Banshee Blues (Bones and Bounties Book 1)

by Bilinda Sheehan

  The vial tingled against my hands as I picked up my pace, crossing the grass to the burial spot I had chosen.

  Did Clary know I would bring it here, to this exact spot? She told me to plant it in the Between, but how could she have been certain that I would? The Between was a place for the banshees, not for someone like her. Or I’d always believed that to be true. I’d never known where the tree Fae came from; I'd always thought they'd sprung up in Faerie and were crafted and created from the Mother’s hand. And yet Clary had been insistent that this was where she belonged, where what was left of her belonged.

  Tears sprang to my eyes, and I scrubbed my hand across my face in an attempt to brush away my sadness.

  Pausing outside the banshee ring, I dropped to my knees. The ring of graves was not the place for Clary’s essence. I dug into the soft dirt with my fingers. It parted easily, the ground crumbling as though preparing itself for what I would give it. The Between always seemed to know what you needed, what you planned, watching and waiting, understanding the truth long before you ever did—and that power never ceased to amaze me.

  Lifting the vial into the light, I stared at the green, viscous liquid that glinted like emeralds as it clung to the sides of the vial.

  Was I supposed to just open it and pour it into the fertile ground, or was I supposed to bury it, vial and all? I waited, but the answer never came. It wasn’t as though Clary had time to tell me before she died.

  “I wish you were here with me,” I said to no one in particular. I knew she was gone, and yet part of me hoped that she could still hear me.

  It was silly to think that. She had lived a long and satisfying life; in human years, she had lived many generations, which wasn’t unusual for the Fae. She had begun to wilt, an indication that her life was coming to an end long before the half-breed had intervened. She should have been given a natural end, but Clary was never the type to do things in half measures. If I was being honest, I always knew her end wouldn’t be normal.

  But knowing that didn’t this any easier. Clary should have taken this trip on her own, a private ritual between her and the earth. And that knowledge frightened me.

  I was meant to be there at the end of a life, not at the beginning.

  As I uncorked the vial, my hands shook. I was closer to death than life, and what was left of Clary's essence needed life. She had known this, but still entrusted me with the task. She had to have known if it would fail.

  “Oh, Christ, I just know I'm going to screw this up,” I said. “Please, Goddess, don’t let me mess this up.” I squeezed my eyes shut and let out a long breath before opening my eyes once more and tipping the vial on its head.

  I poured the green liquid into the earth, watching it seep into the rich soil and slowly disappearing from sight until nothing was left but a faint glimmer across the surface. The soil poured back over the top without my interference, and the silence stretched around me as the minutes ticked by. Still I sat there, waiting.

  Nothing happened.

  I had failed.

  Clary was gone, truly gone. She was lost to the ages, and there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it.

  Tears blurred my vision and trickled down my cheeks, dropping onto disturbed earth. The ground groaned and shifted suddenly beneath me, and I watched as a tiny shoot poked its head up through the soil, its tiny leaves glossy and bright in the light of the Between. Shock washed through me, and I stared down at the shoot as it seemed to stretch toward the sky.

  She had been right: the Between was the place for her essence.

  My heart skipped. Clary wasn’t truly gone. The woman I had known was dead, but part of her was still left on this earth. As long as that remained true, she lived on.

  Climbing slowly to my feet, I stared down at the shoot one last time before turning to leave the Between.

  I had failed Clary, she had died and I couldn’t save her, but this would be different. I would protect her offspring, no matter the cost.

  “I swear, Clary, I won’t let you down again,” I said, and the air shivered in response. I had made an oath, and breaking it would end in my death. That wasn’t something I was prepared for… not yet.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  The apartment was eerily quiet as I stepped inside. My gaze quickly scanned the room until it came to rest on Samira, who sat on the couch with her arms folded across her body and her chin tucked down into her chest. She looked like someone who was deliberately trying to make herself smaller than she really was, as though she was fighting to take up as little room as possible. She even looked a little frightened. As soon as she heard the door slam behind me, her head jerked up.

  “What's wrong?” I asked, manoeuvring haphazardly in an attempt to dodge the ball of orange fluff that was obviously finished shedding in my wardrobe in favor of wreaking destruction elsewhere. Side-stepping the kitten, I sighed as she quickly changed course and dug her tiny razor blades into my leg as she made her way up the side of my jeans.

  Samira shrugged, but I could see from the look in her eyes that she wasn't telling me something, and it was something that was bothering her enough that she actually looked scared. I hadn’t seen that look on her face since I’d freed her from MacNa.

  “Samira, seriously, what is it? Come on, after everything we've been through you can tell me anything.” I plucked the orange kitten from my leg and placed her on the side of the couch, then dropped into the seat opposite Samira and waited for her to speak.

