Banshee Blues (Bones and Bounties Book 1)

by Bilinda Sheehan

  I dropped back into my seat and flipped open the envelope. MacNa’s name instantly caught my eye, and I sighed. The only thing worse than having a crush on someone you didn’t stand a chance with was being forced to hunt down someone you had once called a friend. We had a history; granted, MacNa had tried to kill me the last time we’d come face to face, but that didn’t change the fact that I’d once looked up to him like an older brother. Handing him over to the Court just didn’t sit well with me.

  Not that I had a choice.

  Chapter Three

  The Faerie Court expected me to jump whenever they commanded it, and for the most part I obliged. This time wouldn’t really be any different; I would do as they asked, no matter how much the thought of having to track down MacNa filled me with dread.

  There was a reason we hadn’t laid eyes on each other in years. A damn good reason.

  But there was something else I needed to do first. Money was nice, and a necessity for living in the human world. Keeping my head firmly attached to the rest of my body was also helpful, and as long as I didn’t dilly-dally there wouldn’t be a problem. But above all else, I valued holding on to my sanity. Banshees had a knack for losing their minds, and I wasn’t about to let that happen.

  Tucking the hardback book under my arm, I tugged back my hair and deftly wrapped the silvery strands around one another until they hung down my back in a tight braid. I crossed the street to the sunnily painted yellow building, picking up my pace as power crowded the back of my throat. A familiar ache filled my chest as I stepped through the electric doors that whooshed open in greeting.

  The hall was sterile; the walls painted a pristine white that hurt my eyes and smelled of bleach that burned at the back of my nose. The pine reception desk sat directly in front of the double doors and was manned by a woman wearing a white uniform. She glanced up at me, her brown eyes warming in instant recognition.

  “Back so soon?” she asked, the barest hint of a Spanish accent lending richness to her voice.

  “You know I would come here every night if I could,” I said with a wide smile as I raised the book into view. I meant it, too. The retirement facility for the elderly, which I had happened upon by accident during one of my more uncontrollable moments, was one of the loneliest places I had ever set foot inside. My power was not what it once might have been, but if I didn’t pay enough attention to who I truly was it had the nasty tendency of getting completely out of hand. But coming here prevented that and I was more than grateful.

  Many of the residents were too sick or frail to care for themselves, so their families had handed them off to professional care.

  I’d often wondered why many of them never visited. One of the nurses told me that it was simply too painful. Personally, I thought that guilt played an even bigger part.

  She waved me through the main doors, and the sound of the buzzer echoed in my ears as the locked doors swung wide to admit me to the inner sanctum. It was for the residents’ safety, or so I’d been told.

  My boots squeaked against the floors, ringing in the silence, and I sucked in a deep breath that was laced with bleach and floor cleaner. The door to the room I was looking for was closed, and my hand hovered above the handle until a voice from within cut through my indecision.

  “Son of a bitch…”

  Pushing open the door, I smiled as I caught sight of Dolores sitting in the chair nearest her small, flat screen television. Her greying hair was swept back from her face, and her lively umber eyes were trained on the television that cast a glow across her rich brown skin.

  “Anything good on?” I asked as I stepped into the room.

  “Jeopardy!” she said, her gaze flicking in my direction. Her eyes narrowed as she caught sight of the book in my hand. “You take that book on out of here. I don’t need no one reading to me!” Her emphasis on the word “reading” sent a flash of discomfort down my spine.

  No one here knew what I was, or what it was that I did, and yet I could have sworn from her tone that Dolores knew more than she was willing to admit.

  “I’m not here to read to you, Dolores. Esme isn’t doing well, so I thought I’d read her her favourite book.”

  Esme often spoke of how much she adored The Great Gatsby, and how it reminded her of being young and watching her parents get ready for parties. Her voice held the kind of wistfulness that belonged only to true romantics. Not that The Great Gatsby was particularly romantic, as far as I was concerned. But betrayal didn’t sit well with me and had a tendency to leave a bad taste in my mouth.

  “I see.” Dolores dropped her gaze to her lap and smoothed down the wrinkles in her cream skirt. “Well, don’t stand in the door all day dawdling,” she said suddenly, schooling her features into her usual scowl. “Come in if you’re coming in.”.

  Moving inside, I let the door swing shut behind me. I took the wooden chair from the other side of the television and moved it so it was opposite hers. Her gaze had returned to the game show playing out on the screen, but there was an eagerness about her that suggested she was holding back all the questions she wanted to blurt out to me.

  The silence stretched between us until Dolores sighed and clicked off the television with a flick of her wrist.

  “How long does she have?” The bluntness of her question caught me off guard, and my jaw dropped.

  I stared at her, my mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water before I gathered my wits and shook my head with a smile. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Don’t bullshit a bullshitter, Darcey. I might be in a retirement home, but that doesn’t mean I’ve lost every brain cell in my head. I know you come here to read to the dying.” There was a slight catch in her voice, the only indication that she was feeling any emotion beyond her usual irritation.

  But her words sent guilt swarming through my chest. She was right—she’d asked me a straightforward question, and pretending I didn’t understand it was beyond insulting. I respected Dolores far too much for that.

