Happy Halloween Month, Everyone! For
Halloween every year, I like to share my favorite spooky story from my family’s
arsenal of tales about the Fae. In this one, my Irish grandmother recounts her
personal encounter with a Banshee when she was a teenager. Enjoy!
Bumped by the Banshee
by Celia Breslin
… I lived in a large two-story house with my
parents, younger sister, and grandmother. It was a cold, winter evening,
nothing special or out of the ordinary. My family dined together, then my
sister and I cleaned up while our parents and grandmother drank tea. We joined
them at the dining table to do our homework, but my grandmother said she was
tired and went upstairs to bed. My parents followed shortly after that, but my
father paused on the landing.
“Maeve, it’s going to be a cold night. Fetch
us some coal, please.”
I abandoned my homework, grabbed the empty
coal bucket from the kitchen, and went down into the cellar. I filled my bucket
and returned to the stairs. I had one foot on the first step when the
temperature in the cellar, already cold, dropped dramatically. Chills ran down
my back. Behind me, someone moaned.
But how could that be? I was alone...
Terror rooted me to the spot. The keening
grew louder. I dropped my bucket and covered my ears. A cold wind bumped
against my back. I stumbled forward as the shrieking wind rushed over me and up
the stairs.
But how could that be? The cellar had no
windows...
Above me, the cellar door slammed shut. The
sound broke me from my stupor. I screamed and ran up the stairs and out of the
cellar, through the kitchen and dining room, and up the stairs to my room. My
parents and sister found me under my bed, shaking like a puppy lost in a
snowstorm.
“Maeve! Maeve! What is it? What’s wrong?”
They asked me, while pulling me from my hiding place.
“I heard the Banshee wail.”
We stared at each other in silence, all of us
reaching the same conclusion moments later. We hurried to my grandmother’s
room.
She was dead.
(Copyright 2021, Celia Breslin. All rights reserved.)
Excerpt
Stryker and Zara's First Kiss...
Location: Charon's boat, River Styx, the Underworld...
...The boat heaved upward as if struck from below, sending her airborne. Before she could conjure her wings, Stryker shot up and snatched her around the waist, hauling them both to the deck.
Flat on his back with her sprawled atop his hard body, he grinned, much too pleased with himself for her liking. “Told you it gets rough,” he shouted over the rush of water. “I never lie to you, Angel Face.”
“That in itself is a lie,” she shot back, wedging her fingers in the gaps between the bone flooring and gripping tight while the chopping river tossed their ride. She could list thousands of his deceptions. Fine, they were revisiting his loathsome past behavior. “What about the time you stole the Ark of the Covenant? Or the Holy Chalice? The Vatican heist? Or when you took Joan’s sword and—”
“Aw, c’mon, she deserved it. She cut off the tip of my wing.”
“It regenerated, and you had no right to bother her in the first place when she was busy saving—
“Hey, I gave it back.”
“I made you give it back, demon.”
He laughed but the sound was lost in the great roar of the river. Its turmoil increased, waves thrashing over the bow as if their presence angered the river.
“Buckle up, baby.” Stryker held her tight to his chest. The boat bucked upward and bashed down, again and again. Freezing water sprayed everywhere, drenching them in seconds. Zara shuddered, chilled to the bone, half expecting ice to form on her frame.
Cheek to cheek, Stryker clutched her close with a hand cupping her head and one massive arm banded around her torso. “Hang on Angel Cake, I’ve got you.” Warmth slid into her quivering body, a soothing heat wafting from the demon. “Nice trick, right?” he murmured into her ear, lips grazing her skin.
Teeth chattering, she didn’t reply, too caught up in the sensation of his surprisingly soft lips on the shell of her ear, and his spicy scent, an intriguing blend of cardamom, cinnamon, and earthy, masculine musk.
Desire danced through her, followed fast by denial. No. Please, no. Eternal enemy. Archnemesis. He’s the bad guy. But her libido didn’t seem to care one bit about their battle-filled past, or even their more recent clashes. Her treacherous body relaxed against his, basking in the continued warmth emanating from him.
“Yes, baby. That’s it.” His hand slid to her nape, and he exhaled against the sensitive skin of her neck, setting off a flurry of butterflies in her stomach.
Trap. This had to be a trap, right? Nothing good could come of a tryst with a demon. It didn’t matter how loudly the hum chimed in her, or how wonderful his hard body felt under hers, they couldn’t possibly—
Oh, no, now his clever fingers kneaded the knots in her muscles, massaging the tension from her neck and shoulders, making her melt.
His warm lips brushed her ear once again. “Angel…”
She should stop him. Really, she should. Then he nuzzled the hollow of her shoulder, and his soft kisses eroded her superego’s usual iron will. […] Maybe, if she explored the cosmic hum trying to call them together instead of running from it, she would discover it meant nothing at all. Maybe, she could simply kiss him and move on.
She turned her head. He stilled, one hot palm planted between her shoulder blades, the other lounging on her lower back, his mouth so close their breath mingled. Goose bumps tracked over her and not from the cold since she had Stryker as her personal space heater.
Zara didn’t dare look into his eyes, instead digging deep one last time to stop this insanity, dredging up reasons this was a bad idea. Demon. D’uh. Longtime foe. Brash, blunt, devious, conniving, opinionated, manipulative, flirtatious, and yes, flirting was bad, so very, very ba—
[...] Lord help her, she wanted him too. Her gaze clashed with his. Such pretty eyes for a demon, like black onyx flecked with amber. He went statue-still beneath her, seemed to be holding his breath now, waiting for her to…
Make a move?
She wrapped a lock of his shoulder-length hair around her finger. Damp from the crashing river. Shiny, deepest black. Silky, and as warm as his body. She tugged on it.
A groan escaped him, and he kissed her.
Author Info
Celia lives in California with her husband, daughter, and two feisty cats. She writes urban fantasy and paranormal romance, and has a particular fondness for werewolves, vampires, and the Fae. When not writing, you’ll find Celia exercising, reading a good book, hanging with her family, or indulging her addiction to fantasy TV shows and movies.
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