Romancing the Banshee

by Alecia Monaco

  Romancing the Banshee

  Alecia Monaco

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright ©2006 Alecia Monaco

  No part of this e-book may be reproduced or shared by any electronic or mechanical means, including but not limited to printing, file sharing, and email, without prior written permission from Changeling Press LLC.

  ISBN (10): 1-59596-323-5

  ISBN (13): 978-1-59596-323-9

  Formats Available:

  HTML, Adobe PDF,

  MobiPocket, Microsoft Reader

  Publisher:

  Changeling Press LLC

  PO Box 1561

  Shepherdstown, WV 25443-1561

  www.ChangelingPress.com

  Editor: Crystal Esau

  Cover Artist: Sahara Kelly

  This e-book file contains sexually explicit scenes and adult language which some may find offensive and which is not appropriate for a young audience. Changeling Press E-Books are for sale to adults, only, as defined by the laws of the country in which you made your purchase. Please store your files wisely, where they cannot be accessed by under-aged readers.

  Chapter 1

  Damn. She really didn’t want to kill this one.

  From her perch on the fire escape outside, Aisling stared through the window into the darkened bedroom of her latest assignment and sighed. Sometimes she hated her calling—especially when it involved being the harbinger of death for a deliciously gorgeous mortal male.

  And this one, she thought with another glance at his sleeping form, might very well redefine the word gorgeous forever.

  She slipped her hand into the pocket of her handkerchief hemmed white gown, retrieved her PDA and switched it on, smiling when it lit up with a merry digital green glow.

  Thank the Goddess for backlighting. At her age, seeing in the dark wasn’t the piece of cake it used to be.

  With a few careful movements of her stylus, she brought up the file on the current assignment.

  Declan Mahoney. Age thirty-two. Yale grad. New Haven resident. Attorney. No wonder someone wanted him dead. Former smoker. Cat lover. Well, that’s always a plus. Never married. No children. Driven. Successful.

  Scheduled to die. Tonight.

  Might as well get the ball rolling. No point in prolonging the inevitable.

  She gathered her long skirt in one hand and, with a blink of her eyes, turned into vapor. She materialized on the other side of the window with ease, and found herself a few feet away from the rumpled bed of one Declan Mahoney.

  Mmmm. She inhaled deeply, appreciating the scent of spicy aftershave combined with pure unadulterated male.

  Speaking of male. Assignment #327100DM rolled onto his back and revealed an impressive erection tenting the sheets. For a minute, Aisling almost felt flattered. Remembering that human males typically had several meaningless nocturnal erections as part of a normal sleep cycle, she scowled. Had she gone without male attention for so long she was reading hidden meanings into midnight mystery boners?

  She rolled her eyes. She could have a vagina growing from her forehead and men still wouldn’t notice her. The whole “herald of death” thing tended to be a bit of a romance killer. No pun intended.

  But it wasn’t just loneliness that had her noticing this particular male with such ravenous attention. He was truly beautiful to behold. His hair was cut short, slightly tousled on top, and as blue-black as the birds of Rhiannon. His sleeping profile showed aristocratic features, purely Celtic and lethally sexy.

  She wondered what color his eyes were.

  The blue sheets had slipped down to reveal a spectacularly muscled chest with just the right sprinkling of blue-black hair. Aisling’s fingers itched to run through it, to lie beneath the sheet beside him and see if he felt as warm as he looked.

  Aisling bit her bottom lip. Couldn’t she let this one slip through the cracks? It would be a crime against humanity to remove such a specimen from their gene pool. If she couldn’t have him, she could at least leave him to be the love of some other woman’s life.

  But Morgan Le Fay had ordered his death herself, signing the decree in ink made of raven’s blood. Black smoke had risen from Cerridwen’s cauldron when Morgan tossed the death warrant into its iron depths. Declan Mahoney had to die, and she had to start the process.

  Yippity-skippity.

