by Mia Dean
The Fae’s Fire
By Mia Dean
© Mia Dean 2013
All Rights Reserved
This story contains explicit material, strong language and sexual references intended for mature audiences only. All sexual acts portrayed or suggested are between consensual adults over the age of 18.
My mood was as black as the stout sitting in front of me in the dingy Irish pub. Back at my hotel there was a surprisingly modern bar, all soft light glistening on polished marble and tinkling piano classics, but I had no desire to drink fine wine with my family and listen to a local boy in an ill-fitting suit jangle through “Moon River” for the third time tonight. No, the low ceiling and ghostly smell of a hundred years of tobacco suited me much better.
We had come en masse to this little town, Loughsidhe, the entire Dwyer clan both the American and Irish contingent to bury my grandmother, Nana Moira, for whom I was named and as icy a bitch as these green fields had ever produced. When I first got the call in my small apartment outside of Atlanta that Nana had passed I knew I didn’t want to come to the funeral. The last time I had seen Nana Moira I was 17 years old on my first trip to Ireland, The Summer from Hell, as it later became known had earned its capitalization in my mind.
I flew into Dublin where Nana was still living at the time: excited, nervous and jazzed up on too many cups of airline coffee and a lack of sleep. Sure, even then I knew what she was like. Her infrequent visits to my family in America were always preceded by furious house cleaning. I was stuffed into my starched best dress, usually left over from Easter, while my mother issued a slew of Gaelic curses. I had to be presented to my grandmother while my mother twitched nervously beside me.
“Well, you can tell she has the blood in her,” Nana would remark, waving an imperious hand towards my carroty red hair and marble pale skin. “But Anne, my love, why have you let her get so fat?”
I was not disappointed at 17 when I arrived in Dublin either. After a cold greeting at the baggage claim Nana’s first comment was that my baby fat should have melted away at my age, especially since I had had the gall the grow to such an unladylike height as 5’9. Still, my ever optimistic teenage mind persisted, I could put up with anyone for the summer in exchange for Dublin. The sights, history, sounds and smells were like stepping through the looking glass. Alice had her mad Red Queen and I had mine.
Unfortunately, Dublin remained a Wonderland glimpsed mostly through the glass of Nana’s flat window. What I thought was a trip for me to get to know my mother’s birth place and explore my roots turned out to be Nana’s last ditch effort to turn me into the little lady she expected. Day after day was spent in her sitting room being seen and not heard as she sipped tea with her little old lady friends and discussed what was done and not done.
I shook away these depressing memories and noticed that my previously full beer was now empty, again. I made eye contact with the bartender.
“Another?” His gaze was bold and intense. Soft brown eyes locked into mine as he waited for my response. I nodded, momentarily shy under the intensity of his look. “Are you an American then?”
“Yes,” I answered a trifle stiffly as I found my voice again. Get it together, Moira. You’re not that insecure 17 year old anymore. You may never be what anyone considers thin but you have curves in all the right places and you are showing them tonight. Unlike my family’s proper and elegant mourning weeds, I had picked out a knock out black cocktail dress. One specifically designed to see if I could make Nana do a 180 in her expensive mahogany coffin. The neckline dipped deliciously low exposing roughly a mile of pearl white cleavage; the 50’s style pencil skirt accentuated the soft slope of my belly and the round fullness of my hips and ass. I felt like Marilyn, I looked fantastic and the ghost of a bitter old hag was not going to make me feel bad about myself tonight.
During my little inner pep talk the bartender had returned with my drink. “So what brings a big city American girl to a place like Loughsidhe?”
He was tall, a little on the gangly side with a charming crop of coal black hair that seemed designed to fall in those laughing brown eyes. A small town boy, probably popular with the local girls but still naïve enough to think my stylish new bob, kohl blackened eyes and shiny red lips equaled big city.
“My grandmother’s funeral. Loughsidhe was the place of her girlhood. If demons can be said to have girlhoods.” I mused and he laughed, charmingly. A full baritone rumble that made me shiver a little. God, it had been too long since I’d gotten laid.