  “I don’t know when, exactly, but soon…” Just because I respected her didn’t mean I had to tell her everything.

  She nodded again and dropped her head, focusing in on her fingers fidgeting in her lap.

  “Can I see her?” she asked suddenly.

  “Of course,” I answered, surprised by the request.

  Dolores pushed up out of the chair, and I retrieved her walking stick from where it had fallen. Leaning heavily on it, she slowly made her way to the door.

  She moved quietly through the hall toward Esme’s room. Other than Dolores, I’d never socially visited the residents in their rooms. I mainly knew the others, including Esme, from meeting them in the common areas. But from the moment I met Dolores, I knew she was different. She possessed a wisdom that was unusual in most humans. That, along with her honesty, had drawn me to her. Humans had a tendency to lie and exaggerate everything; untruths tripped off their tongues faster than they could keep up with. But Dolores spoke her mind without hesitation—no art, no deception to who she was. Not even the Fae could compete with her in that respect.

  I watched her hesitate when we reached Esme’s door, and a series of emotions flitted across her face. Esme had been her friend—that much I knew. Dolores drew in a long, shuddering breath and squared her thin shoulders. Grabbing the door handle, she pushed it open and then stepped inside, casting a glance over her shoulder to make sure that I was following.

  Esme looked different, but then they always did right before the end. No one ever went easy; the idea that you could simply slip away in your sleep was nothing more than a lie told to keep the fear of dying at bay. The truth of the matter was that no one slipped away. They all fought in their own ways, clinging to life with every fibre of their beings. Even those whose time was cut short by their own hands fought somewhere deep down inside themselves to stay.

  Esme’s sheets were tussled around her as though she’d fought against what pinned her to the bed. Her grey-blonde hair wa
s matted to her forehead and neck with the sweat of her exertion, and her nasal prongs were askew as oxygen poured uselessly into the room instead of where it was supposed to be going.

  Moving past Dolores, I went to her, my hand taking hers as I worked to quickly refit her oxygen. Her body was small and birdlike in the bed; she’d shrunk since I’d last seen her. Her skin was cold and clammy, but there was no denying the strength in her grip when her eyes opened slowly and she glanced up at me.

  I stroked her papery skin, the familiar ache in my chest spreading as I saw the fear in her eyes.

  “You have nothing to fear,” I whispered, my voice low as the beginnings of my power crept into it. It was all I could offer her until the time was right.

  I could see the pleading in her eyes as she tried to speak, and the dry croak of her voice hurt my ears. Reaching over to her bedside locker, I grabbed the small plastic cup and headed for the hall to fill it from the ice cold spout on the water cooler. As I returned to the room, I paused at the door. Dolores had taken a seat next to Esme’s bed, and their hands were entwined as Dolores’s lips moved soundlessly in prayer.

  Rounding the side of the bed, I gently lifted Esme’s shoulders from the pillow and pressed the plastic cup to her lips. The sip she took did nothing more than wet her lips, but it seemed to be enough. Laying her back down, I smoothed the tangle of hair back from her face and pulled a comb from my back pocket, working quickly to remove the worst of the knots until her hair fell about her shoulders in soft waves.

  Through it all, Dolores watched me soundlessly, the heavy weight of her gaze the only way I knew she was still in the room. Once satisfied that I’d made Esme as comfortable as I could, I cracked open the copy of The Great Gatsby and read the first line aloud.

  Esme’s eyes fluttered shut, which Dolores took as her cue to leave. I didn’t hesitate or pause in my reading as she left the room. I knew she was upset, but there was nothing I could do to comfort her. It was my job to bring that comfort to Esme, to make her passing as smooth as I could. Once that happened, I would mourn her as only a true Banshee could.

  The hours ticked by slowly, and still I read. The nurses came and went from Esme’s room, checking and rechecking her as though they knew all was not as it should be. Humans had an uncanny knack for knowing when Death was near and it made them antsy.

  The moment Esme’s breathing changed, I stopped reading and listened. The slight hitch in her lungs told me everything I needed to know. Taking her hand in mine once more, I stroked her skin until her eyes fluttered open.

  “It’s time,” I said, but from the way her unfocused eyes stared past me, I could tell she already knew.

  “Do not be afraid, your journey is done. Your rest is your reward, the world’s weight lifted from your shoulders. He will guide you home…”

  Many believed the He I was referring to was God, but as far as I was concerned it was Death. I’d never met him, despite working alongside him so closely, but I could feel his presence whenever he was near. Now was no different.

  I laid Esme’s hand back on the covers, picked up the book, and hit the alarm button above her bed.

  Death was older than time itself, and a rite of passage. Though the humans still fought against it, we would all someday die. I was required to play by their rules, no matter how futile they might be.

  Two nurses quickly appeared in the doorway, and I stepped back from the bed to allow them access.

  “Her breathing changed,” I said, my words dropping into the room. Not that I needed to tell them—they could hear the change for themselves and began working on her.

  The nurses barked orders and ushered me from the room. I made my way down the hall, pausing next to Dolores’s door. I didn’t go inside. I could feel her grief from the hall, and I didn’t want to get any closer to it… at least not until my job was done.

