Hazards of Being a Banshee:
You know when the s*** is about to hit the fan.
B anshees who are really in tune with their powers, who spend a lot of time alone, or at least in areas where there are more fae than humans, who really love being the harbingers of death and destruction, will totally kill a party.
They can see every bad thing that’s about to happen.
I don’t mean little things, like stubbing your toe or spilling your wine.
I mean like how you can’t take my mother to a party for anyone over seventy, or she’s going to go nuts with impending deaths, falls down the stairs, and cardiac arrests.
When the fae used to isolate themselves from humans, it was horrible.
As soon as we’d get near humans—boom. We’d see someone’s death, and then, without any control, our instincts would take over, announcing it with our mystical, keening wails.
Humans didn’t want to live near us. (I mean, it’s bad enough when your neighbor tells you spoilers for the reality show you’re both watching.
No way do you want them to suddenly be like, “Guess what, Ginny, you’re dying on Tuesday! ” With screeching wails, no less.)
But the truth is, the more banshees are around humans, the duller our senses become.
The mass of humanity swells around us, and there’s just a nebulous feeling of life and death, impending joy, impending loss.
It fades into a cosmic hum, most of the time.
I probably shouldn’t generalize. I imagine it’s not that way for all banshees, but it’s that way for me, maybe because I’m part human.
The point of this train of thought?
I can feel impending disaster coming at me like a charging train, and I’m tied to the tracks.
Jared’s going to tell me he got caught up in the whimsy, that this was all just illusion and delusion, and gracefully decline my accidental offer.
And his heart is breaking over it. Years of trapped and buried pain are seeping up, swallowing him. It’s like watching someone trapped at the bottom of a deep, dark well as the ocean starts to flood the land.
What’s worse? I feel the same way. Each little criticism he lobs at himself, each twitch of the gentle smile he’s trying to keep in place, is like a tear in my soul.
Is it because he’s going to break the vows we just made? What’ll that do to my magic? To my powers? To my existence?
And why does he hurt so badly? Most guys don’t believe in true love at first sight. They don’t want to get married.
Your magic is strong, and it’s accurate. You didn’t bet on the wrong horse.
But he looks nothing like the faelord of my fantasies!
And that doesn’t matter at all, because I’m very, very happy with what I’m looking at—or I would be if Jared weren’t still trying to hide his red-rimmed eyes and the way his smile is falling apart.
“Stop!” I gasp, hand out like I can halt the tide of pain.
Miraculously, I do. The soul-crushing feeling ebbs, retreating enough that I can still feel it pulsing at the edges of my mind, but not tearing through it.
“You don’t have to humor me. I was stupid to think that a gorgeous woman like you—”
“I’m green,” I remind him softly, just in case he forgot.
“The prettiest shade of green I’ve ever seen—like where cream and green meet, there’s a whole new color—that’s you.”
I try not to fall on the ground again, but the fact that he described my skin like I think of it? Shivers are racing up my spine.
Keep calm.
“You were saying?”
“I was stupid to think a beauty like you would want to instantly get hitched with someone like me.” He laughs sadly and waves a hand over his teddy bear build.
His giant, tall, broad, barrel-chested-but-soft-looking, teddy bear, bearded build.
Sweet mother of humidity, is it just me, or are things unusually hot and wet in here right now?
“You wouldn’t want to spend your life married to someone like me, so I—”
“Wait!” I shout again, this time actually doubling over from the amplified pain that careens off of him in waves, combining with my own. “Please stop. Wh-why do you think I wouldn’t like the way you look?”
“Uhhh... I’m kind of a bigger guy? Husky? No, fat is the word for it. It’s the word my ex-wife used.”
Oooh, it’s a good thing I’m a nice person.
I don’t even know this woman, but I suddenly see her running, screaming, from her house while I chase after her, clumps of dyed red hair in my hands.
“Is she a redhead?” I demand because, of course, that’s completely relevant to the rib-crushing aches rattling my chest.
