The Eclective: The Celtic Collection

by The Eclective

  Mary stood. Her own pretty eyes were red-rimmed; the skin beneath looked raw. She crossed the kitchen floor in her bare feet and took Belinda’s hands. “Love, will you take care of him on the journey?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I promise. I’ll stay with Patrick from beginning to end,” Belinda told the woman, squeezing her hands. Mary’s skin was soft and hot; at her touch, Belinda could feel the bottomless depths of her despair. She loved her father very much.

  Mary gave Belinda a cautious smile, and then turned to her mother. “Alright, Mama. Go tell him.”

  Nana O’Brien heaved herself from the seat—helped by a quick hand from her son—and then hobbled from the room, leaning heavily on her cane.

  “She’s going to tell him it’s fine to leave us,” Mary clarified.

  “I see.” Belinda nodded slowly. “I think he needs to hear that.”

  “So, what do you need to do, love?” Mary asked.

  “I should go,” Belinda answered, gently pulling from the woman’s grasp. She needed to return to the water, but there was something about the O’Brien clan that spoke to Belinda. Usually, she abhorred human contact unless it was the brush of a bartender’s hand as he passed her a glass. But, this...

  The affection was so real.

  In that moment, Belinda could feel Patrick letting go, his wife’s hand in his own.

  Mary patted Belinda’s face. “Thank you, love.”

  Without another word, Belinda trudged back outside, her flats like mush beneath her feet.

  *

  “I’m sorry.”

  Belinda turned as she reached the water’s edge. Kellan stood outside the cottage on the front path, staring at her. The warm light of the house illuminated his silhouette; Belinda shivered. Outside, looking in. Always.

  "It’s all right. I am sure, had I a family of my own, I'd feel much the same." Kellan moved forward, leaving the light. The moonlight shone on his face as he came closer, making his eyes like diamonds. “If?”

  Belinda shrugged. She lifted the hem of her gauzy dress and wrung it out. “I am bean sidhe. Family does no’ come standard.”

  “But...you had to come from somewhere?”

  “I was made.” Belinda’s voice was so quiet in the night. “Banshees aren’t born. We are created by the gods. We live at their will. So, too, do we die.”

  “That sounds terribly lonely.”

  Belinda shrugged again. She ran out of human interaction skills the minute she set foot in the cottage.

  “And what of friends?” Kellan went on, closing the distance between them. He lifted a hand, caressing her cheek. His skin was rough, but warm. She felt it all the way to her toes.

  “No.” She shook her head and stepped back, her body aching for him to touch her once more. “Patrick is ready, Kellan. We have to go.”

  The old man’s spirit, drawn to Belinda, was floating across the lawn. Belinda crossed the grass and stepped onto the water, waiting patiently for him to reach her.

  He had Kellan’s eyes.

  Kellan couldn’t see his grandfather, she knew. Not many humans were able to see departed souls. As the old man drew near, Belinda held out a hand for him, and he took it. Kellan’s eyes widened.

  “Bye, Papa,” he said to the air near her hand.

  The old man turned to his grandson and broke into a big smile, his eyes lost in the lines formed by years and years of happiness. “Goodbye, Kellan. Make me proud.”

  Belinda relayed the message, and her heart flipped as tears trickled down Kellan’s face. She lifted her other hand in a goodbye wave, and let the light take her.

  *

  “He’s a good lad,” Patrick said. They had reached the gate, and the brilliant, white light that heralded the opening between the living world and the next fell across the old man’s face like a veil.

  “Who?” Belinda pretended ignorance. She didn’t want to talk about it.

  “My grandson. Kellan.”

  “Ah.” Belinda gestured to the thin crevice in the fold of time. “Go through, Patrick. It’s time.”

  “You know, he could use a good lass,” Patrick went on, ignoring her. He eyed her as if he could see straight through to her soul.

  “There’s no room for men in a bean sidhe’s life, Patrick O’Brien.” Belinda patted him on the back. “Go on, now.”

  “Promise me something, Belinda the bean sidhe.” The smirk on the old man’s face was eerily similar to Kellan’s.

  Belinda was pretty sure she wasn’t going to like what the old man had to say. “Yes, Patrick?”

