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Aleah
What the hell use is a banshee without a voice?
Well, I do have a voice, sort of, but it's muted and soft. Useless when it comes to sounding a warning. Deadly in its ineffectiveness when the only thing you can do is wail quietly into your pillow while death swoops in downstairs and takes away your father.
I was told by my aunt it took two vamps that night, to slowly suck the lifeblood from my dad. He put up a fight, once he knew what they were. But I didn't give him the warning he needed and when they knocked, he was expecting our neighbors.
He just called out for them to come on in, while I lay in bed upstairs, feeling death rolling in like a wave of agony. Wailing in a whisper, and not even knowing why until it was over.
Four years old and my first death.
By far, the worst banshee experience I've ever had. And all because of the vamps. All because I had no voice.
Now there’s a vamp on my front doorstep, begging for help, and all I want to do is stake him. Right through his cold, undead heart.
I stare into the set of icy blue eyes waiting for my response, and the twenty-five-year-old memories of my dad come rushing back in as if it all happened yesterday. The wail rises in my chest, as if called forth simply by the thought of death. No. Not again. Twice in less than twenty-four hours is simply too much to bear.
My fingers twitch toward the stake that sits looped in my belt but I manage to control the twin urges to scream and stab, and instead take a small step back from the injured vampire standing at my door.
“No.” I shake my head for emphasis. “You may not enter my home.”
“Please.” His gaze flickers and I know he's aware of my weapon. “I was...attacked, and now that the sun is on the rise, I need shelter in order to heal. I need—”
“You're hungry.”
“No, I—”
“You need to feed.”
“I do not.” His voice rises briefly in obvious annoyance, and then he staggers slightly as if even that faint expending of energy is too much. “I happened to be in the Hatton Grove area for work, and yours is the nearest dwelling. I—”
Work?
“What sort of work nets you a seriously mangled arm and...” I study the unnatural way he’s cradling himself. “Your shoulder too. Is it—”
“Dislocated, yes. And I think, maybe, a broken rib or two. I’m with the police. I was after a rogue supe reported near here, but...” He shakes his head as if he’s annoyed with himself. “Turns out there are more than one. In this case it was a vamp and a shifter, working together. They got the better of me. This time.”
Despite his injury, the words are fierce and a strange reddish glow appears deep behind his eyes. This guy is pissed. For a moment, I see beyond the vamp label, and realize the man standing before me is one of the sexiest I’ve ever laid eyes on.
He’s the quintessential tall, dark, and handsome, with rakish hair, an angular facial structure, and a wide, sensual mouth that calls out to be kissed. I find myself leaning close toward him, and quickly recoil instead, blinking hard to try and dispel the allure.
I clench my teeth together and force myself to look away. What the hell am I doing, conversing with a vamp? Even one who may be on the right side of the law. Why am I entertaining this story that may or may not be true?
Since the Accord thirty or so years ago, I’ve heard of supernatural beings joining mainstream humans in the workforce, but out here on the farm in my little neck of the woods, it’s rare to come across any creature—human or non-human alike.
Which is just the way I like it.
I don’t have to remember my past unless I conjure it up myself – a penance I force myself to pay even decades later.
I take a deep breath. He’s wasting my time, and I want to get away before he can pull me in further. The last thing I need is to be tempted by a creature like him. “Get off my porch!”
Reluctantly, he backs away. He has no choice, now that I’ve compelled him. Vamps can't enter without permission and my porch is technically still under my roof. Though only just, which is why he made it all the way to the kitchen entrance.
“The sun’s up,” he says. There’s a tremor in his voice that proves he’s worried. I’m not sure if he expects an instant invitation into my home, but it sounds like he assumed at least some form of sympathy might be forthcoming. “You're sending me to my death.”
“I'm not.” I would know if death is imminent.
At least, I’m supposed to know. I should be able to detect such things, and this vampire is not going to die today in the sunlight.
I don't say that out loud but his gaze sharpens, as if he senses something other than mortal.
“You don't care either way, do you?” he asks, cocking his head to the side. Now that he’s further away, he narrows his eyes as though trying to make out where that sense of other emanates from.
“Oh, yes.” I shift under his penetrating gaze, grinding my teeth to keep from growling at his accusations. Sudden anger burns through me and I’m sure spots of pink decorate my cheeks. “I care. I care a great deal.”
His gaze drops briefly to where my fist clenches and unclenches beside my stake. Maybe if I remove it—maybe if he sees the gleam of sunlight on the sharp edge of the weapon—he’ll take what I have to say more seriously. He won’t continue to push.
