Banshee Song (A Steamy Paranormal Fantasy Romance)

by Jen Katemi

  She matches my rhythm and we gain momentum, escalating quickly in the age-old dance of love. Her moans mingle with mine, until finally, I feel her tense even further, holding perfectly still for a second or two as if poised on the edge of a precipice. Then she tumbles over into a second orgasm. Her body arches beneath me and she begins to shudder and tremble. A scream releases from her, muffled against my shoulder.

  The sound tips me over the edge, too, and an unintelligible roar bursts from my throat as I release my seed in a rush. Heat and wetness, and a deep sense of connectedness in that moment, warms me right to my core.

  I collapse against her, spent, and then roll us onto our sides, wanting to remain seated deep inside her but not wanting my weight to crush her.

  Perspiration coats my skin, and hers. It takes several seconds before my breathing even attempts to return to normal.

  She grins at me, sleepily, and reaches up a hand to caress my cheek. “That was pretty damn good, faerie man.”

  So much for ice. This woman has melted everything within a ten-foot radius of my heart.

  I turn my head into her caress and manage to land a gentle kiss on her palm. “It was pretty damn good, little banshee.”

  We lay in sated silence. On my part I am content just to hold her, and from the way she curls her warm body into mine and then settles with a sigh, I believe she feels the same sense of peace.

  I wonder at the joy of feeling heat both within my body, and outside it. When I have had sex in the past, it has always been an act that takes place in the moment. An act that is over as quickly as it starts. Solstice festivals in Faerie—when many of the Winter Court’s inhabitants gather to celebrate the change of season—are highly conducive to sex, but rarely to intimacy.

  This—lying here with Indie wrapped in my arms—feels like intimacy. Against my usually wintery form, her curves feel good. They feel just right, in fact. I tighten my embrace around her and she shifts within my arms and gazes up at me. Surprisingly, her expression turns serious and reflects a hint of sadness.

  I raise myself up on one elbow. “What is it? Did you not...enjoy...I thought...?”

  Confusion rushes through me. Was I so caught up in my own need for Indie that I did something wrong? Admittedly I am not hugely experienced in the ways of the flesh, but I thought it went rather well. Did she not attain as much pleasure from it as me?

  “Of course, I enjoyed it, Tarrien. Could you not tell? Two orgasms in the space of a few minutes...” She grins at me, but it doesn’t reach her eyes.

  “You still seem sad. What is it?”

  Even as I ask the question, everything that happened earlier rushes back into my mind. Of course, she must be upset. How could I have forgotten the attack?

  As a fae warrior, I am trained in battle and even expect it, at times. Indie, on the other hand, is a theatre performer well entrenched in the human world. In fact, she seems to have embraced her human half as much as it is possible to do so, while carrying banshee blood. What occurred tonight would have been so foreign to her it is actually a miracle she was able to put it aside at all.

  “That was insensitive,” I say. “Given what happened earlier.”

  “It’s not that. Well, I guess it is, but not how you probably think. It’s just me, overthinking things. I have a tendency to do that sometimes,” she says. “But I was lying here wondering, is it death, do you think, that led us to do this? To have sex when we hardly know one another and have just been through something really...horrific.”

  She shudders, still tight in my arms.

  “I was certainly not thinking about death when we...err...” I don’t quite know how to answer her. I was not expecting a question like that.

  “I’m sorry, you probably think I’m nuts. Of course, I wasn’t thinking about it, either. What we just did was wonderful, Tarrien. But death and dying is a big part of my existence, whether I like it or not. Actually, I hate it.”

  Pity for her plight rises in my chest. I suppose I never really considered what it might be like to be a banshee. Even a half-banshee.

  Her eyes flash, as if she senses my pity and doesn’t want to accept it. “Experiencing the end, over and over again, is unfortunately my ‘normal’. Sex with you was definitely not what I intended when I asked you to bring me back home, Tarrien, but for some reason I needed it. Desperately. And I felt like it was especially because of what happened earlier, not in spite of it. Does that seem warped to you?”

  “No. It makes a strange kind of sense, actually. As long as you don’t regret...”

  “I don’t.”

  I relax back against the pillow and stroke her face. “Do you think perhaps it is because sex is aimed toward life? Even...”

  “Even though I’m a banshee hybrid and as such, cannot create life within my own body?”

  Shock courses through me at her stiffly delivered words.

  “No,” I say. “That is not what I was going to say.”

  “Oh.” She rolls onto her back and stares at the ceiling. “I might be a bit over-sensitive about that fact. So, what were you going to say?”

  “I was just going to say, even when it is just sex for pleasure’s sake, and not specifically for procreation. It definitely felt...well, life-giving in a way. Hot and warm and good. Though I hope I haven’t damaged my ability to protect and heal. I went against everything a winter warrior stands for, to couple with you.”

  She flinches and then frowns, still staring at the ceiling and not at me, and I realize too late it is not the correct thing to have said. When it comes to Indie, I don’t ever seem able to get it right. She rolls slowly and deliberately away and out of my embrace, before sitting up and crossing her arms over her chest. The only disadvantage of a king-size bed is that there is room to separate fully, if one or both parties wish it.