  Drawing in a breath of air tinged with his scent, she filled her lungs. Her fangs extended and she squeezed her eyes shut. The first note of her keening call sounded, rising up from her diaphragm, roaring through her chest, gaining power in her throat and vibrating forth from her mouth. It was the death call. No mortal could hear it and live. It fed on their death throes and grew stronger, compelling them to surrender their spirits to the hands of the Goddess.

  Aisling threw her head back, letting the call take her. The sound ripped through the small bedroom, shredding the air. A glass shattered somewhere. The windows shook behind her. Still she called, her keening beckoning the soul of Declan Mahoney to leave his body.

  When her voice began to give out, she cautiously pried open an eye, expecting to see the misty spirit form of the gorgeous mortal male drifting toward his eternal destiny. Instead she saw a very much alive Declan peering at her in wide-eyed horror.

  Well, that answered one question. He had blue eyes.

  He continued to stare at her, mouth gaping, the edge of his blue sheet—it almost perfectly matched his eyes—grasped tightly in his large hands.

  What the hell had happened? What had she done wrong? “Why aren’t you dead?” She’d never conversed with an assignment before, but this seemed like the perfect time to start.

  “What the hell are you?” Revulsion filled his face.

  No one had ever asked her that before. She spent all her time either back home in her own realm where everyone knew her kind at first glance, or among the dead—or soon to be dead. And the dead had a funny habit of not asking too many questions.

  “Answer me.” He rose up on his elbows, anger beginning to replace terror on his face. “What are you and what are you doing in my bedroom?”

  Boy, this was going to take some explaining. She could just glamour him, erase his memories of this night altogether, and go home. Of course, she’d have to find a way to explain her failure to Morgan. The situation seemed to warrant some kind of investigation. Her call had never failed to kill before. What in the blue blazes made this guy immune?

  “I’m waiting.” He threw back the sheet, revealing a sculpted body clothed in pajama bottoms with a drawstring waist slung temptingly low.

  Aisling swallowed. Best to get the introductions out of the way first. “Declan Mahoney…”

  He cut her off. “How do you know my name?”

  She silenced him with her hand. “If you’d let me finish, you’d know.” She cleared her throat and continued. “Declan Mahoney. My name is Aisling. And…”

  “Nice to meet you, Aisling.” Sarcasm dripped from his voice like condensation from a faulty air conditioner. “So glad you could break into my apartment for a little late-night primal scream therapy.”

  “Will you please let me finish?” She watched him cross his arms over his fabulous pecs. Goodbye, train of thought. What was she saying? Oh, yeah. Introductions.

  She clasped her hands behind her back and tried to strike a professional pose. “Declan Mahoney. My name is Aisling, and I’m a banshee.”

  His mouth twitched.

  “I came to sound my death call so you could cross over to the other side. That’s what banshees do. Unfortunately—or, I guess fortunately, depending on how you look at it—you failed to succumb to my keening. Therefore, you’re still alive and I’m very much confused.”

  “A death call, huh
?” He let out an elaborate yawn. “How much did my brother pay you to do this?”

  “Pay me?” Huh?

  “This has to be a practical joke. What are you, one of those strip-o-gram girls?” He let his eyes rake her over from head to toe. “You’ve certainly got the body for it.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” She took a step back from the bed and crossed her arms over her chest self-consciously. “I’m a banshee, and you were scheduled to die tonight.”

  “Seriously, I’ll give you fifty bucks to admit that Ryan put you up to this.” He reached for the cordovan wallet on his bedside table. “I’ve got the cash right here.” Those piercing blue eyes gave her another once over, sending a shiver straight through her. “Nice costume, by the way. Very sexy, in an Elvira kind of way.”

  She had to get through to this guy, or she’d never get any answers about what had gone awry with her keening. “What do I have to do to convince you that I’m a banshee?”

  He glanced up from his wallet. “Banshees don’t exist.”

