Thanks to Clíodhna and her obsessive need to share details, Aoibheall did not flinch when the groan of stone preceded the figures taking flight and then morphing into identical appearing men. They hulked above her, dark-skinned and neatly dressed.
Gargoyles and their ilk weren’t unheard of in Éire, but they tended to leave fae alone. And nobody, not even gargoyles, preferred the company of Death’s maidens. However, these two smiled in handsome, coordinated unison. The one on the left lifted his chin toward the other. Together, they said, “Banshee,” and then nodded.
She offered a warm smile even as the sensation of wiggly worms fought in her belly. What in the world was she getting herself into?
“Don’t get your kind here too often,” the one on the right said.
“Except . . . do you remember—?” the other queried.
Both burst into deep, abundant laughter.
“Now that one,” the gargoyle on the right said, “was wild.”
“Was she ever,” the left gargoyle drawled out.
Aoibheall caught herself before she rolled her eyes. Clíodhna.
“When she screamed in the middle of the orgy?” The right gargoyle whooped. “Thought my balls would shrivel up.”
“Until she sucked on them!”
Harps and wails. Clíodhna conveniently forgot to mention that.
The gargoyles high-fived one another.
A tiny bit of alarm sounded in Aoibheall. Orgy? She sent a wish to the dimmed stars above. Please let there be no orgies tonight.
“Man, what a night,” the gargoyle on the left said.
They sighed contentedly in union before eyeing her with interest.
She released a burst of surprised laughter. “Sorry, boyos. Don’t think I’m the banshee you’re looking for.” She held up her invitation.
The right gargoyle took it from her as the left one checked her off on a list.
As she walked through the glossy, ruby door, they murmured in unison, “Shame.”
Chapter Nine
The Monster Ball
Thundering music shook the walls as well as her teeth. For a fae infamous for her supposed keening, Aoibheall prided herself that she sang sweet, albeit mournful, songs and kept noise at manageable levels. Her hill was quiet, her rooms the same.
She was in a hallway swathed in age and neglect. Overhead, modern lights pathetically flickered, offering little useful illumination. In the distance, a rainbow beckoned.
Very well, then.
Aoibheall swam through the passage, wading toward the polychromatic radiances at the end. Her nervousness quadrupled.
A large room unrolled before her, the lights and ceiling above closely mimicking the Irish storm clouds she was so familiar with. Smoke swirled around her ankles. Cacophonies of colors rioted in every cranny and nook. Dozens of people—monsters?—converged in the center of the large room, their bodies swaying in time with the seductive melody pulsating in the air.
From a first impression, this was more Clíodhna’s scene, not so much hers.
She was close to spinning on her heel, heading back down the hallway, through the red door, and past the boisterous gargoyles, but a willowy blonde in a sea-green gown knocked into her. Aoibheall teetered on her heels, painfully all too aware that she was better suited to solid, sturdy boots.
“Forgive me,” the woman said but then paused. Looked closer. Sniffed delicately. “You’re . . . I’m not sure what you are.”
Aoibheall squared her shoulders back. Instinct was cajoling her home where it was snug and familiar, and she nearly obeyed. But then she remembered: here was a chance to experience something new. Meet new people. Spend a night away from Death and its purpose. There were colors everywhere—more than just green! She wanted this, didn’t she?
Her pulse raced. Sweat tickled the back of her neck. “Banshee.”
The blonde drew back, her pupils widening. Was that fear? In a party filled with monsters?
Aoibheall reached for a smile even though it wasn’t natural. “You?”
The woman took another step back, widening the distance between them. Aoibheall didn’t miss the crown tucked into the female’s windblown hair. “Water fae.” Another pause. “Am I . . .” She cleared her throat. “Will I die tonight?”
Aoibheall repressed the urge to laugh, or, maybe, cry. “Are you a mortal with the surname O’Brien?”
