Fiona liked being a banshee? What a monster. And what—or who—was… She squinted again at Fiona’s childish text. Seal-gare? Sara shut her laptop without responding, wondering if she’d ever have the guts to write Fiona back.
Sara despised losing any sort of control over her body and mind. And every time she did, someone kicked the bucket. This whole being a banshee thing was terrifying. How could anyone find it fun to sing and celebrate while someone, some stranger, died?
So many questions Sara wanted to ask her. Was the voice of her shriek the same that left Fiona’s mouth? Did she learn the names of the victims before they died like Sara did? Was she fully conscious when she shrieked as Sara had been for Hank’s suicide, or did Fiona only learn of the death the next morning?
Seeing Mr. Barker wheeled out on the stretcher had been the absolute worst moment of Sara’s life, and yet her mouth had opened and voice had poured forth in both maniacal laughter and musical lament.
Suddenly, the questions were just too much. She had to know if she was the monster she seemed to be, or if there was more to the story than Fiona and her grandmother had shared. She had to know, and to know, she had to ask. With a growl, Sara opened the laptop again and started to write.
Fiona,
I can’t understand why you would enjoy this. I’ve watched three people die already, and there wasn’t anything I could do about it. What the hell could possibly be fun about this?
You said your cousin is a banshee, too? Do you know who the other two are? My grandmother gave me a letter that helped me find you. I think it’s because your grandmother and my grandmother are cousins, which would make you and me cousins somehow. I guess that makes Brenna my cousin, too. Are we all related?
She didn’t mention this Sealgair guy. There’s a guy out there who’s trying to kill all of us? Do you know what he looks like?
A sudden jolt stole Sara’s breath. The man at the movie theater, the one dressed in all black. What had Fiona said? “He’s a ride but he wants to kill us.” Sara’s fingers trembled as the continued to type.
There was a guy here last week. A creepy guy dressed all in black. Do you think that’s him?
I guess that’s all for now. I don’t even know what else to ask. Mostly I want to know who wants to kill me and why you think it’s fun to watch other people die. Yeah. Those are the big ones.
Talk soon,
Sara
Before she could second-guess herself, Sara hit send. It was just like her to make an enemy of the only person who could help, but she couldn’t help how she felt.
Just before she fell asleep, she realized she’d forgotten to ask her grandmother and Fiona one thing: whose voice was she screaming?
5
Richard Ryan
Sara woke with the name on her lips, the memory of a face lingering in her mind, and a shriek still echoing in her ears. She scrambled from the bed and stumbled to her full-length mirror, rubbing her arms to feel for the ever-present scratches.
Going almost ten whole days without screaming had seemed too good to be true. Every morning, she’d reached to smooth hands over her legs, feeling for new scratches and bruises. She’d found only healing skin and a lighter heart each day.
Looked like that was over. Except, her legs and arms were still on the mend. If she’d shrieked, she hadn’t flown through the woods to do so. And since her house was surrounded by North Carolina forest, she couldn’t get too far without hitting a tree or twenty.
She ran down to the kitchen to grab the morning paper and filtered through it for several minutes, looking for any mention of another death in town. She didn’t remember shrieking, but she could have been unconscious. After all, she couldn’t remember the first death, and during her second nightly outing she had only woken as the police arrived when Mr. Barker tumbled down the stairs.
So, who was Richard Ryan? She knew most of the people in Cedar City through her job at the diner, or at least knew of them.
Richard Ryan. Richard Ryan. The name tumbled through her head over and over. The face from her dream belonged to a man in his sixties or seventies, with bushy gray eyebrows and a wisp of white hair. Large blue eyes, a little hazy with age, stared back at her. He was sad, perhaps lonely and even ready for death, but that didn’t mean he deserved it.
She tossed the paper aside when she didn’t see any news about Mr. Ryan. Even if he’d died, it was too soon to see news of it in the paper. Sara would have to rely on the town gossip to get the real scoop. Good thing she had to work.