“Uh. Yes. Geez, how did you know that?”
“Skip that,” I wave the question away, praying I’m not digging myself a deeper hole.
Deep holes. Wells. Freud would have a field day, probably something about the missing love in my life.
Or that I have a hole I want filled deeply, and I want an ocean of cum to—
I almost smack myself, not caring if it would freak Jared out. I shake my head again and force the words out. “Whatever you were going to say, stop. Don’t say it. If you think someone like me wouldn’t like someone like you, you’re wrong.”
It’s Jared’s turn to wave his hands, wiping that idea away.
“Oh, no. No, I’m not saying you’re shallow, like you would never date someone who was heavier.
I mean, if people get to know each other, you love a person for who they are, not what they look like.
But, c’mon. You sing a little song—a beautiful song, that left this sweet voice in my head, whispering that I had to find my bride, my one love, who was waiting for me.
..” He trails off for a minute, a dopey, lovestruck look on his face, and then he coughs and recovers.
“You were just singing to yourself, and all of a sudden, you end up with your random neighbor as your betrothed? No, I wouldn’t want to force someone who wasn’t into me to marry me, or even date me.
I guess I got swept up in the moment. It felt so real. ”
It was probably real.
Golden mist. Golden hue, spell rings true.
Fuck it, it was real. Say something, put the poor man at ease!
“So I’ll do what you said. I’ll—”
“I’m very attracted to you!” I screech, the verbal equivalent of hurling myself off a cliff.
But I know he’ll catch me.
This sweet, sensitive, honest, thoughtful guy who can stand my singing, who tears up at the thought of losing me, and who sounds like he could use an appreciative woman—he’ll catch me. And God... I’d like to appreciate the pants off of him.
The humidity cranked up another ten notches or so as I picture myself falling into his arms and being carried like some princess by her big, burly knight.
Jared cocks his head while I try not to burst into hormone-driven song. It would probably go something like, “Please, please, please, let me ride you, stud muffin. My sexy teddy bear, let me fall asleep and snuggle on you when my thighs give out, my hunk of burning love.”
Yeah, not one of my greatest hits, I know.
“You are?” The skepticism rolls off of him.
I nod. “Yes.”
“You said very.”
“Very is accurate,” I admit, knitting my fingers together and squeezing them tightly so I don’t go and grab his shoulders and start to climb him.
“Okay, let’s say that I believe you, that I think you’re not just trying to spare my feelings—”
“All I want to do is hug you and get wrapped in your arms. You look like the perfect blend of soft and strong, and gentle but—” I stop before I can say hungry.
I have a feeling this man is hungry in the best ways.
Hungry for love. Hungry for me. But he might think I’m digging him about his weight, and I don’t care about that.
If he lost pounds, I don’t think he’d lose the sweet, serious nature he has or the sensitive understanding he radiates.
“Gentle but what?”
Jared steps closer to me.
“Like you... you’d take good care of me,” I whisper.
He steps closer and takes my hand again.
“Jared...” My whisper turns into a whimper, a needy whine I didn’t know I could make.
“If you want me to let you go, I will. But if you want what I want, and you like me, and you even like the way I look... Why don’t we at least try being engaged? You could teach me how your magical abilities work, like if they’re ever wrong.”
I nod, trying not to stare at how big his hand is underneath mine.
Do not think about big hands, big feet, big...
Think about the rest of the sentence. “Why don’t we at least try?” You could, what would it hurt? If you broke things off right now, I think your ribs would break. His heart would break.
Focus!
Is your magic ever wrong?
No. Not really.
I can’t figure out if that’s something I want to admit just now.
He’s still talking, a nervous, eager babbling that’s utterly adorable.
Call me crazy, or maybe a little bit of a wuss myself, but I couldn’t do what he’s doing with a total stranger, magic or not.
I know a lot of strong men. They’re lovely.