The woman blinked. “No, but—”
She forced herself to pat the woman’s shoulder. It was cold and slightly sandy like she’d come straight from the ocean. “Then I would have no idea. We banshees can only foretell specific families’ deaths.”
With that, she strode further into the room. The thump of drums replaced her heartbeat. Shivers raced up her spine, across her arms until the hairs stood up. Instinct changed course; home was forgotten.
This was why she’d come.
“You look like you could use a drink.”
On her right was a man bearing a lazy yet satisfied smile. Tattoos ran down the bottom of his neck, beneath a fitted white t-shirt, continuing to his wrist. Aoibheall snuck a closer peek, fascinated with the design; they were scales. His accent was radically different from hers and everyone else’s she knew.
Just what kind of monster was this male?
Genuine pleasure curled the sides of her mouth upward. “That obvious?”
The man chuckled, bright, breezy, and infectious. “Honestly? Yeah. First time here?”
Her cheeks warmed. “Are you a seer?”
“Almost.” He winked, green eyes sparkling. “I’m a bartender, which is nearly the same thing—which means I would have definitely remembered a face as lovely as yours. Let me make you one of my specials.”
Her feet moved before her mind agreed, and she followed him over to a glittering length of concrete ribboned with glowing, pulsing crystal veins. The man rounded the bar and motioned to one of the coiled barstools on her side. Bottles lined the blue illuminated shelves behind him.
He leaned forward, arms splayed across the bar top. “I’m Dec, by the way.”
One of her slim eyebrows arched upward. “As in . . . cards?”
He laughed again, and she joined in, surprised at her flirtatiousness. How long had it been since she’d felt like this? Like the queen she once was, the one unbidden by purpose and Death and open to joy?
“As in Decimus. What’s your poison?”
To her left, a couple sidled up. To Dec, she said lightly, “I believe you offered me one of your specials.”
He winked again. “Had to ask, just in case.” He straightened and grabbed a glass. “Are you going to make me guess your name, beautiful?”
“Aoibheall of Liath.”
Only, she wasn’t the one to declare it. Nor was it the couple in the throes of making out to her left.
She slowly pivoted to the right to face someone she never expected to encounter at a place called The Monster Ball even if he perfectly fit the definition.
The Lord of the Dead, antlers gleaming in and out of existence, his face barren of mud, claimed the seat next to her. “Watch your tone around her, dragon. The lady is royalty.”
The majority of her muscles tightened and froze, rendering her speechless.
From the corner of her eye, she watched as Dec slowly, respectfully dipped his head—not just toward her but also Gwyn. “My sincerest apologies for any impropriety, lady.” He cleared his throat and quickly busied himself with bottles.
Aoibheall wasn’t sure what she wished to address first: the fact that Dec was a dragon, that Gwyn was sitting next to her, or that he’d announced her as royalty.
“May I get a drink started for you, my lord?” Dec asked, infinitely more subdued than just two minutes prior.
“This must be my year,” Gwyn said quietly, his focus steadfast upon Aoibheall. “I’m graced with your presence not once but twice.”
Dec took the hint and left to help another patron.
Her mouth finally snapped clo
sed, only for her to quickly blurt, “What are you doing here?”
“Much the same as you, I imagine. I received an invitation and accepted it.”
His sandy hair was as reckless as ever even as he wore a smart black and gray tweed long coat and a matching skull decorated modern tie. Stubble graced his jaw and upper lip. At least his boots, steel-toed and black leather, were caked with familiar mud.
“I’m so grateful I did,” he was saying.
He was still talking. And here she was, gawking as if she were a mere mortal, enthralled by his otherworldly presence. Was he here . . . alone?
Her eyes snapped up from his boots, back to his achingly beautiful face. Stars, she’d never seen him like this before, so tidy and wild, modern and ancient, all at once. Her tongue knotted, flailed. Her cheeks flamed.
Adorable lines creased at the corners of his eyes as his brow furrowed. “Aoibheall?”
