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Indigo
The last note dies away and silence fills the theater. The quality of that silence is sharp and expectant, as if everyone in the audience is holding their breath and waiting for more.
There is no more. Not for these humans. If I truly gave them everything I have, there would be no silence, only terrified screams, and the rush of bodies toward the exit. Away from the horror. Away from me.
Slowly the applause begins, escalating as the audience rises to their feet. A standing ovation. I must have excelled tonight. I lift my chin and gaze out past the stage lights to acknowledge the accolades directed my way.
“Bravo, brava, huzzah...”
The shouts vary from person to person, but all convey essentially the same message. I delivered what this audience wanted, and then some.
“Encore, encore...”
I incline my head, blinking hard to force back the threatening tears. Do they know I sing of death? Do they know I sing of loss and all things that might be and never eventuate? Do they know how much it costs me, every time I stand up here on this stage, to croon the song of every human passing?
The power of a banshee’s voice is beyond the understanding of all of them, mortal and immortal alike.
Of course, I’m only a half-banshee. Even so, I have to rein in my voice to deliver as much as they can take, and not a single note more.
The threat of tears eases and this time when I raise my head, confidence fills me. Tonight will be okay. There is no one nearby who needs the call of the banshee this evening.
As I take one more bow and turn to leave the stage, a spark of silver from someone in the front row catches and holds my attention. A set of steel-gray eyes meet mine, and for the briefest moment my heart does a strange flip-flop in my chest. A tall man—taller than those around him by at least a head—continues to slow clap in what seems like a parody of the adulation around him.
His hair is dark and long, pulled back in an elegant ponytail. Like everyone else I can see in the limited reach of the stage lights, he’s sporting evening wear, but this man gives off the impression that he is only here under sufferance.
The sparkle emanates from a ring on one of his fingers. Another flash from the piece of jewellery sets my heart fluttering again. Who is he? And why is he looking at me that way, as if he knows me and doesn’t like what he sees?
The sardonic twist of his lips sends a different message altogether to the continued and almost offensive slow clap.
I’m certain, even in the glance I give him before leaving the stage, that he’s not human.
Elf? Fae? The slightly pointed ears, aristocratic nose, and high cheekbones could be either, but elves are usually light-haired, not dark, which means this guy is likely pure fae.
Awesome. If there’s anything I hate more than a cynical man, it’s a cynical man with fae blood running through his veins.
I nod graciously and give him a twisted smile of my own. See, faerie man? I can do sarcastic, too.
A flash centers in those hard, silver-gray eyes. He received my message, all right. The impact of that glare and the resultant heat in my veins follows me all the way back to my dressing room.
For once, I’m grateful for the empty room. In the past, back when I was part of the chorus and had to fight nineteen other women for space in front of the mirror, I dreamed of being a star and having my own dressing area where people would leave me in peace unless I chose to invite them in to my little sanctuary.
Be careful what you wish for. Now that I have exactly what I always dreamed of, I can’t bear to be alone for a moment longer than absolutely necessary. Not since Sienna... No. Don’t think of her. It’s fine. You have a voice far stronger than most, and one call will bring them all running. You’re not alone. Not really.
I take a seat and stare at my reflection in the dresser mirror. My haunted green eyes stare back, and I blink a few times and force deep breaths, aiming for calm. There. That’s better. Under control once again. Push the pain back where it belongs, deep down inside where it can’t get out and hurt you.
Or anyone else.
My blonde hair is loose and flowing in waves over my shoulders and partway down my back. The red dress is as low-cut as it can get without spilling my naked breasts out for all to see. The audience calls for seductive in this industry, and seductive is what I deliver. The blonde is merely a wig, hiding my natural dark color, but in this business, blonde is considered far sexier than any other color and I need all the advantages I can get. I haven’t been brunette on stage for at least ten years. Probably more.
I slide off the wig, followed by the underlying wig cap and pins, and run my fingers through my real hair, shaking it loose. The freedom feels good. Whenever I leave the theater, dark-haired and make-up free, I am thankfully unrecognizable from the siren they all see on stage.
I take a wipe from the container on the dresser, and have only just begun to swipe the heavy stage makeup from my eyes and lips when a decisive knock at the door stays my hand. I stifle a sigh. While I normally encourage visitors after a show to keep the shadows at bay, tonight, I specifically asked my assistant not to let anyone through. There’s a lethargy, deep in my bones, that I can’t explain. I don’t think it’s a banshee call. It feels different than the stretched, agonizing build-up of pain that denotes a song of death.
