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6

C iarán

The grand hall, draped in billowing black silks, exuded a gothic grandeur. Marble columns crowned with inverted pineapples welcomed revelers to the ball. From the pages of dark fantasy—demons—gargoyle-like creatures leaped from pillar to post on disjointed limbs, their misshapen mouths dripping stardust onto the crowd below. Hydrogenous beings, neither male nor female, stroked pock-marked organs, hissing for release, which would come when their ruler gave the nod—the machinations of a depraved mind.

The beautiful people below seemed unaware of the baseless creatures above. They lounged on modular marshmallows, some in deep conversation, others in various states of undress. Strobe lights whirled pink and purple beams across the marbled dance floor, distorting reality—continuous motion broken into flashing still frames—the effect was mind-bending.

The ultimate trick for the trickster himself—Finvarra, the King of the Faeries.

Servers served enchanted wine while waiters dressed in black tuxedos cleared empty glasses from the glowing cubes.

The pounding beat enticed Finvarra’s guests onto the floor. Scantily dressed women doused in fragrance. Lust-crazed men flitted between partners. Each revolution of the circular floor took five minutes, the gentle motion leaving minds blurred. Pleasure became pain, and pain became pleasure.

The guitar player saturated the hall with screaming chords, and bodies thrashed to the head-banging riffs. Neon lights pulsated in sync.

I stared too long at a blue-haired nymph lost in the throes of a climax. The human, stationed between her thighs, planted his hand on the arch of her black velvet open-toed pump. He lifted her leg over his head, exposing her black lace garter and taut thigh. Suckling her pink flesh with hollowed cheeks, he gave her glistening core a thorough lashing. Her orgasmic screams heightened with the pulsing rhythm of the flashing strobe.

Enticed by magic, drunk on the wine, the mortals within didn’t stand a chance. They had been here too long, feasting and dancing. Playthings for the immortals. They no longer knew their names.

“Oooh, pretty, so pretty.” The White Woman hearkened to those drunken fools. Beneath her gossamer gown, her bones were liquid, her skin translucent, giving her an otherworldly appearance. Neither dead nor alive, her kind existed on the threshold of both realms. A direct ancestor to the Tuatha, the Bean Fhionn served the boundary between life and death, and in recompense, one human soul was owed every seven years.

I froze on the spot, too late.

She extended her arms, her spindly hands reaching for the stardust. Her eyes were white glass, and her skin appeared spidery beneath the blinding lights. She teetered on the edge of sanity, of life. The one remnantremaining was the cascade of black hair reaching her lower back.

“Aren’t you a handsome one?” Her lips parted, her breath sweet with wine. Her blood-red nails curved into sharp talons, digging into my chest. The dancing fools did not notice her intrusion.

“My lady, how can I help you?” My blood chilled as her essence prowled beneath my skin. I held her unseeing gaze, willing my mind to resist.

“Hmm.” She clung to me, searching for what I did not know. She lifted her lips in disdain, retracting her claws and releasing me.

She did not differ from others in the room. Snuffing out life meant nothing to them. But that was too harsh. Finvarra’s playthings were well-nourished and happily cared for. And to give him credit, none were stolen from the mortal realm. Willing humans who were no longer of sane mind. Perhaps that was what they sought.

I studied the White Woman and almost felt sorry for her. I had lived among these beings for seven years. Having the sight gave me an advantage over the other mortals within. I knew their kind. I had built a rapport with many, some of whom I considered friends. Yes, they held me against my will, yet I had only myself to blame. That was their world. Beneath the pomp, they were a mystical people, at heart, a warring people. I questioned myself. What would I give to hold on to life’s breath? Would I become that?

She lost herself in her ecstasy and forgot my presence.

In seven days, the supermoon would be upon us, and to celebrate the goddess, the great hall would transform into an ice castle of silver stars wrapped in gossamer silks. A masquerade ball with jesters, bards, and mythical beings of all shapes and sizes would go well into the night, but the players would remain the same: queens and kings, an entourage of immortals from every kingdom would attend.