  I hurried out into the parking lot and crossed the grass the led down the side of the retirement home, cloaking my glamour tightly around my body so no one would notice me. There had been a time when I could have remained in the room without anyone knowing I was there, but not anymore.

  The ache in my chest had become a knot of anxiety. I paused next to Esme’s window, a wail building in the back of my throat. The smell of human fear, grief, and pain filled the air, drawing forth my scream. Only those sensitive to what I was would hear me, so I had no reservations about giving over to my true self. I poured everything I had into it, and the moment Esme left her mortal coil behind my wail cut off and dropped down into wracking sobs that shook me to my core.

  I collapsed to the grass, ignoring the dampness soaking through my jeans, and cried for the woman I’d met but for a moment. I cried for her lost memories, her regrets, every hope and dream she held dear. I cried for those who loved her and for the ones she’d loved in return. And I wailed for the moment of relief she’d felt as her soul departed, the release from agony she’d experienced as she finally let go.

  Death brought her freedom. A pause in time only I felt as the moment between her body ceasing its struggles to hold her on earth and the essence that had been Esme slipped away.

  Silence flooded around me as power coursed in my veins. Indulging my true nature had that effect on me, and I welcomed the strength it brought. Too often, I used my power to protect myself, to fight off and to overpower those the Faerie Court demanded I bring in to face their justice. But not tonight. Tonight, I had done what I was born to do.

  I glanced down at my hands, at the silvery magic coursing through my blood. It wouldn’t last, but at least for now the weight of what I’d given up didn’t sit so heavily on my psyche.

  Chapter Four

  The motorcycle purred beneath me and I ran my hands lovingly over its polished bone body. It had a life of its own—practically a living, breathing creature in its own right—and I was the only one it obeyed.

  I had almost been overwhelmed by the urge to curl into a ball outside the retirement home and revel in the warm feeling of power rippling through me, but there was still work to be done.

  The city streets zipped by in a blur as the bike slid through traffic like a warm knife through butter. As much as I needed the money, the case involving MacNa had to come before I tracked the elusive Henry Archer down for his wife. It was my job to obey the Court’s orders, and I was a good little soldier.

  The bike came to a halt, the engine’s purr slowly dying as we rolled into a space and I pushed down the kickstand. Climbing from the bike, I stared up at the dark building that was MacNa’s last known address and sucked in a deep breath. This wasn’t the place I wanted to be, but I had no choice in the matter.

  According to Lunn’s file, MacNa had agreed to a challenge set forth by one of his customers down at the bar he owned. But when it came time for the challenge, MacNa hadn’t turned up.

  He might have gotten away with it had the customer been human. Honour was very important among the Fae, but humans didn’t tend to have a whole lot of it. The challenger had been Fae, which had opened up an entirely new can of worms.

  To ignore a challenge was simply unheard of, and the Court was of the opinion that perhaps MacNa had spent a little too much time in the human realm. They believed that a trip back behind the Veil might be just what he needed to remind him of what truly mattered.

  I crossed the street and paused in front of the large warehouse-style doors, my skin itching with the use of heavy magic—and not just Fae power. MacNa had himself a witch. If the humans ever caught wind of that, the poor, misguided wretch would find himself on the wrong side of the law. I’d seen what the humans could do when they were afraid, and I never wanted to find myself in that position.

  Pushing my hand against the door, I felt the metal strain beneath the weight of the wards and my own power. I was a harbinger—no matter the place, no matter the hour, I was permitted entry. It was a rule that had come long before I’d been born. Just like there was no escaping death, there was also no escaping who I was. Whe
n I came calling, people needed to listen.

  My power was depleted because of my past choices, not that I regretted the decisions I’d made but some things like this were more important than whether I still had the true magic of the banshees of old.

  The metal crumpled in on itself, and the door fell back and landed on the cement floor with a resounding crash. Stepping over the broken hunk of metal, I moved into the warehouse. MacNa’s scent wrapped around me like an old, ratty blanket that needed to find its way to a dumpster.

  “Come out, come out, wherever you are!” I called, my voice carrying through the darkness.

  I’d always known him to be a sniveling, whiny sort, but even I couldn’t help but feel that it was beneath him to resort to hiding in a place like this, and with the aid of a witch’s magic.

  Something shifted in the darkness, and I ducked a blade that whistled past my ear. Dropping low, I crossed into the darkness in search of my assailant. It had to be him, because I couldn’t sense anyone else inside, but the type of magic being used to ward the building meant he probably wasn’t alone within the walls.

  “I didn’t think you were the sort to hide, MacNa!” I said, straining my ears in an attempt to hear even the slightest of sounds. There was nothing, and that was strange in and of itself. I should have been able to hear him breathing…

  Something slammed into me, driving me to the ground. I twisted in its grip, bringing my elbow up and into its jaw lightning fast. A grunt of pain told me that my blow had struck home, but my attacker didn’t loosen the grip pinning me down.

  Cold iron pressed into the back of my neck and the faint scent of burning skin tickled my nose. Biting down, I gritted my teeth against the press of the blade. I’d grown more used to iron, but it still hurt like a son of a bitch when it was used against me.