Incredibly territorial, once one has chosen a mate, she will allow no other woman near him. Patient predators and capable shape changers, these fae stalk their prey, learning everything there is to know about him to craft the perfect form with which to seduce him. While they are unafraid to be seen with the men they choose, they will not make a spectacle or show of themselves. They will be quiet and demure around others, outwardly becoming whatever it is their prey desires when alone.
Leanan Sidhe feed upon two things: the sexual energy of a man, and his creative spark. If the man accepts her advances and mates with her, she is his forever; she will love no other, not so much as casting her eye at another man. The man—chosen not only for his virility, but also upon aesthetic criteria pertaining to some form of artistic endeavor—will find himself divinely inspired. He will gush creatively.
The Leanan Sidhe acts as a form of muse, triggering the creative instincts of her prey and unleashing decades of talent into singularly devastating works of genius. She will make no attempt to interfere in his work, no attempt to guide it with her own tastes. If he chooses to sit up all night composing an opera, she will not complain, she will not make any attempt to draw his attention. It is only when he has completed his work that she will once again seduce him and feed off his blend of both physical and spiritual euphoria. A man in love with a Leanan Sidhe is never more productive in his life than when she is with him.
Such is the conundrum of properly classifying this creature. She means no harm to her victim, and she will not raise a finger to hurt him in any way. In fact, she believes that she loves him, though her love is destructive. Not only does she siphon off the dreamstuff of her victim, but the bond of love is so strong between the two that her absence inflicts incredible amounts of emotional suffering upon him. While he pines for her, he creates, but soon finds that the words do not flow so freely when she is away. Deprived of his muse, the victim turns to vice, often alcohol or drugs, but self-mutilation is not unheard of. This vice often acts as the perfect cover for the Leanan Sidhe, as her feeding ultimately leads to the eventual, and inevitable, death of her suitor.
Whether this is deliberate murder has long been cause for discussion. It is entirely possible that the Leanan Sidhe has no inkling that it is her feedings that result in the death of her lover. Some argue that feelings of love and those of hunger are identical to the Leanan Sidhe, that they are indistinguishable from each other, making it impossible for her to even know which she is feeling. The act of lovemaking leaves them refreshed, invigorated and full of life. When their mates die, often midcoitus, they depart, heartbroken, and live in sadness, promising that the next man will be better, stronger, and a more capable lover, able to satisfy them without suffering an early death.
Are they seelie or unseelie? No one is sure. They could very well operate with full knowledge of their activities, entirely self-aware, outwardly expressing shock and dismay at the loss of their lover. They could just as easily be unwitting vampires, operating as muses, unaware that they cause even the slightest bit of harm. Firsthand accounts support the latter. However, considering their education, refinement, taste, and delicate, precise methodology, one has to wonder: how much of that is an act?
Conversely, if she does feel love and does not recognize hunger, then perhaps she really is a muse. After all, the men she loves leave behind some of humanity’s greatest works of art: paintings, poetry, sculptures, plays. Perhaps these men contained the right spark to create these masterpieces, but needed a catalyst to bring so much of it out at once. And, as with burning several wicks in the same pot of oil, simply consumes everything he has in one, powerful, bright period of expression.
Locating and tracking Leanan Sidhe can be difficult. The first tales of them come from descriptions of the lovers of several young Irish poets. Irish poets are known for three things: their brilliance, their fondness for the drink, and the beautiful company they were said to keep. Some argue that the myth originated as a superstition surrounding the early deaths of so many of these men. Others claim that these are merely the first tales that were collected of the comings and goings of the Leanan Sidhe.
Today their presence is hard to spot. With media fixation and celebrity status often offered so early to talented artists, it is impossible to tell the fairy from your garden variety groupie. This has led to misidentifications and dead ends in a number of famous cases. During the sixties they were easily able to slip in and out of the scene, taking so many talented counterculture stars with them. Now they have to be more cunning to score a number of high-profile victims before they can slip away again. Comedians, musicians, and novelists often find themselves overdosing on heroin or mysteriously committing suicide, while the women with whom they are seen rarely turn up ever again. Once they’re gone, they’re gone; photographs and back stories are useless for tracking shape changers.
While Leanan Sidhe are extremely dangerous to their lovers, they are otherwise harmless. There is no known way to ward off a Leanan Sidhe short of refusing its advances or destroying it.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
LOVERS IN THE AFTERNOON
Play that song again, Ewan.”
“Which one?”
“The one about your first love.”
“They’re all about my first love.”
“You know which one I’m talking about.”
“But you’re my first love.”
“So?”
“So are you really asking me to play a song I wrote about you?”
“Ewan.”
“Because you know how that sounds.”
“Ew-an.”
“Play that song about me.”
“Keep it up. I can go home at any time.”
“And?”
“And I’ll be taking all of your favorite parts with me.”
“You do have a lot of my favorite parts.”
“And they’ll be gone.”