I turned away, cutting across the dance floor toward the solid wall of ivory, the only constant in Finvarra’s palace.

I slipped unnoticed through the castle’s kitchen and the servant’s entrance. I sensed a ’quare wind sweeping through the glen—streamers touched with darkness. Beyond the Faerie rath, the moon cast a silvered glow, and stars sparkled in the night sky.

Human hands hadn’t touched the Tuatha’s side of Ireland. Mountains were thick with forests, meadows abundant with elk, salmon-filled rivers, and a million other unearthly horrors.

I remained in the shadows, preferring to avoid detection. My nightly sojourns were tolerated, but tonight came with risk. Others were about, and an alarm would sound should a visitor to Finvarra’s kingdom discover my presence. I gazed at the crenelated walls and soldiers stationed in every turret and gave no thought to the guarded drawbridge.

Another portal, one few knew about, existed on the other side of the vast estate. A path I knew well. Cian, Finvarra’s bastard son, had shown me years ago. “Can’t have you fading away, O’Donnell. We need you, mate.” Although he referred to an upcoming hurling match between the Faerie kingdoms of Ulster and Connaught, he understood what maintaining my humanity meant, if only to me. With his blue eyes, a rarity among his kind, he might have been more connected to the mortal realm than he cared to admit.

Beneath the boughs of a feathery pine, the druid’s altar revealed itself. The capstone, grooved to allow sacrificial blood to escape, the two portal stones were tall enough to enable a man to enter. The passage narrowed at a shimmering rift. I slid sideways, a restless breeze following me, its sigh haunting.

Passing through the portal proved a disquieting experience. As I had many times before, I held fast to the belief that I would survive the journey. I willed my mind, preparing for the sensation of knives cutting through me and the inferno of wind.

My lungs burst, and I coughed up hell’s fire. I stood in the shadows beneath the same moon and waited for normalcy to return. With each journey, the effect of crossing over took more of a toll. I could smell the poison in my blood and taste it on my tongue.

The shadows danced among themselves, and the wind sang. I skirted the dark path unseen by human eyes. The glamor imposed on me prevented interaction with those I loved.

For that, I despised them.

The whippoorwill flew past, its lonesome song filling the gloom. From somewhere above, an owl hooted.

I shivered, not yet back to myself, my gaze following the mottled bird’s flight through the dark hedges. The curious bird would have to wait another day to capture my departing soul and take me to the underworld—a place I had no intention of visiting.

Eamon’s barn loomed before me, a dark silhouette against the inky blackness of the night sky. I slipped silently through the barn door, the only sound being the soft nicker of the cow, a gentle melody that greeted my ears.

Eamon’s offering to the Other Crowd, a substantial helping of mashed potatoes, and a mug of unpasteurized milk sustained my existence. Without it, my fate would have been sealed, and I would join the ever-growing band of lost souls. I banished the faces haunting me and glanced at my watch. Time was running out.

I sensed her presence before she appeared. I scanned the quiet, searching for the otherworldly being. From the highest rafter, as a black crow, Nemain, the halfling daughter of Finvarra himself, watched me through beady black eyes. The bird pounced, the air buckled, and she transformed into her true form—a golden-haired princess any man would kill for.

“Whatcha doing, Ciarán?” She drawled my name through crimson lips, her sultry voice enticing.

“Faffin’ about, Nemain. Just faffin’ about.” I gave nothing away lest she use it against me.

“Like my dress?” She trailed manicured nails over the body-hugging slip of miniature black diamonds.

“Aye, it’s deadly. What do you want?” I couldn’t hide my smile. Of Finvarra’s two daughters, she amused me most. Before she entered her own, she would follow Cian throughout the castle, begging for his attention. Her instincts were ingrained from birth to charm and cajole and to suck the life from unwary mortals, male or female; she showed no preference. Her appetite was insatiable. Finvarra considered her his equal, in trickery at least.