He nods once. "So be it. I’ll try and find a shed. Or something."
He staggers down the porch steps. At the base, he collapses in a motionless heap.
I watch his limp body, waiting for him to slink off. His whole act isn’t going to work. I’d be a fool to fall for something so obvious.
And yet, he doesn’t move.
Fuck it. Fuck it to fucking hell and back.
If he stays there, he will die, wound or no wound. Do I stand and watch and wail in semi-silence while death creeps in and takes him? Do I venture out there and hasten his passing with my stake? I am tempted.
What if it’s just a trick? If he truly is hungry, my blood will call to him far more strongly than any pure-bred human or faerie. I’m a hybrid, a half-breed mix of human and immortal fae, and my veins carry an elixir that holds far greater power than many others. Especially for a hungry vampire.
After what happened to my father, I don’t want to put myself at risk. There’s no one who will come and save me.
I clutch the stake handle, but in the end don’t remove it from my belt. The very presence against my palm calms my nerves—at least for now.
He doesn’t move. The sun has risen fully and despite the winter season diluting its strength, rays have almost reached his crumpled body.
God damn it.
“At least move to the tree line.” I call out the instruction as loudly as my defective voice will allow, but he remains slumped and unmoving, as if already dead. My grip on the stake tightens. "Shit."
I hate vamps. I fucking hate them.
I unsheathe my stake and hold it firmly in my left hand before slamming open the screen door. I stride out onto the porch, watching carefully, but there’s still no movement. Nothing at all, until finally I hunch down beside him and dare to poke at his ribs with my weapon.
He lets out a faint groan and one blue eye pops open to stare up at me in weary accusation. “Thought you wanted me dead.”
His voice is definitely growing feebler. If he were genuinely trying to trick me, he’d already be up and at my throat. Vamps move fast. Almost as fast as a full-blooded fae.
Some of the tension holding my body tight releases just a touch at his continued stillness.
“Yeah,” I admit. “I kind of do.”
His lids close over the accusatory glare and his wide lips thin slightly. “Then leave me. Just go. It’s...probably...for the best, anyway.”
His voice is getting weaker by the minute.
I grit my teeth. “That’s a stupid thing to say.” I roll my eyes at the dramatic behavior. “A martyr-like vampire is ridiculous.”
“An oxymoron?”
Despite my wariness, my lips twitch up. “Maybe. And besides, I can’t leave you here.”
“Why not?” he croaks out.
I notice the sunlight moving at a snail’s pace, creeping closer and closer to the vampire. If I linger, I’ll be close enough to watch him die. I’ll be able to smell his skin as it burns and turns to ash.
I wrinkle my nose as his question settles in me. Why don’t I want him dead?
Because I don’t want to call in your death. Someone else not far from here died several hours ago, and I don’t want to call in anyone else’s death today.
“It’d be the wrong thing to do.” I say the words with a heaviness I hadn’t expected.
“And yet, you carry a stake.” His gaze flickers to my weapon before resting back on my face. “Now that’s kind of oxymoron-ish, don’t you think?” Humor laces his response, despite the obvious struggle to speak.
Oh, my God. A comedic vampire. Strange that a creature like this can be in such good humor on the brink of death.
The temptation to grin back at him grows stronger. Only for a second or two, but the lapse shocks me.
“Yeah.” I clear my throat, forcing myself to study the grass near his feet. He’s more distracting than I expect, and I don’t like being at a loss for words. “Funny that. I will use it, if I need to. But only in self-defense.”
“Fair enough.” He nods, one that seems to require a lot of effort on his part.
I don’t want to discover wit or humor in this creature. I don’t want to smile at him, or stare because he’s aesthetically pleasing to me. Why am I responding to him in this way? I should let him die. It would merely be one less vamp for others to worry about in the future.
I feel death when it comes calling. I feel all the aching sadness of what is about to be, and all the angst and grief of what comes after. Just because my voice is husky and weak, doesn’t mean the emotions that well up inside are any less potent. It’s the opposite, actually. I can’t let any of it out in vocal expression, so everything stays coiled up inside me until there’s no room left for anything but the overarching black miasma of death. In those moments, I grow truly afraid that I won’t be able to contain the hell inside me, and I’ll end up exploding in a splatter of flesh all over the place.
