Soul Fire

by R. F. Long

  Matthew murmured some vague words about spotting one of his clients and she found herself alone, staring at the portrait. The tears that had been threatening all evening stung and then brimmed, ready to fall. Her vision blurred.

  The picture shifted, his face drawing closer, his lips lifting into his most tender smile. Her breath stopped in her throat, lodged there, a painful lump.

  “Rowan?” His voice flowed over her, setting every nerve tingling. “Rowan, my love?”

  She cast a furtive glance over her shoulder. The room quietened, as if a layer of air had wrapped itself around her, isolating her from the crowd. No one else was looking her way, no one would see what she was seeing… If it was real and not madness finally claiming her. God, she hoped it was real.

  “Rowan, please answer me. I can sense you there, but I need to know for sure, I need to know it is safe before I—” A curse, in that fluid and musical language of his she didn’t know but could recognise as a curse nonetheless. “My magic is fading. If I don’t do this now, I will lose the ability for good.”

  “Do what?” she whispered, not daring to speak any louder.

  Daire grinned and stepped through the oak panel, his whole body slipping out of the wood, through the picture the same way he had emerged from the oak tree when hiding from Lorcan and Cathal. He wore a crisp white shirt, open at the neck just enough to reveal a few gleaming red-gold curls. The black denim jeans hugged his body as closely as denim could. He had brushed his hair back from his face. It curled thickly at the base of his neck, a memory of his fae nature.

  “How…” she started, but another question superseded that. “Why?”

  Daire’s hands circled her wrists, drawing her towards him. He took the glass from her hand and set in on a nearby table. His touch turned firm, though still gentle, and Rowan leaned into him as he moulded her body against the hard planes of his.

  “It appears we are meant to be together,” he murmured. “You are my heaven, Rowan, everything I have ever dreamed of.”

  “But you’re Sidhe.”

  “No longer. In saving me, you shared that most precious thing, the soul that drives you, redeems you. And in doing so, you redeemed me.”

  He dipped his head to kiss her and she revelled in the sensation, no longer caring if his glamour dropped away, or if the wandering eyes of the gallery’s visitors turned to see. Daire kissed her, and that was all she needed to know, all she could bring her addled mind to care about.

  Her soul glowed within her, and she could feel the answering warmth from the part of it which now lived inside Daire. Two parts of a whole, longing and determined to be one.

  “I’m just a man now,” he told her, when the world stopped spinning and she could draw breath again. “Mortal, without worth or wealth. Not the finest catch in the world, one might say.”

  Rowan couldn’t help but smile. Fire leapt up inside her, sparkling in her eyes, glowing in the depths of her heart. “Let me worry about that.” She could sense his magic fading, that he stood before her as he said, no more than a man.

  And yet, as she slipped her hand into his and tried to negotiate the quickest way out of the gallery without blowing everything, she could feel a new magic rising, one made of love and soul fire, one that would never be broken or fade. A glimpse of heaven together.

  Author’s Note

  At the heart of Soul Fire lies the folklore of the British Isles. If Celtic mythology is a vast tapestry of tragedies and romances, folklore is its shadow side, the things passed on by word of mouth alone that knit together into something just as compelling. It grew out of the stories people told each other—the lore of ordinary folk. Some stories are humorous, some cautionary, just as grand or tragic or romantic as those legends of Tristan and Iseult, the Táin Bó Cúailnge or Deirdre of the Sorrows.

  Folklore was once current fare throughout the British Isles—throw spilt salt over your shoulder to drive off the devil, use a brush made of broom to sweep out evil spirits, never move the old stones of a fairy ring and, oh yes, leave a bowl of milk outside your door at night in case the fae pass that way on a moonlit night. According to the stories, all fae abhor iron, perhaps a race memory of the bronze-iron age transition. They are equally repelled by broom, a type of gorse. Turning one’s jacket inside out might throw them off the scent, for many see purely outward appearances, shallow creatures lacking a soul.