“I long for the same things as you, Ciarán.” Her voice chimed low and sweet, meant to seduce even the most robust soul. She sought the love of mortals, knowing full well that if they refused, she would become theirs. None refused.

“And what is that, luv? What do you think I want?” I watched the wee vixen. She gave that look that had been the end of many mortals—the Leannán Sídhe , the faerie lover. Fair play to her.

“You’re such a bore, Ciarán. Why can’t you have a little fun now and then?” Her eyes lit with darkness.

“Why are you following me?” I lounged in the rickety chair Eamon had left in the corner. I pictured him there on a summer’s day, a straw stick in his mouth, nodding off in the cool shade.

“Because it’s fun. And because I can. Why are you eating such ghastly slop?” She seethed, eyeing me with disgust.

“How many souls are enough? Those are people with families who need them. They are not puppets meant for the Tuatha’s pleasure.” I blasted her, continuing the conversation we had the night before.

“Tell me about it, boyfriend.” She smiled lazily, twirling a golden curl around her finger. She would take me to hell if I let her.

“I’m not your boyfriend. How many souls have you taken, Nemain?” I turned my back on her alluring gaze—eighteen at last count. I sighed and shook my head. At least they died happy.

“I know. I’m not your type. You could have anyone in the realm, yet you pine after a mortal witch. You know she’s getting wrinkles? And grey hairs on her privates. She is. She is.” She jutted out her chin.

“Have you been spying on Saoirse? What have you been up to?” I narrowed my gaze. Reading thoughts was her forte, not mine.

“Nothing.” She pouted.

“And now you’re following me? What would your father say?” I knew the answer to that. Finvarra knew not of my existence; I was a pawn in the grand scheme of things.

“I don’t care. I am an independent woman.” She batted her eyelashes, but doubt flickered in her eyes.

“Of course you are,” I smirked. Raised by an adoring father and ignored by a spiteful stepmother, Nemain and her sister Macha were alike, yet different—both dangerous in their own right—two sides of the same coin.

“And you know that slop is an offering to my people.As if the Tuatha Dé would touch lips to that. Such a silly belief.” She huffed.

“This is my only hope of returning home. You know that.” I stretched my legs. Time drew near.

“You could have anything or anyone: sex, love, whatever, and here you are. Why? Life is good for you in the Kingdom.” She jutted her pretty chin.

“I never asked for this. I agreed to help—one tournament game. I kept my promise. They didn’t.” I sighed through my nose.

“Buck up, Ciarán. Take one for the team. Besides, you have more freedom than the rest. Hmph. Don’t think your sneaking away doesn’t go unnoticed.” She held her head high.

“This is my world. This place. These people. This is where I belong.” I drained the remaining warm milk from the ceramic mug.

“I don’t get you, Ciarán. Satisfied with a life of drudgery. This cesspool of sadness. Why don’t you hook up with someone? Odette follows you around like a wee lost puppy. Aye, and she’s not the only one. And yet, here you are. Feasting on sour milk and cold mash. Like a common barn animal.” She tossed her golden mane.

“Nemain, you will never understand.” Raised in the royal household, how would she know the difference?

“But I do, Ciarán. I want what you want. Freedom.” She whirled her hands in the air, giving me room for pause. Halfling or not, she wielded mighty powers.

“Nemain,” I said her name. She was not my enemy. She was the king’s daughter. “You have no cause to leave your father’s realm. You are free to come and go as you like.” I left the empty bowl where it was. Best not to frighten Eamon.

“And if I did, I would face banishment. Father would never forgive me.” She lingered outside the box stall. The brown pony raised its head and nickered.

I realized the horse knew her.

“Oh, I doubt it. You and Macha are the chosen ones.” I considered her words.

The king’s bastards would never succeed him. Queen Nuala did not recognize their existence, never gracing that court, preferring the grandeur of Knockma.