  I want to reach across the vast expanse between us and pull her back into my arms. But somehow, I seem to have hurt her feelings, even though I speak only the truth.

  I try to explain more fully. “My father was a winter warrior, a long time ago. He gave in to the call of passion, and was banished from Faerie by King Tryppton for his misbehavior, along with his lover, Rhiannon. Queen of the Winter Court.”

  “Jesus!”

  “Yes.” I nod vigorously, glad that she seems to understand the depth of such a transgression. “So, you get it, then. What you and I just did was delightful, but it is not healthy, and it cannot happen again. I cannot risk diluting my powers. Not when I need them most.”

  If I have sex with you, I risk not being able to protect you. I don’t verbalize that last thought, but I am certain she now understands.

  Her mouth forms a thin line before she speaks. “Heaven forbid that sex with me would damage what you most hold dear. Yes, we must definitely never let it happen again, winter warrior. I think it’s time for you to leave.”

  “Wait...but—”

  “Now. I really want you to leave now.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  She turns away, presenting me with her back. Her naked back is as delectable as the front view. My loins tighten, despite the fact that my desire was sated only a short time earlier.

  “That’s the problem, Tarrien,” she says. “Get out of my bed. And please get out of my house.”

  Icicles instantly reform around my heart. I guess that answers the question about whether or not I caused permanent damage. Seems the heat was only temporary.

  The look on Indie’s face as she finally half-turns and glares at me over her shoulder says I have overstayed my welcome. She raises a brow, as if waiting for me to comply with her demand.

  “Fine.” I jump out of bed and dress quickly, ignoring her covert yet angry glances at my body. At least, I try to ignore them. It is as if she still wants me, but hates herself for the weakness. “I will return, banshee. This threat is only going to get bigger, and I am bound to protect you, whether either of us want that, or not.”

  I touch my filigree ring an
d step toward the circle of silver mist that will take me out of this realm. Just before I leave, I turn back for one last look at Indigo, unsure what caused the sudden rift between us. Was it something I said? Does she think I regret what happened between us? I was so concerned that she might have regretted our act, that I didn’t consider she might be wondering the same. I wish I was more skilled in the ways of dealing with women and sexual relationships.

  I open my mouth to say something—anything—but her green eyes shoot daggers and she shakes her head, just the once, before jumping up and running into her bathroom.

  I close my mouth without speaking further and move into the mist. We didn’t talk properly about the risk to Indie’s life posed by the abominations, but we will. I am determined to return soon to ensure I fulfill my promise to Indie’s mother. Not for Renna’s sake, anymore, but for Indie.

  Despite the fact that my relationship with the sexy banshee songstress has just turned as cold as my Winter Court home in Faerie, I will not allow her to succumb to the growing threat. I don’t know how I will keep her safe, but somehow, I have to. The alternative is unthinkable.

  Chapter Five

  Indigo

  Is he really that dumb? Can any man—fae or human—seriously not know how offensive those words are? I cannot believe I let him into my bed. Of all the men—or women—I could choose to have sex with to briefly forget the call of the banshee, I can’t believe I chose a fae man so severely lacking in people skills.

  I know that I’m being ridiculously over-sensitive, but it’s been a long while since I took a lover and the timing of it seemed to ram home the fact that my life centers squarely around death. To have that sensitivity compounded by Tarrien instantly telling me afterward that he thinks it unhealthy to be with me...

  “Grr.” I stare at my reflection, as angry with myself as I am with him for giving in to lust, noting the marks on my body from Tarrien’s lips and mouth and fingers. An ache deep down in my belly immediately starts up as I remember what it felt like to have him moving deep inside me.

  Stop thinking about that. He doesn’t want any more of it. He just wants to protect you, not ravish you.

  Gradually, the need subsides and I re-enter the bedroom once I’m sure he’s gone. God damn it. I didn’t even get to find out more about what is going on with those foul loup creatures.

  I curl into a ball on the bed and hug my belly. My inability to have children has never bothered me before. It still doesn’t bother me now. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that I grew up in foster care and never had the chance to dream about having children or a family of my own, or maybe it’s simply innate, but for whatever reason, I’m not really into kids.

  I’ve never met anyone who made me wonder what it would be like to have young ones running around to complete the family.

  Until Tarrien. Maybe that was why I immediately assumed he was referencing that, when in fact, he was already in damage control mode in relation to his damn stupid iced-up heart.

  “Idiot.”

  Lola strolls into the bedroom and sits on the carpet staring up at me, blinking slowly as if asking who I’m calling an idiot.

  “He’s an idiot. A bloody big one,” I tell the cat.

  She blinks once more, and then begins to wash her face.

  “I’m a goddamn idiot, too.”

  Lola stops mid-lick and stares at me with all the disdain a cat can manifest and then turns and stalks out of the room. Yep. She agrees with me.

  Why can’t I stop thinking about how sexy he is, despite his obviously insensitive nature? And why did I send him away, without finding out more about what the hell is going on with the loups and the threat toward humans?

  What did he mean about the threat only going to get bigger? What exactly is the threat, and why does he still need to protect me? Are there many more of those loup creatures out there?