Maybe I’m coming down with flu? Whatever the issue is, I just need to go home and sleep.
And now, I have one eye still fully made up and the other smeared with half-removed eyeliner. My red lipstick is smeared all the way across, a la Joker. Awesome. Whoever is at the door will have to suck it up because I’m too tired to care right now. Most likely it’s Dreya, my assistant.
“It’s open, Dreya, love. Come on—oh!”
The door opens before I’ve even finished and the stranger from the audience strides into the room as if he owns the space. Instantly, my dressing room seems far too small, as if his very presence sucks out all the air. He towers above me and I stand, trying to minimize the height difference between us. My stupid, traitorous heart pounds. What is it about this fae that causes my body to react in such an intense manner?
He stares around the room, peering into every corner with a suspicious air, before he turns that gaze back onto me. His almost-concealed recoil confirms that I must, indeed, look rather clown-like.
“What are you searching for? There are no hidden surprises or secret admirers stashed away behind a rack of costumes. I am actually alone in here, you know.” My voice comes out testier than I want, and I clear my throat and try again. “Okay. Can I help you?”
He lets out a tiny snort. “I doubt it. But perhaps I can help you, Indigo.”
My name shivers off his tongue and raises goosebumps along my skin. “Who are you?”
He doesn’t answer. Instead, he hooks a foot around the leg of the chair I just vacated and shifts it forward. “Take a seat, and we’ll talk.”
“No, I’m good right here, thanks.” I cross my arms in front of my chest, wishing like hell I hadn’t half swiped off my makeup and that, instead, I had first opted to change into more modest clothing. “I’ll ask again. Who are you, faerie man, and what do you want? You’re clearly not a fan, given your insulting behavior in the audience.”
“Faerie man?” The indignation in his tone is somewhat satisfying and I fight a sudden urge to grin. He matches my stance, crossing his arms in front of an impressively wide chest. “I am Tarrien, Lord and Warrior of the Winter Court, and I am here at your mother’s behest to offer you protection.”
Wait. What? I wasn’t expecting that. I can’t help the laugh that escapes me. So many questions rise up.
“My mother sent you? Are you serious?”
He arches a winged brow. “Of course. I would not joke about such a thing.”
Of course, he wouldn’t. He looks like he doesn’t have a humorous bone in his body.
“Protection from what? And, by the way, I haven’t seen my mother in, like, forever, and I’ve been taking care of myself since I left the foster care system at sixteen. I don’t need her help, or your protection. At all.”
“Foster care?”
“Yeah. It’s for kids who have no family and nowhere to live.”
His head tips to one side. “Hmm. Your mother has a lot to answer for, that is true.”
I release a sigh, the tiredness spreading through my body. “I don’t need protection, thank you. You’ve had a wasted trip.”
I point toward the door, but he doesn’t take the hint.
Instead, he studies me intently. “You look much more attractive with dark hair. More like your mother. Only, you do not seem like her at all, except on the surface. That is a good thing.”
I ignore the first part of that sentence, which causes a strange flip-flop in my chest, and concentrate on the latter part.
“Not like my dear old mum? The woman who ran out when I was only a month or so old, and came back when I was seven to tell me how important I am because I’m half-banshee. And then told me I have another name—something really long and unpronounceable—before telling me I can never reveal it? And then, turned around and disappeared once again, just like that?” I huff out a breath. “You mean, that woman? Damn right I’m nothing like her!”
My legs choose this moment to develop the shakes, and despite my earlier comment about wanting to stand, I drop into the chair. “You’re a fae warrior. From the Winter Court? And she sent you to protect me...from what?”
He squats down in front of me until we’re at eye level. Far from reducing his presence and size, the proximity serves to emphasize it. I look down, away from the intensity in his expression, and notice instead how muscled his thighs are, and how tight those trousers are around his groin. Gods above, I’m acting as if I haven’t had sex in years. Which, I guess, I haven’t. I quickly squelch that thought. It’s beside the point.
I lift my gaze straight back up and focus somewhere over his left shoulder.