I recalled my visits there with trepidation. The hurling jamboree brought the four kingdoms together and lasted over seven days. The grueling tournament was exhausting—a culling of sorts. Finvarra sat upon his dais, surrounded by the kings and queens of the realm. Win or lose, he selected the strongest hurlers from the Ulster team, banishing the rest. Had they banished me, would they have set me free or sent me to another realm?

“Macha? With her nose stuck in a book all day. You’re kidding, right? She would never leave. I can’t believe we are related. I want to experience life. I want a man who bleeds. Not those pansy-ass creatures calling themselves men.” She loosed a breath and slipped into the pony’s stall, landing on its broad back in one easy leap, her nimble fingers twisting the pony’s mane into tiny braids.

“You just told me Middle Earth is beneath you. What did you call it? A cesspool of sadness?” I smiled for the first time today.

“Yeah, well. I’m bored. I want new friends. You understand, don’t you?” She didn’t look up from her task. Her fingers twirled, tying more and more intricate knots.

“I met someone. She saw me.” I leaned on the half-door, admiring her work. Had I become blind to the cruelty? Hardened to their ways? Accepting of Them?

“So?” she graced me with a regal stare.

“She has your eyes,” I recalled my encounters with the dark-haired beauty. Her dove-grey eyes and Elven voice enchanted the crowd.

“Aye?” She looked at me with a passing interest.

“She saw through the glamor. She spoke to me.” An awareness flowed through me, one I should have seen. The girl carried herself as Nemain did, and her mannerisms were strikingly similar. “She sang at my father’s burial.”

“What’s her name?” Her gaze narrowed, and I wondered if she read my mind.

“Calla. Calla Sweet.”

* * *

C olm

The local radio program, “Good Morning Ardara,” was broadcast through the television’s surround sound system. Poppy, the show’s host, engaged in a lively conversation with the most recent caller, discussing the importance of carbon sequestration and the rewetting of raised boglands.

“Mam, I had to go.” I sat back in the high-backed chair. Taking her hand in mine did not calm her ire.

I had left Ireland for one reason only—to escape the pain.

Poppy reiterated that increasing the water table could transform a compromised site from a carbon source into a carbon sink.

“Did you, Colm? You spent a lifetime away from us.” Mam spoke the hard truth.

Back then, I saw no way out. My head was a dark, foreboding space. My life revolved around one thing—finding Ciarán.

“There was nothing left for me, Mam.” The words sounded selfish, even to my ears. I had left Ciarán and everyone I loved behind. My brother looked up to me, and I let him down.

Swept away by the Faeries—the old folks say. The tales lived on in that little town. The young girl from Glenties on the eve of her wedding. Jim McGovern during the hurling championships of 2012.

Ciarán on Samhain—when the passage to the underworld opened, and the undead searched for breathing souls.

“You had your differences. What father and son ever think alike? I know how he was when an idea struck him.” She hugged me, pressing her greying head against my chest.

“It was for the best, Mam.” I left with what money I had and started a new life. I tossed about for months and drank myself into a dark place. Women. Whisky. None of it mattered, but then the clouds cleared. It began with a phone call. The voice on the other end of the line was Eamon. “I have a job for you, laddie. If you’re able.” He threw me a lifeline, and I took it. I buried myself in other people’s pain and, in doing so, escaped from mine. I settled into my new life, neutralizing risk and executing covert operations—as a ghost.

Eamon—I pictured the unassuming man, the mastermind behind black operations for the Irish government. Some would call him a doddering old man.

“Would you be playing with the internet again?” She peered over my shoulder at the computer screen. “’Tis the lass who sang at your da’s burial.” Calla’s face smiled back. The headline blasting… Calla Sweet, Rich Girl Lost. The scathing article purported Calla—a spoiled debutante with a checkered past, alleging mental illness and excessive substance abuse.