  “Take a trip, love. Kellan’s farm is just outside Dingle town. On the ocean. You need a vacation, yeah?”

  “Uh-huh. Goodbye, Patrick O’Brien.” She ushered him towards the gate, but noted his knowing smile as the light took him.

  That old man had something up his sleeve. She was in trouble.

  *

  “Belinda, it’s an hour past time, love,” the bartender said wearily. “Could we not have this argument again tonight?”

  Belinda usually liked the toothless, hairless old man that ran the bar at O’Callahan’s. But when he refused to serve her another drink, she had issues with that. Tonight, however, she really was just too drunk to bother.

  “It’sh fine, Eoin. Fine. I’ll go.” Belinda dropped a ten on the bar as a tip for serving her for the past three hours, and then fell off the bar stool.

  Spring had finally arrived in Dublin. Three a.m. or not, the city was alive with everyone out enjoying the weather. Belinda focused on the toes of her combat boots, trying to ignore passersby and stay firmly on her feet. The two activities together seemed to be much harder than usual.

  “Belinda?” the voice cut through her thoughts, and she looked up. An old friend—another Banshee by the name of Mallory—was walking towards Belinda, her arm tucked into the arm of a good-looking man with a blonde mustache. At her side, she held the small hand of a tiny, blonde girl.

  “Mallory. Hi.” Belinda gave her a half-hearted hug. Mallory looked great—her red curls still fell to her shoulders and her green eyes were bright and happy. Belinda gestured to Mallory’s companions. “And who is this, then?”

  Mallory smiled warmly at the man before saying, “This is my husband, Edward. And our daughter, Saoirse.”

  “Saoirse. Freedom,” Belinda responded automatically. She’d always loved the Irish language, even though she couldn’t speak it or read it if there were a fire beneath her. Her brows furrowed. “But...how?”

  Mallory gave her daughter’s hand to her husband, and put an arm around Belinda, pulling her to the side. “He knows what I am. I still...work. But, we’ve been married for five years. Happily. Can you believe it?”

  “Has it really been five years since we last spoke?” Belinda shook her head. “Congratulations.”

  “Thanks.” Mallory stared for a moment, her eyes searching Belinda’s face. “You look unhappy, Belinda. Are you drunk?”

  Belinda sighed. “When am I not, anymore?”

  Edward interrupted them, placing a hand on his wife’s arm. “Love? We need to get the wee one home.”

  “Yes, darling.” Mallory turned back to Belinda. “You can be a bean sidhe, and be happy. Maybe you should think about that?” She wrapped Belinda in a bear hug and with a wave, disappeared down the sidewalk, hand-in-hand with her family.

  *

  The sun was high in the sky when Belinda pulled the car into a nearly hidden drive and bumped along a meandering incline. She rolled down the window so that the brisk, salty breeze brushed across her face.

  The Dingle peninsula was one of those places that seemed like a world unto itself. It sat in the southwest corner of Ireland like a mini-paradise—vacation-land for the more northern Irish and a final Eden for those who lived there. The drive into Dingle town had been breathtaking—sweeping vistas of rolling mountains, intermittently broken by valleys that led straight to the beach and open ocean. Belinda was lucky she hadn’t driven the car off the s
ide of the mountain as she’d ogled the views.

  It’d only taken three pubs—in which she hadn’t had a single drink—before one of the bartenders could point her in the direction of Kellan O’Brien’s farm.

  And here I am.

  She threw the car into park and sat back against the seat, staring at the modest white farmhouse. It was two stories tall with asymmetrical windows and a bright blue door. Belinda counted four outbuildings, five sheep, and fifteen cows.

  What the hell am I doing?

  She pushed open the door, hefted her duffel bag on her shoulder, and walked up the stepping stone pathway towards the house.

  Her bag held everything she owned. She had no apartment to return to, nothing left behind to tie her to Dublin. It was a big chance, she knew.

  But even a bean sidhe deserves happiness.

  She knocked, her heart pounding like a drum.

  When Kellan O’Brien opened the door, Belinda saw her future reflected in his sapphire eyes.