  The image of the person upstairs in 602 pops back into my head, despite my best efforts to block out the carnage. A sick feeling fills my gut at the knowledge that it was most likely my presence in the building that contributed to the poor woman’s death.

  Bait, the creature said, before he died. I took their bait. That means it is unlikely to be a coincidence that the victim happened to live directly above me, and her dying drew me out like a moth to a flame. They deliberately killed someone, just to draw me out.

  An innocent casualty in a war I didn’t even know was being waged. My thoughts head straight back to Sienna. Oh, my dear friend. Were you also bait?

  I hate death. I hate it with a passion. And both the neighbor’s death upstairs, and my best friend’s a few months ago, were hideous and violent, full of pain and terror. I wish I never had to experience anything like that ever again.

  But unfortunately, I know I will.

  I experience all of them, at least those within a certain range. I’ve never really tested the limit of the range, and that isn’t exactly something I want to do. But at a guess, I would say within a mile or so, perhaps just under.

  If something happens outside that range, I might feel a twinge of unease, perhaps a tweak of pain and sadness, or sometimes even the strange lethargy that afflicted me at the theater, but nothing more.

  The banshee magic that swirls inside of me is one of the key reasons I chose to become a singer. When I was young, death almost crippled me, every time it arrived. The force was so uncontrolled and wild, that I lived in a state of dread for years, until the day one of my foster parents—the only one who ever showed me any level of genuine caring—suggested I might be able to channel some of my distress into song.

  That foster parent was the only person in the first sixteen years of my life who took the time to help me. She even paid for a course of singing lessons, and for that I will be forever grateful. Those lessons led to small parts in musicals, then working in the theater chorus for several years, to finally being the star act in a show centered around my voice. Being on stage and singing in such a controlled manner does help—at least a little—to curb some of the banshee angst.

  I can channel all the terror and fear and everything negative that comes with being part-banshee, into my voice, so that it becomes a pressure release and allows me to survive those moments when the death call arrives. Not enough to stop it altogether, but I visualize it as being similar to a valve that releases a tiny bit of steam at a time.

  Singing for pleasure instead of pain seems so much healthier than writhing around on the floor wondering if this is the moment the magic becomes too much, and I’m finally going to end up dead, too.

  THE CABARET CLUB IS full when I arrive with Dreya. I can’t believe she talked me into this but the show after-party, held at the intimate club across the street from our much larger theater, is actually being thrown in my honor. It was my ten-year anniversary with the company last week, and my fifth year as lead performer.

  All members of the troupe, as well as several of our company patrons, and even a few of my regular audience members, have been invited as guests to help celebrate the milestone. It is also a good opportunity for our marketing team to promote some of the upcoming shows—or so I’ve been told. There will apparently be a team of photographers and PR people on hand to document the evening. I guess it would be churlish to not at least make a brief appearance.

  I hate show after-parties, generally, and avoid them as much as I can, but since Tarrien stomped out of my bedroom and popped away in a flash of silver light several days ago, I have to admit, I’ve been moping around a bit. Maybe tonight will give me something to think about other than a particularly sexy and extremely annoying faerie man.

  “You’ve been a proper wet blanket this week,” Dreya says. “I hope you snap out of it soon. It’s getting annoying.”

  “I know,” I reply.

  She’s not being rude. We have the kind of relationship where truth is valued, and Dreya is never afraid to tell it like she sees it. In this case, she’s absolutely correct. I haven’t been my
self since the night my upstairs neighbor died and I tried to block out the angst by losing myself in Tarrien’s arms. It’s not like me to sulk as long as this.

  “I’m sorry, Dreya. I’ll try and be a bit more fun from now on.”

  “Good! Now, don’t forget,” she says, snagging two sparkling wines from a passing waiter and shoving one of them into my hand, “you have to make a speech thanking everyone for coming along to celebrate your anniversary.”

  “Oh, hell!” I forgot about that part.

  “Drink up, and remember! Fun! You need to let loose and smile a bit more. You might even meet someone sexy if you do that.” Dreya flashes me a cheeky grin. “Someone as sexy as that faerie guy. Though he did set the bar pretty high.”

  She winks and disappears into the crowd.

  I stare around, knowing most of those in attendance already and positive I won’t meet anyone remotely as sexy as Tarrien. I remind myself I can appreciate the warrior’s sexiness without harboring any desire to see him again.

  My woman bits zing at thoughts of Tarrien. Liar, liar.

  I shake my head and take a sip of my wine, wondering how quickly I can leave. People often think I must be an extrovert, standing up on stage every night, but it’s actually the opposite. When I’m performing, I lose myself in the song. I love singing, for the pure joy of song itself and not just because it provides a release from my banshee magic. But I hate being the center of attention.

  And right now, in the middle of a crowd that has gathered to honor my ten-year anniversary, all eyes on me, I feel far more anxious than usual.

  Drink up, Dreya suggested, so that’s what I do. I throw back the whole glass in a few large gulps, and someone laughs and presses another into my hand. I down that one, too, and then paste a large smile onto my face and move into the crowd, greeting the many who come up to wish me well.