“It is Mam…” My Faerie girl, an heiress to one of the most enormous fortunes in North America. Yet there she was, living in a crofter’s cottage in the small town of Ardara.

I saw her: bright-eyed, sharp as a tack. My mind denied those accusations. I was, in a word my father would use—gobsmacked. I considered every conversation, her actions, and her reactions.

An inheritance from an older man who, by all accounts, had led a simple life. The connection eluded me, yet the possibilities seemed endless, daring me to dig deeper and to stay.

“Such a lovely girl, Colm.” She placed her hand on my shoulder, squeezing gently.

“Why would you say that, Mam?” Her aura haunted me, pressing down on me, consuming me.

“Ach, a Mam knows such things. Did you see today’s paper, luv?” She flattened the newspaper on the table, smoothing the corners with care.

“Calla Sweet and Niall York, headlining tonight at the Black Horse Pub. Join us for great food and drinks. Liquor sales from tonight’s event will be donated to the local Donkey Sanctuary—because their survival is in our hands.”

“Didn’t your da love those donkeys? Remember, wee Bingo?” She mussed my hair, then laughed.

Calla’s photo stared back in grainy black-and-white.

“Oh dear, that wee boy is still missing from near Malin Head.” She traced her finger over the child’s black-and-white image in the right-hand corner of the opposite page. “Well, I’m after the messages. They’ve got pork backs on sale this week. ’Twas Da’s favorite, remember?”

“Aye, aye, I remember. Have a good time.” I leaned back in the chair, brushing my fingers against hers as she walked away.

“Will you be home for dinner, luv?” She turned, her eyes shining bright.

"I wouldn’t miss it, Mam." A muscle twitched in my jaw—an involuntary reflex I couldn’t contain.

* * *

M y dreams had escalated into something more.

The wind sang, her whispers calling me. Brazen, salacious thoughts flooded my mind, yet I could not express them. Held down by a mysterious force, I could not respond to her teasing touch.

Her need slammed into me, and time lost its grip.

Her hair, braided into delicate spirals, fell into my face as her pink lips brushed mine. She slipped her graceful fingers between the buttons of her blouse, spilling her breasts and rocking her heated flesh over my bursting erection. I woke semi-conscious, locked between her thighs, my cock straining at the seam of my boxers, her breath ragged, her ecstasy near.

She left my balls burning and my mind crazed.

I woke each morning––worn out and used up—my desire for her flaming out of control. I convinced myself those dreams resulted from an overactive imagination and simple infatuation.

* * *

A rdara’s main street had stayed the same over the past seven years. The chippy truck was still parked illegally. The Blue Bonnet Grill closed by three o’clock. Pete’s Pub was always an excellent place for a pint. From Pádraig’s bakery, a light shone beneath the kitchen door, telling me my brother worked late into the night.

I clenched the concrete railing, gazing into the flowing waters of the Owentocker, singing toward the sea. Breda might have had the right idea. The fishing boat Ciarán and I dreamed of represented an end to the madness.

My father’s death weighed heavy on my conscience.

Had I lifted that burden from his shoulders—would he still be alive?

“The blame game doesn’t suit you, brother.” Ciarán’s voice whispered. How many times had I talked to Ciarán? Imaginary conversations. Unanswered questions.

“Where are you, brother?” The question played on repeat, over and over.

I willed my mind to stay in the present, but instead, I relived the past.

Samhain’s frigid breath had poured over the land. While Mam twisted wood and bits of straw into protective crosses, Da stirred the bones of the past year’s slaughtered cattle into the fire. The flames consumed everything. Blue smoke curled into the air. The time to usher in the dark half of the year had arrived.

We ran for our lives, Ciarán and me, chased by ghouls from the Otherworld. The Sluagh sought to steal our souls. The Faerie Host aimed to take us away. Our brothers chased us, their faces hidden behind flour sack masks embellished with horsehair and sheep’s wool. Concealed in shadows, we flattened our bodies against the cold earth. I intended to surrender to the Púca’s wrath, but a shout was raised, our brothers whipping by. Fear curdled our screams as we crept on our bellies through the tall grass, searching for more friendly ghosts.