  “I suppose you want me gone,” she said, her voice little more than a whisper.

  I stared at her. What was she talking about?

  “Want you gone where? Why would I want you gone?” I couldn't hide the surprise from my voice. Did she want to leave? If she did, I wasn’t going to stop her, so why the fear?

  Although, I couldn't say I blamed her after everything that had happened. I could see why she would want to escape, to run from the past that still haunted her. But there was still the small matter of the collar around her neck. Until we found a way to remove it, she would forever be on the run from the Saga Venatione. They would hunt her down like an animal, destroying any chance she might have at a future. No matter where she went, they would find her. I knew their kind, and she would have nowhere to hide, no reprieve from their cruelty.

  “I don't want to leave,” she said, “but what choice do I have? MacNa is dead, and he was the only reason you were helping me. You don't need me anymore.”

  Then it hit me: she thought I didn't need her. She believed that I was using her to get to MacNa, exploiting the connection she had with him. She was wrong, but how could I explain that to her?

  Shaking my head, I sat forward in the chair just as the orange kitten made a wild leap from the side of the sofa straight into my arms. The second I caught her, she began to purr, rubbing her tiny head against my thumb and licking my fingers. She clearly believed she was starved of affection, and this was her way of searching for comfort. Her fur was unbelievably soft, and without much thought I began to stroke her. The purrs of contentment grew louder with each rub.

  “Samira, I wasn't letting you stay here because of MacNa. I was letting you stay here because of the Saga.”

  Samira's expression changed, hardening until I barely recognised her. "So you weren't using me because of MacNa. You were using me because of the witch hunters. I see.”

  “No, that's not at all what I'm trying to say. I let you stay here because you needed somewhere to stay. You're welcome here for as long as you want. I'm not going to hold you prisoner. I'm not like the Faerie Court.” A shudder raced down my spine, and I struggled to suppress it as a memory popped into my mind unbidden of the things that happened in the Faerie Court. Of the torture they had put me through after Manann.

  “You mean that?” she asked, her voice like that of a small child and her words snapping me out of my own twisted thoughts.

  “Yes, I mean it. You can stay here for as long as you want. Nobody is using you, o
r forcing you to stay. If you want to go, the door is there.” Exhaustion was washing over me as the last of the adrenaline left my body. I tried to fight the urge to yawn, but it slipped out anyway.

  The day had been way too long, and I was desperate just to go to sleep.

  “So what will it be?” I asked, continuing to pet the contented kitten in my lap. I had a feeling I wouldn’t be able to get rid of her now, but I was beginning to find comfort just in the way she seemed to find so much joy in my presence. It had been a long time since anyone felt that way about me.

  “Well, if you’re sure… I’d like to stay.” A small smile tentatively curled her lips.

  “Great,” I said, climbing to my feet and taking the kitten with me. I peered down at my bloodied outfit. “I’m going to get some shut-eye, or at least a change of clothes.”

  Samira nodded. “I’ll take the couch tonight, and maybe tomorrow we can look into getting me my own room.”

  I nodded, not even capable of arguing with her. I should have offered to sleep on the couch, but I ached in ways I hadn’t believed possible.

  “Definitely,” I said, carrying the kitten with me into the bedroom.

  I closed the door gently behind me and left the kitten on the bed as I stared out the bedroom window that overlooked the city. Night-time always made the city look so much smaller than it really was, some kind of illusion with the blinking lights.

  Tomorrow would be different. The last few days had taken their toll on me, but after watching the shoot spring up in the Between, I had a feeling that whatever lay ahead would be better. For the first time in a long time, I didn’t feel so alone. The darkness I carried because of Manann felt a little lighter. Hope wasn’t an emotion that banshees got to experience very often, but when we did, we clung to it. And I would cling to my hope until my dying breath.

  The kitten hopped onto the windowsill next to me and nibbled on the side of my shirt in an attempt to get my attention.

  “I suppose you need a name,” I said, scratching beneath her chin. “But a name is too important to screw up, so for tonight you’ll just have to remain ‘the orange terrorist.’ At least until tomorrow.” The kitten purred and rubbed her head against me.

  Tomorrow would bring its own set of complications, and I still had to deal with the small matter of tracking down Lunn. But for tonight, there was just me, my bed, and the small orange terrorist.

  “You better not hog the covers,” I said, climbing into bed. The only response I got was one plaintive yowl that warmed my heart.

  Having someone love me no matter what was definitely a feeling I could get used to. Even if that someone was a kitten who insisted on covering every bit of my clothes in orange fur. That was a small price to pay.

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