“In fact, I’d argue that you have all of my favorite parts.”
“Play the fucking song, Ewan.”
“Which one?”
Nora leaned in close, brushing the tip of her nose against his, breathing softly and deliberately. She kissed him ever so slightly on the lips and whispered, “The one about your first love.”
“Oh, that one.” He smiled and strummed the guitar. “The one about the most beautiful girl in the world.”
Nora and Ewan nuzzled on the floor of his apartment, half dressed, passing a lit cigarette back and forth. It was raining, the air heavy with the damp chill of late winter; the sort of gray, cozy, dreary day lovers find romantic. Ewan played, the music effortlessly drifting out of him, lingering in the air. Perfect.
The song ended. Ewan cocked his head, the wheels turning inside. Nora wrinkled her nose.
“I know what’s coming,” she said.
“What?”
“You’re about to ask me questions again.”
“I was?”
“You were.”
“Are you sure about that?”
“Quite certain.”
He shook his head. “How the hell do you do that?”
“See? Questions.” Nora stabbed out the cigarette in the ashtray, immediately lighting up another.
“You always seem to know what I’m thinking, even before I think it. How do you do that?”
“I don’t know. I just know what you want. I can feel it. I think it’s because we were made for each other.”
“You know, most men would freak out if you talked to them like that.”
“Many would, I suppose.”
“No, really. Everything is so permanent with you. Everything is timeless or immortal or forever or made for each other.”
Nora smiled, shaking her head. “No, just us.”
“See, I should be freaking out over talk like that.”
“But you aren’t. You love it. In a universe where you feel altogether out of place, I’m the one thing that feels just right.”
“It s
hould bother me that I’m as comfortable with this as I am.”
“But it doesn’t,” she said, smiling. “Because we were made for each other.”
“Then why can’t you tell me anything?”
“I’ve told you everything worth knowing.”
“You haven’t told me anything.”
Nora shrugged. “That’s the point, I guess.”
“I can’t be the only interesting thing in your life.”
Nora rolled over and looked Ewan dead in the eye. “But you are. You’re the only thing.”
“Who is your best friend?”
“You.”
“No, your best friend.”
“Ewan . . .”
“I’m serious. Before you met me, who is the person you talked to most?”
“I was never really the friend type. I mean, I spent time with people my own age, but I wasn’t really close with any of them.”
“Why not?”
“We have . . . the people I live with, I mean . . . different . . . values.”
“What does that even mean?”
“It means we believe in different things. I live out in the sticks. Way out in the Hill Country. You know how folks out there can be. They put a different premium on people. Under the right circumstances some of them are very nice. Under the wrong ones they’d burn you to save their own skin. I can’t live that way.”
“Where do you live now?”
“I still live out there. With my uncle.”
Ewan stroked Nora’s hair, causing her to cuddle closer. “Not your parents?”
“No,” she said. “I never knew them. My dad died before I was born. My mom left me with my uncle shortly after. I don’t remember her at all.”
“You don’t remember your parents? At all?”
“Please, Ewan. Don’t make fun of me. This is why I don’t—”
“Who’s making fun? You really don’t remember your parents?”
“No.”
Ewan shook his head. “Neither do I.”
A small glimmer of a tear welled in the corner of Nora’s eye. She smiled. “See,” she said. “I told you we were made for each other.” The two kissed.
“So you still live out there with your uncle?”
She nodded. The staccato of rain rapped loudly on the window. The storm was getting stronger.
“If this gets any worse, you’ll have to spend the night.”
“There are worse fates I could imagine,” she said. “I have the best dreams when I sleep here.”
“What do you dream about?”
“You.”
“What do you dream about when you’re not dreaming about me?”
“What kind of question is that?”
“The kind wondering what you dream about. What’s ticking inside you, you know?”
“Well, what do you dream about?”
“It’s weird.”
“Weird?”
“You know how most people dream about things like blue puppies or showing up for school in their underwear or going strange places with people they only know from work?”
“I guess.”
“Well, I don’t dream about any of that. I dream about the woods. About running away from tiny men or holding hands with a little girl or monsters made out of rock. I dream about the same things over and over again. They never change. It’s not like I dream about these little men chasing me through the city or the supermarket. It’s always the woods. I always dream about the woods. And nothing else.”
“What do you think your dreams are trying to tell you?”
“I don’t know.”
“Maybe they’re telling you that you need to leave.”
“Leave? No. I’ve been having them as long as I can remember.”
“Well, then. Maybe that’s what I’m telling you.”
“That I should leave?”
“That maybe we should,” she said.
“There’s a lot you’re not telling me, isn’t there?”
She nodded.
“And you don’t trust me enough to tell me?”
“It’s not that.”
“What is it then?”
“It’s things you’d best not know.”
“About you?”
“About where I come from.”
“Why can’t I know about it?”
“Because if there are things I’d rather forget, why on earth would I want someone else remembering them?”