  * * *

  Heather Marie Adkins is a descendant of the Irish McCarty clan—they built Blarney Castle, and yes, she’s kissed the stone.

  Find more information on Heather and her books at www.heather.bishoffs.com, or follow her on Facebook and Twitter

  Vale Avari has a mysterious past and a laundry list of super-powers, but that’s nothing compared to what she finds upon moving from small town U.S.A to even smaller-town England.

  A chance dart throw lands her in Quicksilver, an off-the-map place with a big problem — people are dying, and word is, it’s supernatural.

  At her new place of employment, a temple dedicated to the ancient Mother Goddess, Vale learns something even more shocking — women guards are disappearing at an alarmingly patterned rate; women who possess special gifts like her own.

  Supernatural powers aside, Vale isn’t ready to believe in the Wild Hunt as the culprit, and she’s determined to prove the deaths are acts of human violence.

  Plagued by a brute with a history of domestic violence and lusting after a dark-eyed man with a secret, Vale has a limited amount of time to discover the killer before he strikes again. In the process, she’ll learn things aren’t always what they seem and the supernatural might not be so extraordinary after all.

  The Hunt could ride for her.

  Available at:

  Other books by Heather:

  Abigail

  Constant State of Disaster

  Cause & Effect

  Heaven Below (writing as Nolia McCarty)

  The Red Veil of Vengeance

  Jack Wallen

  Slemish Ireland 406 AD

  The dark, cold, and wet winter was typical in Ireland. The usual gloom had already settled over the landscape the moment dawn broke the horizon. Underneath the landscape and loss of hope, an accidental rebirth promised to stem the tide of doom. Unbeknownst to the Irish, a bit of luck was about to grace their world.

  But that luck would come with a vast and dark price.

  The price would be paid into the hand of one of the most vile, hated demons to ever haunt the dark of night.

  Vlad Kurvail.

  A descendant of Vlad Tsepes, Kurvail was a grim reaper no one could deny. He cut a swath of death across the land and cared not that even those of his own kind spat out his name in hatred and mockery. He was despised by many, and feared by all.

  Whispers of Kurvail's travels to Ireland spread quickly. No one knew why he would go there. Ireland was a proud but poor country with a spirit that refused to be broken. Kurvail was known to rain down his flavor of nightmare only on the joyous, the rich, the beautiful. Ireland had little to offer such a beast.

  Something had intrigued Kurvail enough to bring him to a land he had never before wished to step foot upon. His travel led him into the underground passages, below the villiage of Slemish. And as Kurvail patiently waited below the dirt, his henchman searched above ground for a man their master knew was going to do great things for the Irish, and even greater things for the detestable creature of the night. That heathen would become a shepherd to help lead the vampire Kurvail into the collective heart of Ireland.

  “My liege — ” the nervous raider approached his master with a caution he had never bothered knowing … until he became a foot soldier in an army lead by the Master of Death himself.

  “Speak,” Vlad Kurvail hissed.

  The underling hesitated, with good reason. The last raider to bring their lord bad tidings had been torn to shreds, blood and viscera spraying the on-looking raiders as Vlad screamed his discontent. Once the blood spray ceased, Kurvail insisted his men lick clean his boots and the surrounding floor of every last ruby-red drop. Not one man dared step within Kurvail's reach after that moment.

  The memory of that moment colored every word and movement before their lord and master.

  “My lord — news has returned from the field.”

  Kurvail stepped in close to the raider; his eyes narrowed, his fangs dropped.

  “Continue.”

  The young man dropped to his knees, his blood ran cold.

  “The raiders have captured the young shepherd and are returning as I speak.”

  A silence chilled the air and sucked the breath from the young raider at Vlad's feet.

  “My lord and master … ” The young servant’s breeches filled with his own urine.

  “Silence!” The vampire Kurvail's voice shook the rock walls, threatening to cause a cave in. “Your voice pains me. Your words hold as much meaning as that worthless mind trapped within the bone of your skull.”

  “Kurvail, I entreat you — ”

  “You dare call me by name?”