Within a half hour, Sara skidded to stop in front of the restaurant and slammed the car into park. Dad would have killed her if he’d seen that and probably taken away the car, even if she was eighteen. She peered through the front windows to see if he’d been watching, but he must have been in the kitchen prepping for breakfast. Heaving a sigh of relief, Sara hurried to the door and let herself in.
“Hey, Daddy,” she called.
He leaned over and smiled through the kitchen window. “Hey, there, precious. You’re early today. Someone in particular you want to see?”
Heat filled her cheeks, and she ducked behind the breakfast counter to hide her embarrassment. Sara hadn’t even thought about Ridley, but once she did, she couldn’t stop. Ugh. How could her dad possibly know about her stupid crush? And how was she supposed to be concerned about this Richard Ryan guy she’d never met when she could be thinking about a blond, tattooed bad boy?
“What are you doing down there?” Mr. Donovan looked over the counter and smirked. “Did you think I didn’t know?”
“Well, I didn’t think you’d be happy about it.” Sara stood and reached over to switch on the radio.
“Fathers are never happy about it. But you might remember that I’m the child of a misunderstood rebel, too.”
Sara thought back to the photo of her handsome grandfather on his motorcycle. Could her dad really look past Ridley’s reputation?
He reached across the expanse of Formica and tugged the ends of Sara’s hair. “But I don’t plan to let you out of my sight when he’s around, either. Can’t be too safe.”
Maybe he couldn’t completely ignore the town rumors.
Sara reached for the coffee filters with a sigh. With a glance over her shoulder, she checked to make sure no early customers had come in while she’d been hiding. The diner was still empty, so she swung her hips in a dance while going through the motions with the coffee maker.
“So, I’m not going to deny anything, I guess, except he’s not the reason I came in so early. I guess it was a nightmare, but it felt pretty real. I woke up thinking about this guy named Richard Ryan, and I could hear the, you know, the shriek in my head. The sound I make when someone dies.”
Mr. Donovan set his spatula down with a frown and scooted closer. Sara melted into his side when he draped an arm over her shoulder, soaking in the solid warmth of her dad. Without even saying a word, he made things better.
“Do you know him?”
Sara shook her head and stepped away to finish making the coffee. “I don’t think he’s even from here. We’d know him, right? And I know I wasn’t…out last night. I usually wake up with leaves in my hair and scratches all over, but none of that this morning.”
A full-body tremor wracked her body and twisted her stomach. The coffee she’d been dying for suddenly seemed like a terrible idea. Why would she see some stranger and hear the scream if she hadn’t actually shrieked the night before?
“Well, I’ve never heard the name either. I don’t know how this all works, though. As far as I know, you’ll only sing for people near you, or Mom wouldn’t have kept making the nightly journeys after moving here from Ireland. At least, I guess that’s the case.”
Jesus. Sara hadn’t even considered the possibility of singing for someone outside of Cedar City. What if the guy lived in some state forever away? Or worse, in Ireland? Would she go flying through the sky for hours? Awake or unconscious, the trip would kill her.
The bell over the door dinged, letting them know the breakfast rush was about to begin. Sara touched a finger to her lips, willing them to stop trembling so she could give some semblance of a smile to the rough road crew that would surely be taking their seats along the windows at the back.
“Need me to get them?” Her father pressed a short kiss to her forehead and laughed when she shook her head against him.
“Nah. They’ll take my mind off things. Go start egging the bread for that French toast.”
She’d been right. Sara had even been able to deliver Ridley’s sugar-laden breakfast without breaking a sweat or dousing him with ice water.
As she waited for the bell to ring, signaling the food was ready to deliver, she danced to the radio and shuffled through the paper again. Maybe she’d missed a mention somewhere buried among the usual church columns and city council meeting reports. What did the newspaper even write about when high school sports weren’t going on?