Adorable? Had she just thought that? Gwyn had always been attractive, true. But dressed in just such a way? Gazing upon her as if she were the only soul present in a crowded room? Adorable was a weak, ill-fitting description.
She squared her shoulders, searching for the requisite coolness necessary to guide her through the moment and away from him.
And then, she went and said shrilly, “I am no longer royalty.”
The vee between Gwyn’s brows deepened. A tall, imposing male stepped up to the counter behind him, ruby, viscous liquid staining the corner of his mouth. Power and violence charged the air around the bar—this creature was also familiar with Death; that much was certain. But then the dark-haired stranger took one look at Gwyn, nostrils flaring. His red eyes widened dramatically; his already pale face leeched of all color. Just as swiftly as he’d arrived, he strode away, toward the opposing bar.
Near hysterical laughter burbled at the base of her throat. A room full of monsters, and who do they fear? The Lord of the Dead. The one male who could end their fates with a single thought.
The one male she should not be speaking to. The one she was still stupidly in love with.
The one who shattered her heart and trust.
“I disagree.”
Aoibheall’s attention swung back to Gwyn. Stars, the room was too warm. Too crowded.
Gwyn was here.
Dec reappeared in her line of sight. “Your drink, my lady.”
He deposited the glass, topped with toasted marshmallows, in front of her. She dug into her small clutch, wondering if he would accept Euros.
Dec held his hands up. His smile, once so carefree, no longer reached his eyes. “This is The Monster Ball. Drinks are on our hostess.”
And then he was gone, down the length of the bar, to a lovely woman with icy hair and eyes and a flashy diamond necklace, stealing the flirtatious lightness that was so attractive. She and Gwyn were left alone, a wide berth of space around them in a packed room.
She had to keep her hands balled in her lap, twisting her sequined gown, to not reach out and tuck a piece of sandy hair behind Gwyn’s ear.
“He’s a dragon?” she mused out loud, determined to focus on anything that wasn’t Gwyn ap Nudd. Besides, even she, a fae from the days of yore, had never seen a dragon before. Had never believed they existed.
“A shifter, yes,” Gwyn answered.
“Not a pooka?”
His laugh was little more than a breath exhaled. “Definitely not, thank the stars.”
She could not stop the grin spreading across her mouth, let alone the memory flashing on the movie screen of her mind. “Do you remember—”
His hazel eyes brightened before he laughed anew. “How could I forget? I still have a scar from that wee bastard.”
“The same! Little bugger.”
Gwyn ducked his head, running a hand through mussed hair. Her past reminded her that it was surprisingly silky for all its wildness. She’d envied him his locks. Her mop of curls was defiantly unmanageable on the best of days.
Was his hair still soft? Her fingers itched to reach out.
Why, oh, why, did she still want this male?
His attention met, then held hers. The last minute’s frivolity dissolved away, darkening his hazel orbs. “Can we talk?” he asked carefully, adding, “In private?”
Stars, the look in his eyes as he asked that of her. The set of his mouth. The gentle tremor in his cheek.
If only he were the male she’d once believed him to be. At least when it came to her, to them. If only she was a typical fae and cared naught for her own heart and only for pleasure and amusement.
The scent of snapdragons reared their deceptive heads.
Gwyn ap Nudd was a marvelous actor, a testament to fae kind. And wishes were so easy to birth and cultivate, harder still to manifest into reality.
She was no longer a true fae. She was a banshee, and maybe, just maybe, that made all the difference.
She rolled her shoulders back and lifted her chin. “I don’t think that would be a good idea.”
Gwyn’s shoulders slumped. She tore her gaze away, ignoring what was flickering across his face.
Aoibheall slipped off her stool, abandoning Dec’s specialty drink, and did what she was good at, at least when it came to Gwyn.
She walked away, dissolving into the crowd.
Chapter Ten
Oblivion
It took less than two seconds of watching Dastardly Deeds, the band performing on the third level of the building, for Aoibheall to determine what kind of monster the lead singer was. Male, female, it made no difference—the rapturous crowd within the blue-haired crooner’s radius radiated a coveting yearning for the lady.