“Sounds like a Loughsidhe girl all right, bubbles and laughter until they hit a certain age and then the devil in them comes roaring out.” For a moment I tried to imagine Nana as a laughing girl running through the fields with her school friends making daisy chains and whispering about boys. Nope, any attempt to imagine that biddy as a girl only resulted in an image of Nana about a foot shorter and still as severe and disapproving. “I’m Aidan, by the way. Let me know if you need anything.” He tipped me a wink, something I would normally find crass or corny but his obvious good humor made it charming.
“Well, since it’s a wake I think a shot of whisky may be in order.” I wasn’t normally much of a drinker but hell, tonight I could go for broke. It was a three minute walk up the high street to my hotel and I certainly wanted to make sure I got back long after the rest of my family had retired for the night. I wondered if there was a jukebox in this place and if it would have “Ding Dong the Witch is Dead” on it.
I spent the next half an hour finishing my beer and eyeing Aidan’s tight ass under his faded jeans while he poured drinks for other customer. I briefly flirted with the idea of taking him home tonight, back to my empty, cold hotel room for some warm and laughing sex with a sexy Irish boy. To be fair, the accent alone was almost enough to slide my panties off. Still, tomorrow I would be leaving the dust of Loughsidhe behind and heading for Dublin for a week; my chance to have the vacation there I always wanted. The pubs and bars of those charming streets would be teeming with handsome Irish lads looking for a chance to charm a one-night stand. No point in the hassle of sneaking Aidan into the hotel and out the next morning past my family, no matter what effect his muscular forearms were having on my panties.
It was time to leave the pub behind. One more stout or one more wink and my resolve might weaken. I started pulling some money out of my purse when Aidan shuffled back over.
“You’re not leaving now are you? It’s not a good idea for pretty, young ladies to be walking home at night alone.” The laughter constantly dancing behind those eyes made it hard to take him seriously. “You’d do better to wait another hour or two until I close up and let me walk you back like a real gentleman.”
Be still my beating heart, and other parts that were beginning to throb. I leaned forward over the bar enjoying the way he gaze dropped to my now immodestly exposed breasts, pushing fully, straining against the tight fabric of my dress. The raw hunger I saw in that look was enough to make my nipples stiffen and ache. I felt sexy and the way his gaze took on a new level of desire fed the flames. God, I was soaking wet and wanted to spread my legs on top of the bar this instant. To feel him thrust into me, that cunning little mouth soothing my aching breasts with desperate kisses while the shocked clientele looked on to us rutting like animals.
Wooosh. I let out a deep breath. Easy girl, you’re rational and level headed. One sexy Irishman is not enough to land you with a public indecency charge.
“I think a big city girl like me can handle the walk,” I said with real regret tingeing my attempt at sexy banter. “Besides, small town like this, don’t your muggers have to be home
by 8 pm?”
“It’s not the muggers a pretty girl like you needs to worry about.” He seemed momentarily deflated as the heat of that one moment passed. His eyes made their way regretfully back to my face. “It’s the sidhe. They love finding pretty girls and seducing them. No one can resist.”
“The she?” I had an amusing drunken image of a band of beautiful roving lesbians leading unwary American girls into debaucheries undreamt of.
“Sidhe. S-i-d-h-e. The fairy folk. The one that lives by the lough is particularly notorious, it’s said his bastards were the first residents of this town and they named it after him.”
Sidhe, Fairy folk, no sexy lesbians after all. I laughed at the absurdity of my train of thought and Aidan hesitantly smiled with me. “I think I’ll be alright. If I see any leprechauns on my way back I’ll give them a wide berth. Scout’s honor.”
I scooted out the door, worried that my alcohol addled mind would find more sexual imagery to dwell on. Even, God forbid, humping the Lucky Charms leprechaun. Aidan made me weak in the knees and if I were going to keep my resolve to head to Dublin in the morning I needed to vacate his vicinity. Inmediamente.