She looked up when she realized her dad usually had the food ready within minutes. He’d delivered the plates to the workers without saying a word. Guilt crept around in her gut, and she turned to apologize for getting too involved in the paper to do her job.
Before she could say a word, he just pointed toward the register. Ridley waited with wallet in hand, his usual payment already separated from the rest of the cash. He was alone.
Sara glanced back at the table where the rest of the guys continued to laugh and rib each other as they stuffed eggs, biscuits, and bacon into their mouths. Ridley’s plate sat empty except for a few streaks of syrup and powdered sugar. The sticky white powder also stuck in the scruff around his full lips.
Should she tell him or just kiss it all off herself? With a swipe of her tongue across her lower lip, she brushed her fingers over her own chin, hoping he’d get the hint.
Ice blue eyes narrowed and focused for the sweetest moment on her mouth. Heat bloomed in her chest. Was he really staring at her lips?
She couldn’t breathe. No air. He was staring at her lips. But she needed to tell him… What? What did she need to tell him?
He nodded his thanks as she returned his change, lips twisting just a fraction before he turned to the door.
His lips! Oh, God. He still had powdered sugar all over his mouth, and she’d missed her chance to let him know. There was no hope for him, either. The rest of the crew had already lined at the cash register, ready to follow Ridley to their job.
A little snort escaped as she pictured the sheer torture the poor guy would probably experience all day at the construction site. They’d always been nice to her—probably because her father was backing her up all the way—but they were ruthless with each other.
Ridley had seemed pretty bummed about something, so maybe it wasn’t funny that his friends would tease him. He’d never really given her more than a hello or a quick smile, but that morning, she’d received neither. Instead, he’d stared down at the table and mumbled his order. Didn’t matter, of course, because she’d already had her father putting together the usual choices anyway.
She didn’t mean to dance as she wiped down the counter and rearranged the clean silverware, but the memory of Ridley staring at her lips moved her feet anyway. The morning had passed quickly into lunchtime, and now only a few diners still lingered over their burgers. When they cleared out, she’d be done for the day.
One of those diners headed her way, bill in hand.
She dropped her rag and stepped behind the cash register. Instead of looking at him, she started pressing buttons to ring up the sale. “How was everything?”
“Just fine, thanks. You’ll see me every morning while I’m in town.”
She glanced up with a smile but was distracted when Ridley ducked back through the front door. Her gaze followed him to his usual booth, taking in his low-slung jeans, plain white tee, and scuffed boots. His hair was pulled back and secured with a black leather band, which would have looked ridiculous on anyone else but on him just looked ridiculously hot. She craned her neck to see if he still had powdered sugar on his lips.
What was he doing here? Ridley never came in for lunch. As far as Sara knew, he stayed out with the construction crew all day. On very rare occasions, he picked up a to-go order for dinner. Now, he sat alone, eyes downcast, fingers picking at the corners of the laminated menu.
Should she say something? Maybe he really needed someone to ask what was going on. Maybe he’d be so grateful that he’d—
The sound of a throat clearing snapped her back to reality, forcing her to tamp down the burgeoning fantasy of dragging that leather cord from his hair and plunging her fingers right in. Sara glanced back to the customer with a sheepish grin, but he was rummaging through is wallet.
“This should do it.” The man set a corporate credit card on the counter and slid it toward her.
Without even looking, she swiped the card through the reader and placed it back in front of him. Before he picked it up, the name on the card jumped out and punched Sara right in the eye. A shriek echoed in her ears.
Richard Ryan.
With a gasp, Sara looked up and met the eyes from her dream. In that moment, she knew; he would be the next to die, and Sara would shriek as he left this world.
How could she ask Ridley what was wrong with this hanging over her head? Sara watched Richard Ryan back out of a parking space in his corporate-issued rental car as she approached Ridley’s table with pad and pencil in hand.
“Can I just get some sweet tea?” His voice was barely audible, low and gravelly.
She wanted to look at him but couldn’t tear her eyes away from the back of the old man’s car as it turned onto the highway.