Rain lashed down, a sharp wind howling in from the sea, the ocean’s roar adding another dimension to the Púca’s fury. A ghostly apparition floated through the haar, a faceless woman cloaked in gossamer silk. If ever the dark was frightening, it was then.

Ciarán’s face whitened, and I looked in the direction of his fear.

A beast from the Otherworld, a giant wolf-like creature, approached with quiet stealth. His almond-shaped eyes shone like fiery flames, the night glowed in his black fur, and the moon shimmered in his wild ruff. The creature guided us to higher ground, where we huddled through the storm.

The following day, a farmer tending his sheep found us two missing O’Donnell lads. I still remember the ride home in the back of the farmer’s truck, wrapped in a heavy wool blanket, and the steaming bowl of porridge Mam shoveled into my mouth.

No one knew who the black dog belonged to. My father said the Faeries came that night. We placed an empty chair at our supper table to thank them, and a full meal was prepared for Themselves.

I headed toward the witch’s lair, The Black Horse Pub—my second visit in two days. I smiled, half expecting the witch would give me the boot, no questions asked.

The latch stuck but then gave way, the creaking hinges granting access. Faces shifted, accepting me into the din. Laughter spilled from the inner depths of the pub. Glasses clanked together. The front end was jammed tight with sweating bodies, a mixture of musty body odors and cheap perfume. A girl’s voice reached out, the guitar player strumming in accompaniment.

“Colm O’Donnell. I heard off Rollie that you were back.” Joseph, a school chum, slapped my shoulder.

“How’re ye getting on, mate? Haven’t seen you in a donkey’s age.”

The conversation turned to sheep prices and people who had died in the next parish. I excused myself from the rambling conversation and approached the back of the bar.

“What will ye have?” The bartender turned his thick neck toward me.

“The Black Stuff, please.” I settled onto the stool, resting one laced boot on the foot rail.

The bartender slid a tall glass toward me.

I rested my forearm on the bar and watched the crowd, waiting for the head to settle.

“What are you doing here?” She stood at the end of the bar, the dark scent of orchids and moonshine emanating from the pores of her satin skin.

I gazed at the skimpy dress knitted to her every curve. The icy blue shade reminded me of a twilight sky. She had my full attention.

“Nice dress.” I was lost in those shimmering eyes. There was no turning back from that. I would go to war for that woman.

“Thanks. I found it at the Treasure Chest.” She moved the air with her fingers, making my thoughts whirl.

“Hmm.” An heiress shopping second hand. Nothing she did should surprise me.

Uber-aware of her presence, the bartender dispensed a pint into a tall glass and ambled our way with a handful of napkins and a bowl of mixed nuts.

What other powers did that Faerie girl possess?

“Thanks, Gerry,” her sultry voice hung in the air. They treated her as one of their own, not someone from away.

“Anything for you, luv.” The man nodded and turned away.

“Why are you here?” Her soft laugh weaved havoc. She gazed into my eyes, a small smile playing on her lips.

“For the craic.” My ears popped, and the sensation subsided—I loosened my fingers, extending each one. It took everything I had to break the spell.

“You look good, O’Donnell. Have you broken any hearts lately?” She raised her glass, taking one long, breathtaking pull. The gold spheres circling her earlobes caught the light. My thoughts slowed, making words difficult.

“I thought you didn’t like beer.” My gaze skated over her shining locks—the two braids wound around her head and the third hanging down her back. I studied the silver comb, which joined all three together.

“I lied.” She popped one candied beer nut into her mouth.

“You lie about a lot of things.” Her bell-like voice made my heart ping.

“I do not.” She chewed thoughtfully.

“You made me think you and Storey were an item.” The edges blurred, and a realization crept over me. I had never considered myself a jealous man.