Death, when it comes, is huge and all-encompassing. Sometimes it passes quickly, like it did last night, striking hard and fast and then dispersing as if it never existed at all. At other times, it takes days for that feeling to dissipate. Days for me to start remembering the joy of life, and to start reaching out once again to the light, instead of losing myself in the endless, horrific dark.
Either way, whether hard and fast, or slow and relentless, I won’t bring on more death myself. Not even for my worst enemy. Not unless it’s a choice between me or them, and this vamp, whoever he is, is not here right now to kill me.
My sigh is long and heartfelt. I cannot believe I’m about to do this. “Just... don’t eat me, if I get you inside.”
A faint snort of laughter shifts his frame. “I don’t eat people. I drink. And as to that...I can’t promise I won’t. I’ll try. And I definitely won’t drink you dry. But...depends how long it takes to recover.”
He won’t drink me dry? The honesty that shines through his warped humor is strangely comforting. I probably should be more afraid of him. He just admitted that he’ll try not to drink all of me. And yet, tension eases from my shoulders. Even my fingers loosen their grip on the stake.
“Fine.” I crouch down next to him and slide my arms under his shoulders. “Just...help me help you. It’s not like you’re as light as a feather, you know.”
I manage to sit him up, but I can’t do anything else without his assistance. I have more strength than a human, but it’s not boundless.
It feels...odd, to slide my arm around his muscled frame. For some reason I thought he’d be cold to the touch, and he’s not. Though he’s not warm either. He’s more... room temperature, I suppose.
I shiver at the sensation of being so close to an undead creature. Vamps were the monsters that haunted my childhood. The horror that swept in and took away my family’s happiness. I should be running. At least, I should be much more guarded this close to someone like him.
But I am not.
I expect to feel repugnance this close up. Instead, my heart races and strange butterflies beat wildly in my belly as he lifts his good arm to rest across my shoulders and the curve of my body melds effortlessly into his, as if we were made for each other.
I blink. Made for each other? Now who is being dramatic? I shake the thought from my head so rapidly I nearly pull a muscle in my neck.
“You all right?” he asks. “Guess it’s my turn to check in on you.”
“Just, uh, a bee,” I say. I refuse to tell him the truth. I’m not sure he believes me, but he doesn’t push, which I appreciate.
His scent rises, tempting my nostrils with a heady trace I can’t place. Not quite musky, not quite spice. Perhaps something in between? Regardless, it is a little unexpected and very pleasant, indeed. A wave of need sweeps over me so suddenly I stagger.
His grunt brings me back to the task at hand. “Hurts.”
“Yeah, okay.” I press my lips together. It’s only now that I realize how grateful I am that vampires can’t read minds. The last thing I need is for this one to use my thoughts against me. “Well, it’s bound to hurt, isn’t it, with those injuries.”
I don’t mean to sound so short, but my visceral response to his proximity annoys me.
We fumble our way to a standing position and he leans heavily into me, swaying back and forth before eventually regaining his balance. The long grass scratches at my ankles, adding to the overload on my senses.
“How long before you heal?” I ask, trying to hold onto him in a way that isn’t too close but not so loose that he stumbles and falls.
“If I can get out of the sun, a few hours. I think,” he adds after a moment. “It’s not my first broken bone, but I’ve never had an arm mangled quite as badly as this. Lucky it’s still there at all.”
He waves the bitten arm and then sways again, and I support him more firmly around the waist as we lurch up the stairs. Thank goodness for my banshee blood. It provides more strength than if I were merely human. Not as much as a full fae, but some, at least.
Living on a farm, I’ve gotten used to the silence. The peace brings a comfort I can’t replicate anywhere else. Even the buzzing of flies, the whistle of the wind through the forest canopy and the whisper of breeze-affected leaves all helps relax me. Now, with a vampire in my arms, the silence is thick and cloying rather than peaceful, and something I need to fill before it becomes overwhelming.
“You said there were two attackers?” I say, hoping to keep the conversation going between us.
“Yeah. I’ve seen it happen before, though not often. Two rogues, working together. It’s a concern.”
“Because...?” I tilt my head to the side as he takes one step onto the stairs.
A loud squeak pinches the silence. A couple of birds dart off from their branches nearby.
“Because rogues are generally insane and irrational.” He says this as though it’s a fact, and an obvious one at that. “They don’t work with others—they don’t have reason enough for that. And they particularly don’t collaborate across species. Going rogue seems to exacerbate the underlying discord. Shifters hate vamps, and vice versa. The collaboration, in itself, is a huge red flag. Something’s very wrong, and at the present time, whatever it is seems to be centered in this region.”