Should I have warned him?
“Would it even matter?” she muttered out loud.
“What?” Ridley no longer mumbled.
Stomach dancing, she finally ripped her gaze away as the Ford disappeared around a curve. “Sorry. I’m all lost in my head today. Sweet tea. Coming right up.”
His eyes pierced her as she tried to muster a smile and failed.
The sun beat a merciless rhythm on Sara’s head as soon as she stepped out of the air-conditioned diner. Before she reached her little car, her skin, chilled from the hours spent inside, was already warm and showing a sheen. If the days were already nearing a hundred degrees in June, July would be brutal.
A cloud of heat rolled out of her car as soon as Sara opened the door. She danced back and forth from foot to foot, wondering how bad the burns would be from the metal of the seatbelt. Could she fasten it quickly enough that she wouldn’t feel the searing heat?
“Ah, ah, ah,” she whimpered as the leatherette seats met the bare backs of her legs.
No amount of wiggling would move her skirt, so she pressed her toes into the floor and stood just enough to smooth the thin cotton over her skin for protection. The relief was slight, but she could sit still long enough to get the car started and roll the windows down.
A breeze barely stirred the air. Only air conditioning could save her, but she’d be home before the temperature inside her Civic would drop more than a few degrees.
“Ugh,” she grumbled, holding a hand over the vent.
The air coming out was hotter than hell. No point blasting more heat into the car. With the fan on low, she could hear the song of the creek behind the diner. Rushing, cool and crisp over the rocks. She knew it would taste sweet and clean, and feel just like heaven over her toes.
With another disgusted sigh, she turned off the car and stepped back out onto the steaming pavement. No point in rolling the windows up—not in Cedar City. She only locked her door because her mother insisted. No one would mess with the car knowing her dad was right inside. Maybe she could handle the heat after a quick dip in the mountain stream. Maybe her hands and feet would even be numb from the ice-cold water.
The closer she got, the faster she moved. She stopped long enough to kick off her canvas sneakers and splashed into the first little pool sh
e saw with enough force that droplets of water rained down over her and landed in her eyelashes. Each was like a tiny, welcome icicle piercing the haze of heat radiating from her skin.
Sara kicked, and then kicked again, before spinning with face to the sky so she could catch the falling drops in her open mouth. She’d been right; the water was so cold that her toes had already forgotten the flaming coals she’d walked across in the parking lot.
If she could numb her feet, could she numb her body? Her mind? Sara stepped further into the stream, heading for the middle where the water was deepest. Several large rocks had formed a little pool that reached her thighs, barely wetting the bottom of her little floral skirt.
With her hands, she continued flinging the icy drops into the air, spinning as the landed. Her toe caught a stone, and she tipped over into with a splash. The laugh was already spilling out as she stood and sputtered and wiped the water from her eyes.
Body numb? Check. Mind numb? Getting there. As long as Ridley didn’t show up out of nowhere, this moment might serve as the happiest she’d had since the first night she’d shrieked. Only seeing the hottest man alive while she dripped mascara and covered a wet T-shirt with crossed arms could possibly be worse than acting as a harbinger for death.
As if in tune with her thoughts, the birds shushed. She hadn’t really noticed them until they fell silent. Had her nightmare come true? Was Ridley about to appear and laugh at her clumped, wet hair or shivering bottom lip?
Sara ducked, ready to hide beneath the surface if he did appear. The quiet woods swelled and thrummed. Even the rush of the creek muffled. As the water stilled, the little hairs on the back of Sara’s neck stood at attention.
She’d felt this before, this awareness, this familiarity.
There, just yards away, a hint of dark. Black shirt, black pants, black hair. A pale face peered around a thick tree trunk, dark eyes laser focused on her. He didn’t move, and neither did she. Nothing moved except the air between them, pushing, pulling, swelling, shrinking. Hotter than the sun beating down and colder than the water swirling around her legs.
Shriek: Legend of the Bean Sídhe Page 6