“Sometimes weights are better carried by two.”
“You read that on a greeting card, didn’t you?”
Ewan smirked, busted. “It might have been a comic strip.”
“You’re adorable.”
“You’re incredible.”
“Run away with me.”
“What?”
Nora sat up, taking Ewan’s hands in hers, staring, unblinking, into his eyes. “Run away with me. We’ll take your band to L.A. and go all the way. Let’s just get out of here and never look back.”
“What are you afraid of?”
“Losing all this.”
“No, why do you want to leave?”
“Because you’re never going to be the man you want to be washing dishes in a bar. And I’m never going to be the girl you want me to be living here.”
“You’re serious, aren’t you?”
“Very.”
“Oh my God. I don’t . . . I don’t know what to say.”
“Tell me you love me.”
“Nora, I love you.”
“Tell me you need me.”
“Nora, I need you.”
“Tell me you’re gonna be a rock star.”
“I’m gonna be a rock star.”
“Run away with me.”
“Okay. After our next show, if we tear the roof off the place, we’ll talk to the boys.”
Nora bounced up and down, clapping her hands. “We’re going to do this?”
“If the show goes well.”
“Then it better go well. I’ll do whatever I can.”
“You really want to do this?”
“More than anything.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
THE PHILOSOPHER’S BREAKFAST
The sky was angry, roiling with a deep fury betraying unshackled hostility for the earth below. Flashes of light belched within the clouds, streaking from the heavens, trailed by cavernous claps of thunder drenched in a thousand tiny slaps of rain. It was a hateful storm, spiteful, brimming with malice. The sky itself fell in softball-size chunks of ice, the city buckling, breaking beneath it, windows spiderwebbed with cracks before shattering, ice and glass commingling on the ground.
Colby Stevens saw the storm for what it was, the billowing thunderhead above churning with the shadows of Hell, the air stinking of brimstone. There was nothing natural about it. It was the witching hour and the looming threat had chased away the few remaining barflies, leaving abandoned downtown streets. The conditions were perfect for what was about to happen. Though having never before seen it in person, he was familiar with the signs. The Wild Hunt was afoot.
Colby stood in the recessed doorway of a building, barely out of hail’s reach, a backpack slung over his shoulder, holding a single bottle of whiskey—a gift from Old Scraps to rush him out the door before the rare act of closing the bar up for the night. No one wanted to be out in this, even the old cluricaun.
As the hail let up, Colby hiked across the ice-strewn street to one of the city’s tallest buildings and ascended its rain-slicked fire escape. The wet metal left a rusty orange itch in his palm. While spending time atop a rooftop in a storm was a terrible idea, the telltale dull roar of hooves in the distance convinced him that it was better than the alternative. So Colby took the fire escape one step at a time, trying not to think about what might happen if lightning struck its exposed, rusted metal skeleton.
Upon reaching the top, he saw that he was not alone. Sharing the rooftop, perched recklessly upon the outermost ledge, was Bertrand the angel
. Suited from the neck down in his battered white suit of armor, he looked more like a lightning hazard than good company. Bertrand craned his neck over his shoulder, sniffing, his long, soaked hair flailing in the wind.
“Is that a bottle of whiskey I smell in your bag?” he called out over the rain.
Colby nodded. “You can smell that?”
“I’ve got the nose of a bloodhound and the thirst of his master.” Bertrand sniffed the air again. “I wouldn’t worry, you’ll be fine up here. Doesn’t smell like lightning.”
Colby walked across the rooftop, pulling the bottle out of his bag. He unscrewed the top, took a long, deep pull off the bottle and passed it to Bertrand. The angel took a brief swig, gargled with the alcohol and swallowed hard.
“Shit,” he said. “I figured a sorcerer would be able to conjure himself up a better brand of bourbon.”
Colby shook his head. “Not in this town. There isn’t enough ambient dreamstuff to put together a stiff drink of rotgut, let alone a whole bottle of the stuff.” Then he took a seat beside the angel.
Bertrand took another drink, then flapped and fluttered his large white wings a bit, shaking rain from his feathers. He extended one wing over Colby, casting a heavy shadow but shielding him from the brunt of the downpour. “I’ve heard things about you, you know. Stories.”
“I’d be surprised if you hadn’t,” said Colby, reaching for the bottle.
“Are any of them true?”
Colby nodded. “I’m sure there’s a little something true in a bit of them all.”
“Which ones are almost true?”
“Well, which one is your favorite? Just assume that one is true.”
Bertrand nodded. “So what can I do for you?”
“What makes you think you can do something for me?”
“A lot of rooftops in this city,” he said. “I only perch on one of ’em.”
“Answers, mostly.”
“You want to ask me questions?” asked Bertrand, genuinely surprised.
“Yeah.”
Bertrand smirked. “Do I have to answer?”
“No. It’s not that kind of night.”
Dreams and Shadows: A Novel Page 24