The spring night air was fresh and just a trace of a cool breeze felt like heaven against my flushed skin. I momentarily closed my eyes and turned my head away from the hotel, I could smell the earth warming after a long cold winter and fresh green things growing in the twilight. When I turned back towards the hotel I was surprised to see a fair number of families and couples still strolling along the high street. My watch said it was only 9 pm, much earlier than I had hoped. My family would be finished dinner and toasting Nana’s “indomitable spirit” at the hotel bar, every one carefully skating around the truth. Definitely not the scene for me but I couldn’t go back into The Crooked Hill Pub either. It’s time to start strolling away from the hotel in the hopes of coming across another pub, this one with any luck, staffed by a dour old man that couldn’t stir my desire no matter how much whisky I drank.
I made it a few blocks, past darkened shops closed for the night when I came across a little alleyway barred by a charming little iron gate. In the center of the scrolled ironwork there was a face, a man’s face surrounded by cunningly wrought leaves. I touched it gently and smiled, I don’t know why I did it. I just felt a sudden urge to press my fingers against the little man’s face. The iron was surprisingly warm despite the cool of the evening. Beyond the gate, through the narrow alley I could see open fields and trees, dark sentinels standing in the moonlight. Could it be a private park attached to some old manor house? There were no signs, no “Private Property,” no “No Trespassing” but to be fair I didn’t know if Ireland required such things. All I knew was that this place felt good, felt right. The little iron man, who had looked severe when I first noticed him now seemed to have a slight smile curving the edges of his full lips.
Before I could hesitate another moment, I swung the gate open with my finger tips and stepped through to the alley beyond. You’re really on a roll tonight, Moira. First contemplating public indecency and now trespassing. But I didn’t feel bad, or nervous or worried. I actually giggled, not the nervous high pitched giggle I’m prone to when I’m frightened but a relaxed and happy sound.
The alley itself was nondescript: two brick walls on either side and too narrow for a car, even a small one. The only thing that set it apart from other alleys in town was that there were no garbage cans out here for the two shops that bordered it, a charming used book store and high end women’s clothing boutique. As far as I could tell there weren’t even entrance ways from the shops to the alley.
I strolled along, my eyes fixated on the field of grass. It almost glowed silver in the moonlight, a world away from the yellow lights of the street. At that moment, there was nothing I wanted so much as to feel the grass between my toes, to find a quiet place—maybe hidden in the velvety pools of shadow beneath the trees—and to breathe.
I pelted forward as fast as my tight skirt would allow, awkwardly pulling my silver stilettoes from my feet as I went. Giggling and laughing I felt like a little girl running home on the last day of school, when summer vacation was no longer a hazy possibility but here and real. Finally, frustrated with my slow progress I hiked my skirt high on my hips, not caring who saw my exposed thighs gleaming white in the moonlight. When I reached the grass I pitched forward headlong and heedlessly rolling in the earth still warm from the sun’s borrowed heat.
Now this is Wonderland. Screw Dublin! I’ve never been much of a nature girl, always was more suited to the click of asphalt beneath my new heels. But this place was different. It was like in middle school when I asked my best friend who had just cemented her relationship with her first real boyfriend what love was like. She did her best to explain, falling back on the “butterflies” line repeatedly but I was left more puzzled and confused about love than before; it was just one of those things that had to be experienced. The English language was a poor thing in comparison to truly heart pounding and emotional moments. The only word that comes close to describing how I felt lying there beneath the bone white moon on the silver grass is “peace.” But it was more than just peace. There was an erotic undercurrent that I imagined I could feel hum through my bones and rumble in my chest. My nipples were achingly hard again and the sound of my thighs rubbing together as I rolled on the grass left me wet and hot between them. I needed to find a quiet, private area and release this tension. Apparently a public indecency charge might still be in the cards tonight.
