Nothing will ever explain what came over me the day I gave the power of the banshee to that fragile little human. It wasn’t reason. It was something primal, something ancient. The moment our eyes met, it was as though the power inside me stirred, howling for her. I fought it, but it was as if I was trying to cage a storm. Somewhere in my bones, I knew she wasn’t just meant to hold that power… she was the power. Once it chose her, there was no turning back.
Saoirse is a cunning and connivingDearg Due.(Femalevampire.) A true monster cloaked in allure. Beneath her beauty lies something ancient and cruel, a hunger for power matched only by her thirst for blood. There is no limit to the torment she’ll unleash on my little banshee for carrying what she believes is rightfully hers.
I know her too well though, she won’t kill her, not unless she wants the power to fall straight back into my hands. However, she won’t take this lying down either. No, her wrath will be cold, calculated… and entirely focused on the human.
My job now is to protect my little banshee and the power that burns inside her. I can’t,I won’t,let Saoirse sink her claws into either. If she gets hold of it, she won’t just destroy my little human… she’ll burn the realms to ash.
Seething, I lift Fionn’s body from the floor. Blood crusts the fur around his mouth and his breathing is shallow but steady. He’ll live. He’s tougher than most, he always has been. But, seeing him like this, broken and silent, coils something violent inside me.
Careful not to disturb him, I carry him into his room and lay him down on the bed. He doesn’t stir. Not even a twitch. That alone makes my jaw clench.
His room smells faintly of smoke and iron. The walls are dark stone, streaked with soot and the faint glow of embers from the hearth, throws restless shadows across the floor. Chains hang near his bed; they were once meant for restraint. Now they are draped with charms and talismans meant to soothe what stillburns inside him. It’s not much of a sanctuary, but it’s his. A place to lay his head and rest.
Fionn was brought into this world to guard what mattered. Seeing him like this, beaten, discarded as if he were nothing, it hurts more than I’ll ever admit.
As I clean the blood from his muzzle, I make a silent promise. She’s going to pay for this. Saoirse has made a lot of enemies in her time, and now she’s mine. I don’t forget. She laid her hands on what’s mine. Fionn, my banshee. All of it. For that, I will destroy her piece by piece if I have to.
Lig di teacht. Beidh mé réidh.(Let her come. I’ll be ready.)
The castle feels colder now. Not from the wind or stone, from the shift in me. I step out of Fionn’s room, shutting the door softly behind me. He needs time to heal. Even though time is something we no longer have. Not with Saoirse loose and furious. I can feel her rage slithering through the walls like smoke, waiting for its chance to strike.
She won’t stop until she’s torn my little banshee apart, and I won’t stop until Saoirse is nothing but dust in the wind.
If it’s a fight she wants, then it’s a war she’ll get. This time, it won’t just be a fight for magic or power. It’ll be blood.
Mine if I must.
Aici, gan cheist.(Hers, without question.)
The articles I found were enough to crack something open in me. So, I clocked off work early. I had to. I couldn’t dig any deeper, if I stayed, I would have. Memories I’d buried came rushing back as if they were floodwater through a broken dam.
With this weight pressing down on my chest and with still no sign of Croía at her house, I take a detour to the one spot that always quiets my mind. The graveyard.
As I walk the worn path to my parents’ headstone, the gravel crunches beneath my boots. The sky goes grey, the kind that dulls and hangs heavy before a storm.
With a heavy heart, I kneel between the moss-covered markers and rest my hand on the cold stone. When everything feels as if it’s spiralling, I come here and talk things through. I tell myself they’re listening, even though I don’t actually say anything. What could I even say? With the way I’ve been acting lately,digging into the past, chasing ghosts, dragging myself into places I shouldn't. I don’t know if I have the right words for them.For this.
Would they be disappointed in me? God, I really hope not.
As I kneel between the headstones, my fingers curl into the damp earth as though I might find the answers I need buried. The silence stretches long and unforgiving. All the things I want to say press against my chest, but none of it makes it out. It’s just the steady rhythm of my breathing along with the distant call of crows overhead. I stare at my parents’ headstone and look at their names, the dates. The finality of it all.
“I’m trying,” I whisper at last, the words scraping against my throat. “Even when it doesn’t look like it… I swear I am.”
Before giving the headstone one last glance, I rise up. There’s too much left unsaid. Maybe that’s okay though. Maybe they already know, and that’s why I feel just a little less alone when I walk away.
Unable to resist, I walk up by the daffodil field on my way out. Even after all these years, it still hits me how peaceful it is here. The daffodils sway gently in the wind, their bright yellow heads bobbing as if they’re whispering to one another. It’s beautiful, the kind of beauty that aches a little when you look at it for too long. I’ve always loved this place, maybe because it’s one of the few that doesn’t feel haunted.
At least, not until now… because that’s when I see her. Croía.
She’s standing at the edge of the field, still and soft as if she’s a part of it. As though the wind moves through her. Her silver hair catches the light as it dances in the breeze. My breath stutters in my throat. I don’t move. I don’t even blink.
Is it really her? Or is this some cruel trick of the light? Then she turns, slowly, as if she knew I was here, and our eyes meet. She doesn’t look like her normal self. There’s no light in her eyes, no spark in her stance. She looks beat down, as if she’s been dragged through hell and clawed her way back on bleeding hands. Her clothes hang loose on her frame, dirt-smudged and torn in places, and her skin is pale beneath the soft gold light of the daffodil field.
Cautious, I step toward her, my heart thudding with a mix of fear and urgency. The closer I get, the more the cracks show. Her shoulders slump under some unseen weight and her lips are chapped. She sways on her feet, barely able to stand upright. By the time I reach her, it’s clear. She’s running on fumes, held together by sheer will alone.
Without hesitation, I sweep her up into my arms just as her knees begin to buckle. She’s weightless and trembling. I brace her against my chest as if I can hold her together with just my grip. I expect resistance. Some smart remark, a weak shove, none comes. Instead, she melts into me, her head nestling into the hollow of my shoulder as though it’s where she’s meant to be. Her eyes flutter shut slowly, her lashes damp, and for a split second I wonder if she has fallen asleep and given in to the exhaustion that’s been haunting her. Either way, she doesn’t fight me and that terrifies me more than if she had.
Slow and measured, I begin the walk toward her house. Keeping each step steady, as though she might shatter if I jostle her even slightly. She feels too light in my arms, too still, and it’s eating away at my chest. When we reach the front door, I ease her down gently. Just enough to pick the lock, quick and quiet. Then lift her back up and carry her inside.