He pauses on the top step and I realize he can’t go any further without my say-so. My heart speeds up at what I’m about to do. It goes against everything at my core, but the nearest building is my beekeeping shed where I store all my equipment, and that’s one very wide field away from where we’re standing. He won’t make it that far in daylight. Not with these injuries.
“Fine.” I roll my eyes. “You may enter my home.”
I cannot believe I’m about to let an actual vampire cross my threshold, but if I leave him out here, exposed to the sun, he’ll be dead in a couple of hours, wound or no wound.
Last night was truly agonizing. Someone—or something—passed into death not far from here, and I have no wish to inflict that experience on anyone. Even if it is a vampire. Even if maybe they deserve it.
“Do you have a name?” Might as well find out who I’m about to lay out on the couch in my cozy little sitting room.
“Luc Durand.”
“French?” That’s an interesting piece of information.
“Originally. Many years ago. Before you were born.” He emits a faint chuckle. “Probably before your grandparents were born, too.”
“Hmm.” More jokes. He must think he’s cute.
I consider his statement, however. He is probably older than my human grandparents. Not so sure he could make that same claim about the relatives on my mother’s side. My banshee blood likely gives me as much longevity as a vamp, if not more. A full fae is immortal.
“Right.” I blow out a breath. “We can have a history lesson later. Let’s get you lying down then, Lukey.”
“Luc.” The sharp edge in his correction is clear testament to his dislike of the nickname. This time I let my grin escape as I lead him to my old couch.
“Okie dokie, Lukey.”
His answering growl briefly widens my grin, but then he collapses onto the settee and I jump away. Despite logic telling me I’d already be dead if he really wanted to harm me, on some subconscious level I must be still wary.
I use the excuse of needing to close the blinds to keep my distance. Without the morning sunlight streaming in, the room darkens, as much as it can during the day, and he lets out a sigh of what sounds like pure relief.
“And yours?” he breathes out.
“Huh?” I turn, arching a brow.
“Your name.” He gives me a look. “You do have one, don’t you?”
For some reason I’m reluctant. A vague memory surfaces, of a beautiful dark-haired woman leaning over my crib and briefly stroking my cheek.
“Names hold great power, Aleachiarsiwella, particularly for the fair folk. Share yours sparingly, wee child. There are many who would seek to destroy that which they do not understand, and a banshee’s blood, even more than our voice, is coveted by many who do not truly understand. In the human realm, you will be known as Aleah and your voice shall be merely a shadow of itself.”
Is that an actual memory, or is it just my mind inventing a mother who stayed around long enough to care, even for a short time? I don’t know and that frustrates me more than I wish to admit. I scowl, but Luc continues to wait patiently. There’s nothing more disconcerting than trying to outstare a vampire. Their ability to remain unmoving while staring back at you without blinking or breathing is more than most people can take. Vampires are masters at the waiting game.
After a minute, I look away. “Aleah.”
I move from the settee and step into the doorway of my kitchen, deciding to put distance between the two of us and busy myself with something other than staring at him.
“Pretty.”
“Uh huh.” I nod enthusiastically. And easier to say than the real one.
“Almost as pretty as your long, dark hair.” His eyes linger on my hair and I have to flex my fingers to keep myself from brushing said hair back over my shoulder.
I ignore the belly flutter his compliment re-ignites.
“Okay, Luc.” This time I avoid the silly nickname. “What do you need? Anything to...um...”
I trail off awkwardly, glancing around the kitchen for help. I nearly said drink, but the only suitable drink in this place right now would be me. And my two cats, but they’re already out for their morning ablutions somewhere, and I’m damn sure not letting them back inside while this visitor is in residence.
“I fed recently, Aleah, so you’re not at risk,” he says, and for some reason I believe him. “Despite the delectable scent of your blood.”
My heart jolts, but his eyelids are starting to droop.
“I won’t need...that...for at least a couple of days. Just sleep. Out of the sun, my body will heal itself, eventually.”
He releases an enormous yawn and for the first time I catch sight of his fangs. They’re sheathed, but even so, the pointy white ends transform him instantly from handsome man to sexy predator. He yawns again. I should look anywhere except at him, but I can’t help it. I stare, definitely longer than necessary. I’m glad he doesn’t seem to notice.
Without any further warning, he immediately drops into a state completely and utterly immobile. He looks dead. Pale, unmoving, and not breathing. I stagger back, almost afraid to do anything. I know I didn’t cause this, but it’s still unnerving. Of course, he’s not dead, not exactly. He’s undead. The distinction makes quite a difference when you’re a banshee. It’s still alarming to observe the phenomenon as closely as this.