  The Sidhe are not the fairies of the Victorian age, and even those of A Midsummer Night’s Dream are pale memories of an older form. They stole both animals and humans. Talented musicians and artists might be inspired by a Leanán Sidhe (a fairy lover, half muse, half vampire) or simply taken to the Sidhe Courts to provide entertainment. In the Christian era the Sidhe were deemed to have been angels who took no side in the war in heaven, or supernatural beings not good enough for heaven nor bad enough for hell.

  Aynia (probably a derivation of the Celtic love goddess Áine or mother goddess Anú) is a particularly vindictive Sidhe from Ulster folklore. Daire is a common name (used here in an older spelling) that means “oak”, generally considered the strongest and most noble of trees. The rowan, or mountain ash, is said to offer protection from creatures of the fae world.

  Folklore continues to weave its way through our world today, whether through strange little traditions learned from our grandparents or transformed via film and TV into urban legends. It’s present in our songs and stories and, most of all, in our romances.

  About the Author

  R. F. Long always had a thing for fantasy, romance and ancient mysteries. The combination was bound to cause trouble. In university she studied English Literature, History of Religions and Celtic Civilisation, which just compounded the problem.

  She lives in Wicklow, the Garden County of Ireland, and works in a specialised library of rare and unusual books.

  But they don’t talk to her that often.

  You can learn more about her and contact her through her website: www.rflong.com.

  Look for these titles by R. F. Long

  Now Available:

  The Scroll Thief

  The Wolf’s Sister

  Coming Soon:

  The Wolf’s Mate

  Love is the wiliest thief of all

  The Scroll Thief

  © 2009 R. F. Long

  A Tale of Ithian

  Malachy and his sister rely on his talents as a thief to survive the dangerous streets of Klathport, former capital of the once-great kingdom of Ithian. Stealing a few papers should have been a simple job. Instead, it nearly costs their lives and throws them into an improbable alliance with a shape-shifting official, a desert tribeswoman, and a healer of enchanting beauty.

  Cerys is far more than a simple healer—and the roots of her mission go deeper into the past than anyone can know. She needs Malachy’s skills to recover a stolen scroll, one that can be used to rewrite history and, in the wrong hands, release the dark powers of the Demon Realm.

  Her mission was supposed to atone for a dreadful, long-ago act. Instead, it unleashes a chain of events which sees them pursued through city and desert by the fearsome Dune Witch and a killer known only as His Lordship. Romance, tragedy, and adventure blend in a tale of a magical land on the brink of war, and five unlikely allies who, by putting their lives—and their hearts—on the line, have the opportunity to finally set things right.

  But at a terrible cost.

  Warning: Contains scenes of graphic violence and torture, captivating magic and beauty, two dashing heroes, three gutsy heroines, several love stories and a heartbreaking sacrifice.

  Enjoy the following excerpt for The Scroll Thief:

  Malachy wandered on, so lost in thought that he didn’t realise at first what the tug on his cloak meant. Even as his mind caught up with his instincts, he caught only a glimpse of the child disappearing through the stalls, her long hair trailing behind her like a scent.

  Malachy didn’t bother shouting out. He could feel the lightness on his belt where hi
s purse should have been. He gave chase, saw her round a corner, and plunged after her. He collided with a woman and they tumbled down in a tangle of limbs and exclamations.

  Struggling free, he was confronted with a flushed and outraged face and angry copper eyes. The chestnut-haired northerner. The contents of a small pack lay strewn over the cobbles, vials of liquids, packages of dried and fresh herbs, a roll of bandages and, in their midst, his purse.

  Malachy scrambled to his feet, snatched the pouch up and opened it to count the gold pieces. Of the tiny thief, he saw no sign, but that was his least concern now.

  “What in the names of all the Gods do you think you’re doing?” the woman dropped to her hands and knees, heedless of the dirt, gathering the little bottles together tenderly and slipping them back into specially designed compartments in her bag. “First that blur of a child races by, nearly knocking my feet from under me, and then you come along to complete the job!”

  “She stole my purse!”