“Danger has arrived in this world, Indigo. Danger to all humans, and most especially to those of the hybrid human-banshee variety, like yourself. The Lady Renna bade me protect you. It is what I do, after all. I am a Winter Warrior and I am bound to my duty.” His lips tighten briefly. “Whether I wish to be, or not.”
“Okay...” I’m not really sure how to respond. Clearly, this assignment is not to his liking. “What, specifically, is the danger you’re supposed to protect me from?”
His brows come together in a scowl. “I do not know, exactly. But one of Renna’s other daughters—your half-sister Aleah—almost died several days ago after an attack, and your mother has become concerned for your welfare.”
I almost laugh at the absurdity of that last statement, but the rest of it is too bizarre to allow for humor. I know I have half-siblings out there somewhere—lots of them from what my mother told me when she visited many years ago—but to finally hear the actual name of one of them makes things all the more real.
“Aleah.” I try out the name, liking the sound of it. I wonder if she’s anything like me. “Is she okay?”
“Yes. When I left her, she was wrapped naked around a vampire police officer, about to have the best sex of her life, by the look of them.”
Good for her! I raise a brow. “Not in too much danger, then.”
“Aleah came as close to death as it is possible to do, without crossing over the line. She almost had your mother calling in her death. Without my healing power back in Faerie, your sister would not now be able to enjoy her cozy liaison with her vampire lover.”
“Healing power? I thought you were a warrior.”
“I am.” He appears offended. “Are you not familiar with the extent of a Court Warrior’s power? Our hearts may be encased in ice, but we fight to protect, and we fight to heal.”
What does he mean, his heart is encased in ice? Does that mean he cannot feel? Cannot love? There are times I would give anything not to feel. When the banshee call arrives, the extent of what I feel almost tears me in two. But never to love? Never to experience any true emotion?
I can’t imagine a worse fate.
Pity for the man squatting before me begins to stir in my chest, and I lock it back down before it can take off. He does not seem like the type who would appreciate being pitied.
“Look.” I stand up, intending to sidle around him toward the door. “I do know many things about the fae world, and about banshees. My mother spent a month talking non-stop about it all when I last saw her. But I was seven, Tarrien. Seven years old. That’s a long time ago. I’m thirty-one now. I can’t remember everything she said back then, and even if I could, I pretty much doubt she mentioned you at all. Fae do seem to have an inflated sense of ego, that much is certain. She talked mainly about herself!”
I push past him, intending to head for the door and insist that he leave, when my leg accidentally brushes against his knee. A zing of hot energy pulses right through me. I feel it from my hair follicles right down to my red-painted toenails.
“Whoa! What the—”
He leaps to his feet, the movement much faster and lighter than I expect from such a strongly built guy, and he takes a step back and away. He opens and closes his mouth, as if about to speak but not quite sure what to say. Confusion reigns on his features.
So, he felt that, too. Maybe it’s only his emotions encased in ice, not his man bits. From the looks of him, he’s about as happy about that strange zing as I am. Which is to say, not happy at all.
“Okay, I think it’s time for you to leave, Tarrien. I appreciate the offer, but as I’ve already stated, I don’t want or need your protection. You can let my mother know I’m perfectly fine on my own.”
No, you’re not. The little voice deep in my brain tries to make itself heard, but I shut it down before all the bad stuff can rise up and leach out once again.
“I don’t believe you understand—”
“I’m not sure why you’re here doing my mother’s bidding,” I cut across him. “I’m aware she has the favor of the Winter King for some reason—she told me that daily when she visited—but I didn’t realize she could command iced up warriors to work for her. I thank you, but the answer is still, no thanks.”
I am not having this guy follow me around to interfere in my everyday life. After what happened a few months ago, I’m determined to get back to my own brand of “normal” as soon as I can. If I can.
Sienna’s death was not your fault.
My therapist’s words echo in my head. It would be beneficial to get back to as many of your normal routines and activities as you can, Indigo. Live your life as you always have. And let the self-blame go.
I blink, bringing my attention back to the present. Tarrien glares at me in a way that communicates heat rather than ice. I wonder if he’s aware of that. Is his heart figuratively encased in ice, or literally? If the latter, what happens if someone gets him all het up? Will the ice melt?
What happens when he has sex? Does he ever have sex? I wrap my arms across my middle, willing myself to stop thinking about sex and Tarrien.