They’re nice guys. Maybe they’re super vulnerable at home, but not with me.
This open-book view of Jared and the fact that he’s willing to put it all on the line. ..
“Can I maybe get a glass of water?” I cut him off with a croak, fanning myself.
“Of course! Are you okay?” Jared rushes forward, thinks for a minute, and scoops me up, so gently, like he worries he shouldn’t, or he worries I’ll break, and puts me on the couch. “Water coming up.”
“Thank you.”
He leaves the room, and I get to see his profile for a few seconds as he dashes off.
From the front, he’s cute and cuddly. From the side—I can see the harder angles under their padding.
He’s handsome. And cute. Obviously smart.
Didn’t die. Didn’t even pass out. You gotta put that in the plus column.
I’m sure there are negatives, but right now, the more I think, the faster the positives are stacking up, the harder my heart pounds, and the louder my libido screams in the background, reminding me that I haven’t had sex in so long.
Why don’t you let your magic take control? It’s a pain in your butt most of the time. This is one of the few times it’s done something wonderful—probably.
Because it was an accident. Against either person’s will. So this is wrong.
“Here, honey. Do you need something to eat, too? The fridge is empty because I thought I’d be gone for Spring Break, but I think a couple of stalls at the Night Market are still open. I could go get you something? I could make something with what I have in the cupboards, like... spaghetti?”
I take the water and stare up at him.
“Did you just offer to make me spaghetti at like... one in the morning?” I ask, tears springing to my eyes.
No one has cooked for me in years, not since the last time I managed a visit home to my parents.
I didn’t expect Mr. Sexy Faelord to get his wings dirty in the kitchen, but I always dreamed of finding a man who would cook for me.
“Yeah. I mean, it wouldn’t be my fresh homemade marinara sauce, but I have some emergency stuff in jars.
Pretty good, made locally and bought at the Onyx Farm’s little market.
.. I’m babbling. I babble when I’m worried.
Or nervous. And I shouldn’t. I told myself that I was going to start taking charge more in my life after being pushed around a lot by my ex.
” He shrugs and rocks side to side, hands shoved in his pockets.
Fuck, why is that so cute?
Is this what it’s like when you’re bespelled? Or just in love? That everything they do is cute?
“Chloe?”
“You cook?” I blurt out.
He gestures to his middle. “You didn’t think I built this figure on diet sodas and salads, did you?
I love to cook. Pampushka, pierogies, pasta.
.. Too many carbs. Way too many carbs, but.
.. Carbs make me happy. And my family is Ukrainian, Siberian, and Italian.
Both of my grandmothers equated love with cooking—and eating.
” He takes his glasses off and fiddles with the stems for a second.
“My dad is built a lot like me. He says we’re insulated. Cold weather ready.”
“You don’t have to sell me on you anymore. I’m trying to resist,” I groan, closing my eyes and trying to erase the mental images flying through my brain like a video on triple speed.
Cozy nights in a little townhouse here in Pine Ridge. Homemade spaghetti on the table. Candles. Wine. Talking and laughing, simply being, as Marmalade snoozes under the table, napping between our feet.
County Sligo, where my parents still live, is one of the coldest places in Ireland.
The damp and the cold and the mist around the rural spot where my parents live.
.. They’re great for atmosphere, not great if you feel lonely.
But now I’m picturing Jared and I spooning in front of their fire, my head resting on his arm as his hand strokes my hair, my sides, down to my hips, and then onto my—
“Why are you trying to resist?” Jared asks, still standing in front of me, like he’s afraid to sit on the couch and get in my space.
“Because I didn’t mean to bind you to me.
Us to each other. Consent is important, and free will is important.
The words tumble out, and my accent flies along with them.
I wince a little, knowing that when I’m agitated, my Irish “lilt” turns into an Irish slap, as angry as an old Galway fishwife who’s just caught someone trying to shortchange her.
“Because this was an accident, and accidents usually have a bad connotation.”