  “And gold is more important to you than life and limb, I suppose. I should have expected as much in this godless southern cesspit. Oh Lady Liath,” she said, a little of her anger punctured with disappointment. One of the packets had burst open and the dried leaves it held disintegrated in the damp street even as she tried to save them. “I can’t replace these, not here, not for any price. At least none of the bottles broke. But I’ll have to clean and boil all my instruments, everything…” Her voice cracked with a sob.

  Unexpected shame rushed to fill Malachy’s gut. The unaccustomed feeling seemed to be harassing him today. He sank to his knees to help the northerner gather up her things. She snatched each one he offered her, discarding only those items beyond redemption. Each she reluctantly laid aside elicited another sob or word of dismay. Finally, Malachy took her trembling hands and helped her to her feet, surprised by the curious sensation of her touch. Her skin felt even softer than Halia’s, and his sister spent a small fortune on fragrant oils and creams. Her nails were short, but immaculately kept. He had no doubt that, but for the recent scramble in the dirt of Klathport, she scrubbed them clean several times each day. And from her skin, he could smell lemons.

  She pulled away from him and he noticed her youth for the first time, a girl barely out of her teens. She didn’t look old enough to be outside the family home without an escort. He glanced around for an irate brother or a cousin, but he saw no one. They were alone in the laneway leading to Liath’s temple, a largely neglected place dedicated to the earlier incarnation of the Goddess so revered by the northern realm.

  “Thank you,” she said guardedly. Neither of them made to leave. The moment stretched into awkwardness.

  “Are you all right?” Malachy asked. “I didn’t hurt you?”

  She gave a sharp laugh, shot with a degree of cynicism belied by her appearance. “The least of my worries. But at least you stopped to find out.”

  A smile drew at his lips. “You haven’t been in Klathport very long, have you?”

  “Just a few days. I’m…I’m meant to meet some friends.”

  “Well, your friends shouldn’t let you out by yourself around here. The Lady alone knows what could have happened to you.”

  He expected a smile, but instead, she eyed him suspiciously. “You swear by Lady Liath?” Hope kindled in the depths of her gaze.

  “Liath?” He glanced inadvertently at the temple door topped with the crescent of the Goddess. “Were you in there?”

  “I found it empty. No temple should be empty in the middle of the day. There should be a priestess, attendants…”

  He shrugged. Religion didn’t really bother him. “Maybe you can find what you’re looking for towards the Selima Oasis or…”

  She shook her head, her expression distracted, and clutched the bag close to her chest. Suddenly, she looked afraid. “But they’re meant to be here,” she whispered, more to herself than to him.

  Malachy didn’t know why he did it. Some vestige of decency that life in this city hadn’t beaten out of him perhaps? Or maybe she just reminded him of Elly and the look of fear in her face when he’d tried to help her. With Trask in prison, what had become of poor Elly now? He wished her safe somewhere, and not lost to the streets once more.

  He held out his hand to the northern girl, keeping his body language open and honest. His very stance asked her to trust him.

  “Why don’t I take you back to where you’re staying? You’ll be safer there.”

  “No, thank you. I’ve-I’ve got to go to Aleron’s Mount.”

  “That’s on the other side of the city. It will take you hours to walk it but it’ll be for nothing. The temple there will be the same as this one.”

  “I have to try. Thank you for your help…”

  “You’re welcome.” Belatedly he remembered his own manners. “I never asked your name.”

  “Cerys of Longleith. Thank you for your help.” As he made to leave, her voice followed after him. “I never asked your name either.”

  “Malachy Grey,” he called back with a grin. He didn’t glance over his shoulder until he reached the end of the other side of the square. Cerys stood at the end of the laneway, staring after him, a small and very out-of-place figure seen through the riot of the Cheapside market.

  He headed home, his meeting with Cerys soon dismissed. He had almost reached his front door when he noticed something amiss. The door stood ajar, but he had locked it. He pushed it and it swung open awkwardly. Inside, the wooden frame hung splintered and ragged. The bolt had been ripped from the wall where someone had burst their way through.