  The vampire wasted no time with the underling. With an almost violent speed, Kurvail had the raider's head in his grasp and quickly cracked it on a rock outcropping on the wall. The stone opened a hole in the bone allowing the vampire's fingers purchase enough to separate the upper and lower half of the skull. The action was so swift, the raider was still coherent … still alive and staring at the top of his skull rattling to a silent stillness on the stone floor.

  Vlad scooped out a finger full of the spongy gray matter and held it up for the raider to behold. The man's eyes nearly doubled in size.

  “Did this fraction of your brain hold the thought you were about to share? If so, let me assist you.”

  With a slow, almost seductive, motion Kurvail popped the chunk of brain into his mouth, chewed , and swallowed.

  It was the last sight the young raider's eyes would behold.

  “Tis a shame to waste such young blood.”

  Kurvail released a shriek that rang throughout the caverns. His patience for human incompetence and fealty had long since waned. He knew, however, the reward for his plan would be beyond anything any of his kind had ever dreamed. The Irish would be his puppets and playthings. Having such a spirited people under his thrall would serve as a gateway to the rest of humankind.

  The plan not only promised Vlad a bright future, it offered him escape from a painful past.

  Lower Moesia (Pre-Romania) 305

  “Kurvail, they’ve breached the gate!” Tamora shouted above the din of the mob below.

  Vlad Kurvail sat atop stone pillar on the front of the Drum Tower. His raging voice was just loud enough for his darling Tamora to hear. “What do you see?”

  There was a hitch of hesitation in her voice. “They’ve brought The Saint. A group of priests and soldiers are marching him through the castle court! They’ve brought fire and prayer.”

  Vlad Kurvail scoffed at prayer as nothing more than pious desperation. The faithful offered prayer to whatever god they happened to hold dear at the moment, with an unwavering hope their prayers would be answered.

  They weren’t. And this confrontation would prove to them, once and for all, God was nothing but a delusion dreamed up to sooth the fears of children.

  Before Vlad could drop from his perch, balls of flame shot up from the ground. The flame was not born of m
an but magic. It was The Saint — one of the darkest secrets of the Christian Church at the time. A magic user with the power of fire at his fingertips.

  A searing ball of heat flew by, threatening to deprive him of existence.

  “You dare?” Vlad Kurvail whispered as he leaped to the ground below. The earth shook as his boots slammed into dirt.

  The ancient vampire rushed the small army, his fangs out, his blood boiling and thirsting. But when he reached the mass of humans and the mage, the sight he beheld reached into his chest and crushed his still, black heart.

  In the middle of the group, The Saint had Tamora encased in a fiery blue ball, her skin tanning like old leather, until bubbles formed and popped. Her body finally went limp and then turned to dust.

  Tears of blood poured down Kurvail’s ivory cheeks. A howl of rage escaped his lips.

  “What have you done?”

  “Black beast, we have slain your whore,” the priest mage, known to many as The Saint, cried out.

  Kurvail hissed a hot stream of hatred at the intruders. “You dare take from me? You risk unleashing a plague upon your kind that will surely wipe the land clean of your pestilence! I shall spend my eternity culling your herd until there is nothing left of you but bones and dust. I will eradicate you — one man, one family, one kingdom at a time. And then I will wipe my brow with your flesh as the last of your kind disappears from my sight and memory.”

  Before the chaste fire mage could raise his hands to conjure a hellspawn bolt, Vlad Kurvail split the space between them and had the mage’s head in his hands. With a swift snap and twist the head was removed from the neck and dangled from Kurvail’s hand. The vampire put the stump of neck to his mouth and lapped at the cooling blood. When Vlad finished his snack, blood rained down from his mouth and the stump of neck hanging from the The Saint’s head in the vampire’s hand.

  “I shall relish each of your deaths, savor the taste of your fear as your life’s candles extinguish.”

  A sword slashed down from behind. In a wash of dark and cold light, the vampire disappeared from the trajectory of the sword. Kurvail was gone. Or so it seemed. The slashing swordsman stared forward with disbelief in his eyes. Those eyes quickly bulged out and broke free from their sockets, as bones cracked and skin ripped. The body of the knight quivered and fell to pieces on the ground around Kurvail. The vampire had reappeared within the soldier and slowly broken free of the skin and bone encasement.