“I’m not giving you a choice, Indigo.” His tone is stern.
“Damn right you are, faerie man. This is my life. And now it’s time for you to leave.”
I open the door and call out for my assistant. Dreya is the best dresser in Melbourne and I’m lucky she enjoys working with me.
“Yes, Indie?” she says, stepping into the doorway of the room. “Do you need...” She peers past me and her mouth drops open.
After a minute I reach out and tap her chin to remind her to close it.
“Are you sure you want him out of here?” Her whisper is almost silent, but not enough to avoid a fae’s acute hearing, I’m sure.
The faint snort behind me confirms it.
“This is Tarrien, who has outstayed his welcome,” I say. “Kindly ensure he is seen off the premises immediately. Thank you, Dreya.”
“Okay, if you insist.” She shrugs and leans out into the hallway, making a surreptitious gesture. Instantly two burly security guards are at her side. “This gentleman is leaving. Mistress Indigo is indisposed.”
And nuts, she mouths, waggling her eyebrows. He’s hot.
I roll my eyes at her, and step away from the door. After a moment in which I wonder if Tarrien will protest, he narrows his eyes and glares at me.
“You don’t know what you’re doing, you stupid banshee.” With a quick movement, he darts to my dressing table and picks up a makeup wipe. For a large man he is remarkably graceful. “Maybe clean the rest of your face. You look ridiculous. Unfortunately for us both, I will see you again. And soon.”
Stupid banshee? Ridiculous? I open my mouth to give him a serve of my best vitriol. He touches a silver ring that decorates his thumb in a delicate filigree circle, and vanishes, just like that, leaving me seething with a mixture of fury and something baser. Something that curls through my system and warms me in secret places I haven’t thought about for a long while. Something that I don’t want to label.
Something that I definitely don’t want to feel, for a man who has just called me stupid.
I blink a few times, aiming for calm. Well. That was unexpected.
“Are you all right, Indie?” Dreya peers around me, searching the room just as Tarrien did when he first arrived. Seriously. My dressing room is not that big. “He might have been hot to look at, but I guess he was just another dickhead.”
“Indeed.” Dickhead. Yes, that’s exactly the right word for Tarrien. I smile at Dreya, sharing a girl moment, and repeating that word in my head until my anger at the unexpected intrusion dissipates.
Dreya confirms with the theater security guards that they are no longer required, and then turns back to study me after they leave. “Would you like me to come home with you, tonight, Indie? Just to make sure the weirdo isn’t lurking anywhere outside your apartment?”
“I’m fine, Drey love.” I keep my voice light, but I’m not okay, and we both know it. I haven’t been okay for months, not since the attack. I don’t know if I’ll ever be fine again.
I do know how to look after myself, though. My banshee heritage gives me some enhanced capabilities over a full human, including strength, hearing, and sight. Dreya, one-hundred percent human like Sienna was, is therefore more fragile than me. And that makes it doubly sweet of her to offer assistance.
She continues to stare at me with a raised brow.
“Thank you, but no,” I say. “He was just a pesky annoyance from the fae realm, and hopefully, he’s gone back there to sulk and find someone else to annoy.”
Dreya is aware of my half-fae bloodline, and unlike many humans who display speciesism, she has no issue with my heritage. “If you’re sure...”
“I am. Let me finish getting changed, and then can you call my driver, please? Say, fifteen minutes?”
It’s not far to my apartment in East Melbourne, but one of the perks of being the star attraction in this theater troupe, is the driver and town car at my beck and call. I used to walk home after the late show, but these days I prefer the safety inherent in the back seat of a car, so I call upon the driver far more than I used to.
“Sure. Will do. And I know you said no visitors tonight, Indie. I didn’t let him past; I swear.”
“I know that. Just arrange my driver, love, and I’ll be happy.”
When I sit back at the dressing table, I can’t deny that I do look rather ridiculous with one eye and my lips smeared halfway across my face. Still, it was unbelievably rude of him to point it out.
I just want to be at home in my cozy little sanctuary—the safest place I know—and curl up in a ball in my king-sized bed to block out the rest of the world. The lethargy is growing, and I don’t want to face what that might mean.
One night of peace. Please give me that, universe. Please. No deaths.
I don’t think I have the strength to face a banshee call tonight.