  She rolled her eyes again. “Hello? I’m standing right in front of you.” She snapped her fingers before his eyes. “Don’t you humans think that seeing is believing?”

  He huffed out a sigh and tossed his wallet aside. Placing his hands on his knees, he leaned toward her. “I’ll tell you what I see.” There went those eyes again, making her feel nearly naked. “I see a very attractive, very exotic girl—despite the white hair—with a killer body, who’s doing her best to cover my brother’s sorry behind when it’s obvious that he’s behind this entire prank.”

  Time to activate Plan B. Problem was, she’d never needed a Plan B before… hence she had no idea what it was. “All right, Mr. Mahoney. Maybe this will convince you.” She blinked her eyes and willed herself to shift into vapor. She watched his eyes widen in surprise as she vanished into thin air, only to reappear on the other side of his window.

  He climbed backwards out of his bed, staggering in his haste to get away from the window. Damn, now she’d gone and scared him. Couldn’t kill him with her keening, but she just might frighten him to death.

  She vaporized and reentered the bedroom in her usual form. He stood with his back against the opposite wall, his fingers curled against it, as if he could clutch it for stability.

  “Do you believe me now?” Her voice betrayed her weariness with the situation.

  “What mouth of hell opened up and spit you out?” He spoke in a hoarse whisper, fear lacing every word.

  “I’m not from hell.” She stepped around the bed, holding out a hand to him. “I’m from the fairy realm. It’s part of your Celtic heritage, nothing to be afraid of.”

  “You came to kill me.”

  “Yeah, but it didn’t work. You’re still alive, and we have to find out why.” She had to diffuse his terror if she hoped to get any answers from him. “You have nothing to fear from me. It’s just that you’re the first human to survive my call, and I want to know why.”

  “Can’t you just leave and forget this ever happened?” At least he’d stopped backing away from her.

  She sighed and sat down on the edge of his bed. “I could, but I need to have some kind of explanation for… my superiors… when I return to my realm. Besides, aren’t you the least bit curious about why you survived?”

  He shrugged. “I suppose.”

  “Good. Could I stick around a little longer, so we can compare notes?”

  His face relaxed a fraction. “If you promise not to start that demonic caterwauling again.”

  “You have a deal.” She exhaled in relief. “If I don’t get to the bottom of this, my head will be on the chopping block when I go back home.”

  A hint of the biting sarcasm she’d seen in him earlier returned to his face. “We wouldn’t want you to end up out of a job.”

  “Hey, banshees have to eat too.” She rose to her feet. “Speaking of which, do you have any tea in your pantry? I’m completely parched after all that keening.”

  He looked at her in surprise. “Sure. I guess I could put on a kettle…”

  She dismissed the suggestion. “Just show me where everything is, and I’ll take care of it.” She allowed herself to give him the once over. “You don’t look any worse for wear, but I suspect you could use a cup of something hot yourself.” She stepped back and let him lead the way through the open bedroom door into the living room.

  “Yeah, maybe mixed with a shot of Baileys.” He crossed the living room and led her into a galley kitchen, then flipped on the stove light.

  “Hey, you just escaped certain death. It might not be the best time to take up drinking.” She stood by while he got a kettle from a cabinet beside the stove. When he handed it to her, his fingers brushed hers, and a sensation completely unknown to her in her long existence as a banshee swept through her like waves crashing against the Irish coast.

  Oh, no. She groaned to herself, feeling her heart banging away in her throat and her stomach doing a free fall to somewhere in the vicinity of her knees.

  She’d never touched a human before. Hell, she’d never even spoken with one before. But the minute she felt his skin against hers, she craved…

  What, exactly?

  Dammit. She had the hots for a human.

  Chapter 2

  Declan sat down backwards in a high backed kitchen chair and crossed his arms over the top, watching the strange apparition bustle around, making tea like a hausfrau. He’d brought some interesting women back to his place before, but nothing that could compare to the petite fey beauty rifling through his pantry.