  His shopping slipped from his suddenly numb hands. Someone had broken into his house? Stumbling over the fruit and vegetables, he pulled the knife from his boot. He didn’t normally use a knife. In his experience, knives made you a target. And swords were worse. But in this case…

  The blade glinted in the shafts of light coming through the still drawn curtains. Halia hadn’t been awake when he’d left so he hadn’t bothered…

  Halia!

  Malachy pushed his back to the wall, listening for any sounds, anything at all. When nothing greeted him, he crept forward on cat’s feet. The parlour had been turned over thoroughly, a professional-looking job, designed to search, destroy and intimidate all in one go. And in the kitchen…

  A figure sprawled on the floor, but he only recognised his sister by the ragged remains of her clothes. They had taken their time about beating her, as professional a job as that in the parlour. But then they had found their creativity. The carving knife jutted obscenely from her shoulder, just above the swell of her right breast. It pinned her to the floor like meat on a skewer. Remarkably little blood splattered around her.

  Halia gave a small, sharp gasp for breath, and her entire body convulsed. But her face looked so pale he thought he had imagined the movement. She gasped again, a choked and desperate sound, and he saw why.

  Whoever had attacked her had ripped off her anklet and shoved it into her mouth.

  Malachy gave a strangled cry as he dropped to his knees beside his sister. Her eyes flickered towards him through the slits of her swollen eyelids. He pulled the bells from her lips, wincing as they rang. Halia took another piercing breath.

  “Who did this?” Malachy whispered. But she couldn’t find enough air to answer. The little she could capture kept her alive. He touched her face gingerly and she sobbed with the pain. The rage balled up inside him punched its way out. “Who did this?” he screamed.

  A footfall behind him sent him spinning around, crouched protectively over his sister, his knife swinging before him like a scythe.

  Cerys clutched her bag in front of her. “Oh, sweet Liath,” she said as she took in the scene. The name of her foreign Goddess echoed hollowly around the still room.

  “Who did this?” he asked her, knowing she had no more answers than he did, but unable to form any other words. He sucked in a breath and tasted bile in the back of his throat.

  Carefully, she
reached out to put her bag down, kneeling before him so as not to alarm. She kept her eyes locked on his the whole time.

  “Malachy.” Her voice sounded calm and measured now, her gaze unswerving. “Malachy Grey, I can help her, but you have to put the knife down.”

  He hesitated. Without the knife he would be helpless. Without the knife he couldn’t get whoever had done this. He gripped it tighter, his pulse thundering inside his head.

  “Now, Malachy, before it’s too late.”

  Halia struggled to breathe, and he glanced down to see her eyes dimming, growing distant as if no longer looking at the ceiling but beyond it.

  Malachy flinched, lowered the knife and stepped back. “Please.” His voice grated along his throat. “Please save her.”

  He’s the leprechaun, but she’s the one who can make his dreams come true.

  Liam’s Gold

  © 2008 Jody Wallace

  Sal Winter, a computer tech, has lived next door to Liam for years. They’re friends—just not that kind of friends. Sal wishes it could be more, but she’s come to accept Liam will never want anything from her except her computer skills.

  As for Liam, he’s a leprechaun in disguise who has no intention of granting anyone’s wish except his own: to taste the delights of one Miss Salvia Rose Winter before his sojourn in humanspace comes to an end. Sal possesses a gene that gives her the power to detect leprechauns. The closer Liam sticks to Sal, the greater the risk—and the better his cover, which is becoming critical as his time in humanspace runs short.

  Time isn’t the only thing running short for Liam. A nemesis from the Realm is bearing down on him, determined to do anything to prevent his return to their homeland. Including murder the woman he’s only just realized he loves.

  Enjoy the following excerpt for Liam’s Gold:

  He’d taken off her cardigan and blouse before he unlocked his front door, and goose bumps blushed across her skin. Late September in Wisconsin wasn’t exactly toasty. Sal wrapped her arms around his waist and rested her face on his chest, also bare to the night air. Her heart pounded with fear and excitement. What remained of her common sense screamed at her to put her shirt back on and get her ass home before she slept with Lothario Liam, her tomcat of a neighbor.