“Um, no. That’s on you, O’Donnell.” Her smile lit up the room—her presence more potent than the day before.

“Hmm.” I rubbed my chin, considering what may come.

“Maybe you can’t see the forest for the trees, huh?” She arched one delicate eyebrow, considering me right back.

“How do I repel your powers? Should I wear my clothes inside out? Walk backward around the pub? Two? Maybe three times?” Protecting oneself—Fairies 101.

“Look, you’re mesmerized by my charm and wit…” She ran her tongue back and forth across her lower lip––unknowingly, I think. There was something provocative about that.

“Do ye think?” Playing hard to get was not my forte, and hiding my smile was nearly impossible.

The crowd grew. I scanned the perimeter, gazing over the bobbing heads—people talking over one another, laughing and shouting. A bottleneck of so many worried me. This was a night out for so many. That was home.

“Okay, I’ll play your game, O’Donnell. Why are you here?” She rolled her eyes and smiled at me alone.

“Like I said, I’m supporting the fundraiser.” My thoughts ran riot, my obsession growing by the minute.

“Why doesn’t Saoirse like you?” She planted her hand on her hip and studied me.

“We have history.” The conversation with the witch seemed a long time ago.

Concern grew in Calla’s gaze.

“Sounds like you accused her of sorcery. Take my advice, buttercup. Kiss and makeup. You want a mad witch talking shit about you?” She lifted an eyebrow, sizing me up for a fight I couldn’t win.

“What are you doing after the show?” I smiled, throwing my masculine charms her way.

Another wave entered the pub, adding to the deafening roar. Some escaped the melee, finding refuge in the long hall. Others stood their ground, claiming the real estate close to the bar. Shoulder to shoulder, they closed in on one another. It was claustrophobic, the atmosphere suffocating.

“Are you asking me out?” She lifted her chin.

“You owe me a raincheck,” I held her gaze.

“A raincheck? And what did you have in mind?” Her eyelashes fluttered.

“A moonlit stroll on the strand?” I drew the pad of my thumb along the curve of her jaw.

One enthusiastic punter jostled another. The burly lad with a tweed newsboy cap would collide with the Faerie girl in seconds. I reacted, thrusting my palm forward, striking the clown between the shoulder blades and, at the same time, pulling Calla out of harm’s way.

“Oy, sorry, mate.” The culchie tipped his hat, making amends.

“You saved me, O’Donnell. Twice.” She pressed against me, her hands on my shoulders. Beneath the clingy knit, her nipples rose into delectable nubs.

“Aye, and I’ll do it again. You’re a fine lass, Calla Sweet. You need to take care.” Blood rushed through my veins, making my balls burn and my cock react.

“I do?” She smiled sweetly, making no move to retreat.

Her scent made my head spin. My mouth water.

“Aye, there’s a wee rabble out tonight. Shnakey shitehawks. Bleedin’ melters.” I chuckled.

“Shnakey shitehawks?” She stumbled on the Irish slang.

“They’ll be after taking advantage of a lass like you.” I pressed the heel of my hand into the small of her back, seating her position between my thighs.

“And what would you be wanting, Colm O’Donnell, from a fine lass like me?” Her fiery gaze stared through my soul.

“I want what’s beneath this slip you’d be calling a dress.” I leaned close, the bristles on my chin scraping the soft skin of her cheek.

A cacophony of voices babbled around us. Another day, I would slip through the kitchen, escaping through the back door. Crowded places were not my thing. But that was not the time to abandon a lady in distress.

“Hmm. I wasn’t sure if I was your cup of tae.” She pinned her soft lips and smiled.

The voices faded, and in that moment, that fracture of time, the crowd dissipated, leaving us alone. She was the wind whistling through the trees.

“Why do you visit my dreams?” The Faerie girl and I were in a precarious position, yet she made no move to escape. Drifting lower, I brushed the edge of her skimpy dress with my free hand. Unseen and unnoticed, I explored freely, finding a wee bit of lace and her bottom bare. She rewarded me with a low laugh.