  “Do we want Irish Breakfast or Chamomile?” She held up a box of teabags in each hand for his inspection.

  “Depends on whether we want to stay awake and talk, or ease the shock of your unsuccessful murder attempt.” He felt his mouth turn up at one corner.

  “Irish Breakfast it is.” She turned her back to him and began hunting through his cabinets, locating a pair of hearty ceramic mugs as if by instinct.

  She opened his fridge and bent down to examine the contents, treating him to a view of her spectacular backside. He’d always dated women taller than Aisling, but something about her small stature appealed to him. Made her look… bite sized.

  “Found the cream.” She produced a small pint bearing the face of a cheerfully smiling cartoon cow and placed it on the countertop.

  She resumed her pantry raid, giving him the chance to study her, unobserved. She had one hell of a body, delicate but curvy, rounded and ripe. The silky fabric of her white dress clung to every hill and valley, and the black corset nipping in her waist pushed her touch-me-now breasts to hard-on inducing heights.

  Granted, he’d never seen coloring quite like hers before. Her hair was white, but not the white of advanced age. No, it was more like the mane of a white lion, wild and full, untamed.

  She gave him an uneasy smile over her shoulder, and once again the violet color of her eyes startled him. He’d never seen eyes that shade outside of ads for colored contacts, and he had a feeling that optometrists were in short supply back in the fairy realm. They had to be her natural color, blue almost to purple, wide and slanted up at the corners, long lashed and seductive.

  Then there was that pale skin, the palest he’d ever seen, offset by her pouting ruby lips and pink cheeks. Her skin made him think of cream puffs, soft and sweet beneath his tongue. He wondered how many licks it would take to get to the center of her --

  “Honey pot?”

  He jerked his head in her direction, his trip to fantasyland suddenly rerouted. “Huh?”

  “I was asking where you keep your honey pot.” She smiled again, this time revealing a dimple on either side of her mouth. “I like my tea a bit sweet.”

  “Oh.” He rubbed his face with his hand, trying to erase the waking wet dream he’d been about to have when she interrupted him. “Top shelf above the microwave, to the left.”

  “Got it.”

  He watched her finish
the tea preparations, answering when she asked him if he took cream and sugar or honey, finding himself amused when she became flustered over the lack of lemon slices. Finally, she brought two steaming mugs to the small dinette set and joined him, seating herself in the chair beside him, as daintily as a hummingbird on a feeder.

  “I suppose we should get down to business.” She took a sip of tea, peering at him over the rim of her mug.

  He followed suit, gulping down the much-needed caffeine. “First off, I’d like to know how I was supposed to die.”

  “When a banshee makes her keening call, the mortal…”

  “No, no.” He cut her off. “I mean, what would’ve been my cause of death? I’m healthy as a horse.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “What did you have for dinner last night?”

  He thought back to the business dinner he’d shared with a client. “Porterhouse steak, baked potato loaded with butter, sour cream, bacon bits and cheese… asparagus with hollandaise sauce, red wine, and the best French bread, slathered with butter…”

  “That would be your answer.” She shook her head and took another sip of tea. “You could’ve clogged an elephant’s arteries with that meal.”

  “OK, we’ll cover my eating habits later. I’d rather know why I was scheduled to die.”

  “Well, that’s the interesting part.” Aisling set her mug aside, reached into her pocket, and pulled out a small item.

  He raised his eyebrows when he saw the object in her hand. “A banshee with a PDA?”

  “How else would I access the main database?” She flipped it open and made a few jotting motions on the screen with the stylus. “Just as I thought.” She glanced over at him. “Someone ordered your death.”

  That floored him. “Who the hell would do something like that?”

  She looked back down at her screen. “Someone with a lot of pull… enough pull to get an audience with Morgan Le Fay in the first place, and a strong enough case to convince her to sign your death warrant.”

  “Who’s this Morgan Le Fay? The name sounds familiar.”