I’m tempted to creep up and have an even more thorough look, but vamps are tricky and you never know when one will decide you’re their next dinner. Especially after his comment about the scent of my blood.
If I had a long enough stick, I may have poked him, just to be sure he isn’t a threat presently, although that might have riled him up.
I hadn’t realized he’d clocked my blood’s scent. Clearly, he knows I’m fae, or to be more accurate, part fae. He probably doesn’t know what kind, yet, as there are few banshees now left in this realm. My mother is apparently one of the last of her kind, at least according to my aunt. After mating with my father and staying long enough to give birth to me, she said goodbye and simply walked out one day without ever looking back. My dad’s sister, who raised me after Dad passed away, called her a banshee witch and said she was on a mission to create more of her kind.
If that’s true, I expect I have several half-siblings by now, somewhere out there in the wider world.
I suppose I should be curious about any so-called fae family. The truth is, since my father’s passing, I’ve tried to embrace my normal “human” half as much as I possibly can in the circumstances. My aunt was never hugely loving toward me, but at least she was there when I needed her. She’s the one who confirmed the details of what happened to my dad, and taught me that vampires are evil. I’ve managed to live a mostly normal human existence over the years, except for those times when death swoops in and almost destroys me with the agony.
Sometimes, out here in the woods on my isolated property, I forget that I’m anything other than human.
Or at least I did, until someone died last night, and then a certain injured vampire rocked up on my doorstep and stared at me with sexy hunger deep within his gaze.
Coincidence? I don’t believe it is, and yet still, my body instantly responded with an answering primal call. It is as if his arrival heralded my awakening from a long hibernation. A physical awakening, and one I neither need, nor want.
After a few minutes of awkwardly standing still in the doorway of the room, I realize the stupidity of continuing in this vein. I sidle across to the armchair opposite the couch and take a seat. No way am I leaving him alone to wake up and snoop around, or jump out and attack me when I’m least expecting it. But there’s no reason I can’t be comfortable while I’m waiting. It is my own home, after all.
I allow myself a moment to rest my head back against the chair and close my eyes. I can’t fully relax, not with the threat of attack so close by, but I can get off my feet and let my body rest. It has been a trying twenty-four hours, livelier than I’m used to.
I can’t help but wonder about the vampire now in my home—Luc. Where did he come from? Why is he here in this quiet, rural part of the world, and how did he get so badly injured that he needed to ask for help? Who exactly was he hunting? Why would a supe go rogue and be threatening this region in particular? There’s nothing in Hatton Grove but honest farm folk and a typical Australian rural community.
A rogue in this area is rare. It’s unthinkable. Two at the same time is almost unheard of, in my admittedly limited experience. It’s enough to raise the alert.
Am I—or my few very human friends and neighbors—in danger, either from this vampire, or the crazed supes he says he’s hunting? What are they doing here anyway? What is so special about farmland?
I live out of the city for a reason. Carnivorous creatures tend to congregate near the habitat of their prey, and here in the country, far from crowds, it’s rare to see preternaturals like vamps or shifters, other than those briefly passing through on their way to a larger town or city.
Being around other supes makes me uncomfortable. It is a reminder that I’m just as supernatural as I am human, and I haven’t really come to terms with the fact that I am part-banshee. It’s not like I’m in denial of what I am, but I don’t want to broadcast it, either. Since supes have a talent of being able to sense others like them, being away from them makes sense.
I like my solitary life out here on my small farm acreage. The local township is several miles away and the nearest human family is a mile away, over the hills. I like that the only living things near me are my cats, my beloved bees, and the local wildlife inhabiting the nearby forest. I like the quiet. I like knowing I won’t be bothered and I won’t be discovered for what I really am.
The distance limits exposure to the banshee wail. Being alone is far safer. For me, and for those I care about.
Hearing a banshee in full cry is one of the most chilling things a human can experience—or so I was told by my aunt. “Trouble follows you, Aleah,” she used to say. “Trouble and terror, in equal measure.”
If there’s an underlying ache of loneliness at living such a secluded life, that ache is nothing compared to the pain of death when it comes calling.
For years I thought dad’s death was my fault. My banshee side that recognizes and calls to death, had somehow brought it upon him. And now, death has come calling once again, and a vampire is asleep in my living room. Is the trouble and terror about to escalate, or has it already arrived?