Aoibheall had known a good number of sirens over her long centuries and had considered several more than casual acquaintances. Those souls were now gone, and none had replaced them in her life, not after her purpose had altered. Even gregarious, fun sirens shunned banshees.
But here, now . . .
This was time for monsters and acceptance, not broken hearts.
She threw herself at the mood of the room, aligning her body to the music. She danced until sweat dripped lines across the nape of her neck, and her breath came fast, and she lost count of partners. More than one cajoled plans of privacy cubes and better acquaintances into her ears.
Why not? she thought. This is why I’m here. Fun—it can be so very much fun.
Her feet refused to follow commands, remaining on the dance floor. The heady scent of lust and joyful marjoram hung heavy, weighing down the room and drowning out any other smells.
Someone handed her a drink, and she drank deeply. It was sweet and then bitter, but her muscles appreciated the resulting, near-instantaneous easing.
“What was this?” she yelled to the person. A male? Yes: tall and virile with muscles for days.
As he responded, the drummer on stage caught her attention. Bright red hair, darker than her own. He winked. Harps and wails, he had a tender smile for someone banging the bloody hell out of his instrument. There was a lesson there, but—but, laughing, she couldn’t figure it out. Not now, at least.
Was he winking at her? Someone else? Wouldn’t it be lovely if it was her? Wouldn’t it?
Her pulse, frantic from exertion, failed to flutter. The ginger disappeared, replaced by the muscular male. She searched his face and of those around her, but their features slid away. She blinked, shook her head. It didn’t help.
Perhaps it was better this way.
She thought about Gwyn and his sandy hair. She missed him. Stupidly wished they were dancing instead of her and these strangers.
The room spun. Or, maybe she did. Next to her, the male was speaking again. It was too loud, too crowded for her to decipher anything coherently. And then he was behind her, hands on her hips, mouth pressing against the back of her neck.
Aoibheall’s stomach remained tragically butterfly frenzy free.
What color was his hair? She couldn’t remember. Couldn’t visualize the hue of his eyes without him standing be
fore her, either.
Stars, she hoped they were hazel. No—not hazel.
Nothing. She felt nothing, except for the acidic bile leapfrogging up her throat.
She scrambled for the beat, for the thrum of music and ability to lose herself in base pleasure. She inwardly debated how long it would take to finish knitting the new scarf she’d started a few days prior.
It was becoming hard to breathe, to see. It was too crowded. When was the last time she was around so many people?
Green. She ought to add a bit of green to the scarf. It was too brown and needed a splash of color.
A finger stroked the length of her spine. The male whispered against the seashell of her ear. Was she mad? Not green—blue. Everything at Craig Liath was bloody green.
A hand curved around her waist and squeezed. The male led her away from the band and dancing. Aoibheall attempted to focus on the person steering her through the crowd. Oh, that’s right. No hair, just a buzz cut of indeterminate color and texture.
He was too tall. Too—
The hem of her gown caught her shoes, and she stumbled. The male righted her, promising something she couldn’t understand.
Not right, not right.
A loose thread tugged within her gut then slackened. Her head swam.
She was sinking in a bog, and Death was beckoning, and she was—she didn’t know. Somewhere far from Éire. An O’Brien was nearing their end, and she didn’t have her harp. Was a ley line nearby? She had to find—
The thread yanked again as she stumbled down rainbow-hued stairs, her hand still manacled to another’s.
She tried to focus, follow the thread back to its owner. Through the fog of lust clouding the room, the cloying scent of tansy filled her nostrils.
She gasped, stumbling anew. “Let go,” she commanded but probably slurred. The male’s grip on her turned viselike, mirroring the tansy and its hostility.
Through the murky waters of the bog, she understood.
The O’Brien was here. The male with her was both an O’Brien and ancient, and he was dragging her toward a box-shaped room on the loft level, fitted with a bed and nothing else.
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