Not that the O’Brien would enter Annwn, nor require any guide. It was the polite thing to do, though. Long ago, she would have commanded one of her Court to inform Annwn. Those folk had evaporated alongside the birth of Clíodhna’s banshee curse.

  Gwyn also nodded, albeit slowly. “How lucky he was to hear your song. I cannot contemplate a better way to depart this world.”

  Ah, how his feigned kindness and generosity cut deeply.

  Her pride was precariously close to shattering, yet another waft of deceptive snapdragons set her right. She turned away, her shadows gathering and her harp magically attaching to the strap upon her shoulder. A strong hand gripped her upper arm, pulling her back into the harsh light of a dying day.

  She closed her eyes, breath stilling in her chest. Do not give him the satisfaction of knowing he broke your heart.

  “You’re leaving? Already?”

  His voice was little more than a rustle of leaves in the day’s soothing breeze. The sadness of willow whispered around him.

  It was too much. Too many contradictions.

  “My task is completed.” She sounded distant, self-assured. Miracles could happen.

  The fingers upon her arm twitched, flexed. She fought against the deluge of memories those hands inspired, of the rightness his skin against hers felt. “You would be welcome in Annwn.”

  Creiddylad was in Annwn, likely warming his bed. Did he think Aoibheall was still naïve to such a reality? She would rather sing for a thousand O’Briens than ever allow herself to fall prey to such a devious fae again. What was the saying? “Oh, East is East, and West is West, and never the twain shall meet.”

  Yes. Yes.

  “What need is there when I am not allied with that Court? You may be the Lord of the Dead, but I serve only Death himself.”

  His eyebrows snapped together. Clever, clever, acting wounded. But then, he excelled at deception.

  She smiled thinly even as pink, scarred pieces of her heart shredded apart.

  Gwyn’s fingers uncurled from her arm. He stepped back. She did not turn around again after she strode away, back to the ley, and he did not stop her.

  Chapter Four

  Letter

  Despite her best intentions, Aoibheall spent the next month adrift in a sea of malaise. Her mood was echoed in the relentless rainstorms lashing Craig Liath and its environs. Moss coated the walls, corners, and doorway.

  Curse bloody Colm O’Brien for moving to England. Curse Gwyn ap Nudd and his pretty face. Curse herself for her pathetic heart and for still loving the bastard. Curse them all, everyone and everything.

  Several days after she had returned home, a messenger arrived with a letter bearing Annwn’s royal seal. For a solid quarter of an hour, she was paralyzed with indecision. It wasn’t a thick missive, yet she was numbly surprised that its weight didn’t drive her through the floor.

  Blessedly, outrage overtook the paralysis. The nerve! Had she not made herself clear? She had rejected his offer and rebuffed his feigned friendliness. She walked away from him, not once but twice now.

  She nearly burned the letter. The stars knew she wanted to since the aroma of deceptive snapdragons clung to the damned thing. She’d dangled the parchment over her fire, ready to let go, but idiotic, irrational sentimentality reared its ugly head. So, she tucked the unopened letter into the bottom of the trunk at the foot of her bed, alongside the handful of matching, snapdragon scented sealed documents. She locked the trunk and sat on it, on her hands, long past moonrise, well into sunrise.

  “Stars, you’re beautiful.”

  They were at the river, watching fish leap in and out of the shining waters while they discussed politics. Gwyn lounged behind her, his arms wrapped around her waist, his chin atop her mop of untamable hair. She reached up to stroke the length of his jaw. “You cannot even see me right now.”

  He shifted one of his hands t
o lay across her breast, just above her heart. “Here. You’re beautiful here.”

  A fever bloomed up her neck, across her cheeks.

  “What you did for that human tribe yesterday. I can’t stop thinking about it.” He aligned his cheek with hers. “You stood up to the other fae and insisted on doing what was right rather than what was pleasurable.” He pressed a lingering kiss against her temple, and the fire in her blood surged into every limb. “Are you sure you’re fae?”

  A kelpie reared its head, splattering cooling droplets everywhere. It did nothing to quench the passion scorching her body. She didn’t care, though. Let Gwyn feel the frenzied beat of her heart, the intensity of her need for him. “Anyone would have done the same.”

  He shook his head, his sandy hair sliding against her sunset waves. “I can only hope to be half the ruler you are someday.”

  Her eyes drifted shut. She could feel his heartbeat now, a match for hers. “Gwyn—”

  “I love you,” he murmured. “I love everything about you. But I love your soul best, my lady. Your sense of self. Your ability to buck convention and hold fast to what’s right. The world is all the better for having you in it. So am I. Did I ever tell you I was annoyed that my father sent me here? I thought it a fool’s mission.”

  She rotated in his arms, coming face-to-face. Thank the stars for Gwyn’s father. “And now?”

  “And now, I realize it was fate, and I am more grateful for our meeting than I am for anything else. I cannot imagine my life without you, my lady. I know our kind is supposed to abhor love, but it makes all the difference.”

  She’d believed him.

  Aoibheall climbed atop her crag, fists clenched, and howled at the leaden clouds above. Her anguish echoed throughout County Clare, rattling windows and sending shivers down the backs of O’Briens and regular folk combined.