Cool it girl. A little flirtation and a little moonlight and you’re ready for the loony bin. I shook my head to clear it and noticed the small silver flask I had strapped to my thigh earlier for the funeral exposed by how outrageously I had yanked up my skirt. It was still at least half full of bourbon, the good kind, and a few knocks of that might settle my head. I rose slowly to my feet and began strolling away from the exposed field at the end of the alley. As I crested the first hill I found a small stand of birch trees and beyond them the rocky shore of a large lake. Of course, this was the lake or lough the town was named after. No leprechauns lurked in the shadows beneath the birches so that seemed like the perfect place to relax and crack open my flask.
You could always say this for Ireland, the scenery is top notch and it’s easy to understand why its earliest inhabitants worshiped nature spirits. The lake was so still that night it looked like a mirror, shimmering and pewter. Maybe some ancient moon goddess would look down into it tonight and comb her flowing white hair. My thoughts drifted more and more as I sat quietly and sipped. I may have even dozed with my eyes open because I never heard him approach until his shadow crossed my vision.
“Hello,” he said. It’s amazing how such experiences can sprout from such humble beginnings. To answer him back would have taken more power than I have ever possessed in my life. To start with I was totally and utterly entranced by his eyes. They seemed to capture the light, two perfect orbs of the moon glowed in them even here in the shadows. I don’t think I had ever seen true gray eyes before, soft as a dove’s back. The colors of him shifted in the chancy light. His hair was blond, but oh so pale, almost white and hung to his shoulders in fine hanks that flowed like silk. His face was beautiful. It’s not a term I would usually use for a man but there were no other words except maybe “otherworldly.” His jaw was strong and clean shaven, his nose aquiline and delicate. His mouth was a perfect little rosebud, almost too feminine but balanced by his more masculine features. High cheekbones curved up to those slightly slanted entrancing eyes. He wore a simple green t-shirt and jeans. His feet, like mine, were bare in the warm grass.
He slid into the grass next to me, each movement fluid. My eyes dropped to his exposed forearms, the muscles rippling slightly beneath his pale and flawless skin. My God, who knew Ireland had boys like this. If I had known this I would have petitioned for Nana to have custody of me ages ago.
“You’re not from here.” There was no question in his voice; his a
ccent was prominent but slightly different from the cheerful cadence of the locals. “And yet I see your father in your face and I have known him.”
I giggled like a schoolgirl; I felt like a moron. I’ve always prided myself on my smarts and the confident way I was able to negotiate sexual politics but this man reverted me back to my awkward high school self, the Moira who would turn bright red and inspect her shoes if a boy were ever brave enough to offer her a compliment or even a hello.
“I’m not from here, no. But you’ve never met my father unless you’ve ever been over to Millville, NJ, possibly for a bingo night at the VA hall. He grew up in Staten Island. But I am from here, kind of. I mean I’ve never actually been here, you know. To Ireland once before but this is my first time to Loughsidhe. My mom was born in Dublin. My grandmother though, oh my Nana Moira, she was born here, ages ago though. You’re too young to have known her. Moira Dwyer. That’s my name too. Moira. She’s dead.”
I’m sure my cheeks had turned an alarming shade of red as I finished my rambling monologue because I could feel them burning in my face. The young man only continued to look at me, his head cocked slightly to the side and a kindly expression in his eyes. My eyes were fixed on the ground where my hands were nervously plucking and tearing the grass stems. Every once in a while I caught a glimpse of him through my lashes and wondered how old he was exactly. Certainly no older than thirty, but he carried himself with the assurance of an older man. Those eyes, those silver pools were ageless.
“I knew a girl named Moira Dwyer but it has been many years since she has visited my shores. She came one year with her schoolmates after the Belfires had gone out and May Day was upon us. It’s a tradition here,” he added offhandedly. “Girls who sleep by my lough on the night before May Day will dream of their future loves.”
“That’s nice.” God, I am such an idiot. Think of something to say. Anything to keep the conversation going. I could spend all night looking at this man and it would fuel my fantasies for the rest of my life. “You said your lough, your lake. Does your family own this place?” I felt slightly more confident as I noted the way he was inspecting my exposed legs.