“You don’t want to know.” She writhed silently against my hardened erection, her breath mingling with mine. This was not a hookup in a bar. This was a pleasure, long overdue. The dreams we shared had only escalated my need. The point of no return loomed near.

“I want everything about you.” I swept my fingers through the soft folds of her wee vagina, parting her labia and finding her wanting. My mind left the room when she gave me a hot flush of wet heat.

“No, you don’t.” She held fast to her denial, but I sensed her resolve wavering.

“You’re wet for me, Faerie girl. Don’t forget.” I dragged my thumb over her clitoris, coaxing the hooded bead to swell.

“You don’t play a friendly game, do you?” She dug her stiletto fingernails into my bunching trapezius, a shudder wracking her inner thighs.

“Fair game to you, luv.” I buried my face into her silken locks and nibbled on the golden sphere circling her earlobe.

“What? Oh, God.” She closed her eyelids and hummed.

“Come for me, sweet Faerie.” I eased my first knuckle into her weeping channel. Her pussy contracted, the inner walls clenching.

“This is better than dreaming. Oh, God. What are you doing to me?” She flexed her hips, her movements barely indiscernible.

“Let me ease the ache.” I slid my thumb over her clit, circling the swollen bud with gentle pressure. What I would give to languish in her sweet release, to fill her pussy with my hard cock.

“Colm.” She murmured my name, her breath rasping. Still, she held back, denying herself the pleasure of release.

“Make my dreams come true, Faerie girl.” Shattering her became the prize. I rolled her hips with one hand while stroking the roof of her pussy with the pad of my forefinger.

Her eyes shimmered, and her lips half-parted. I closed my mouth over hers, inhaling her hungry sighs, her ecstasy slid down my throat and her tongue brushed against mine.

She tasted like heaven’s breath.

I gasped when her pointy eye teeth, all four of them, clamped down, sending a line of fire straight to my soul. Or was she draining my soul? I wasn’t entirely sure.

A curious bystander would see a passionate kiss between lovers.

A shudder flowed through her, and her pussy twitched, flooding my fingers with wet heat. Far too soon for my liking, she pulled away.

“I’ll tell you what, Colm O’Donnell. Find a new dream, okay?” Her bottom lip quivered, and for one long moment, her stare drifted––across the sea of heads, to the stage, to the girl with curly brown hair, and then back to me. She released me and walked away from our embrace, her expression—calm, cool, and collected.

“Lunch tomorrow, Faerie girl. Brandy’s at noon.” My balls burned. I offered a public, safe place to meet—a dark place where lovers lingered. I gazed at those lush lips, swollen from our kiss.

“Hmm, don’t get your hopes up. I’m super busy right now.” Cool air rose from the floor, drifting between us. She skimmed her palms over her hips, adjusting the hem of her skirt.

“This fella bothering you, Miss Calla?” Two lean and clean, muscular young men wearing white T-shirts emblazoned with a black donkey kicking ass flanked one another. A cloud of dark floral fragrance preceded them.

“I’m not looking for a hassle, boys. Take it somewhere else.” Rising, I curled my fingers around her rounded hip, willing her to stay. For a mere moment in time, I believed.

“Put your big boy pants on, Mr. O’Donnell, and go home.” She pressed her index finger against my lips and then turned away. Darkness followed her, an aura so great that the dead woke, and the daemons rose, the specters taking their place among the living.

I watched the crowd. Some cringed and jerked sideways, sensing the disruptors.

“Raise your glass, friends. To a man lost to the angels. May his life be a blessing; may his soul rest in peace.” She picked up the microphone and whispered a sultry welcome.

The cadence of her voice haunted the room, swelling with sadness. Her song stirred a memory, one long forgotten, one buried with my brother’s memory—a ballad of love and loss––Ciarán’s favorite song.