“Stop tormenting the poor girl, Dorian.” Lloyd opens thevolume and turns a few pages. “God, you’re always so horny every time you almost die.”
“That’s not—” Dorian exhales a sharp sound of frustration, backing away from me. “Never mind. What did you find?”
“Well, when you first mentioned this wolf or dog creature, I thought of the Irish legend of the pooka, or púca, which is a shape-shifter and takes the form of a black goat, horse, dog, or some such thing. But there is a lesser-known variant on the same theme—not a shifter, more of a manifestation of centralized energy. Did the creature make a sound? Like a shrieking or screeching sound?”
“Yes.” I hop down from the armrest and sidestep around Dorian, feeling the tug of his presence through the air between us. I fake indifference as best I can and head for the bar, eager to see Lloyd’s book.
“It’s a skriken.” Lloyd points triumphantly to the page.
I lean closer. “I can’t read any of that.”
“It’s written in a blend of two languages, Old Welsh and Old Norse. It’s a variant I’ve never come across anywhere else—almost as if two people took turns writing down the phrases. Took me a while to decipher it the first time, and I haven’t read it in a while, but I’ll see if I can give you a rough translation.” Lloyd clears his throat. “‘The skriken is a manifestation of cosmic energy and natural forces drawn together at a single point. This creature assembles itself from any readily available natural materials and seeks out anyone powerful nearby. Its goal could be one of two things—either to devour the energy of that powerful person and strengthen its own form, or to bring its target back to the nearest dhia, or god, as either a worshiper or a sacrifice.’”
I stare at him. “What the hell?”
Dorian comes over and rests both forearms on the bar top, cupping his drink in both hands. “For fuck’s sake, explain, Lloyd.”
Lloyd shrugs. “I can tell you the version of the lore I’ve read in here.” He taps the page.
“Is it long?” Dorian lifts his eyebrows.
Lloyd sighs. “As if you have anything better to do.”
“I’d like to hear it,” I chime in. “Like I told Dorian, I’ve been looking for stuff like this all my life. This is the first proof I’ve found that there’s anything besides me out there, anything weird or witchy. I’ve felt stuff when I’ve burned incense and meditated—impressions, maybe a presence—but nothing tangible, you know? Nothing real, until now.”
Lloyd-Henry meets my eyes, that intensity flickering in his gaze again. “There is so much more out there, little leannán sídhe.”
“Leannán sídhe,” I murmur. “That’s what my mother called us. We’re a branch of that family, she said. But she never really explained, and the stuff I got from googling didn’t seem to fit.”
“The muses of Irish lore,” says Lloyd. “Some are gifted with their voices, wielding influence through speech or song. Others can deceive or delight through dance. And some, like you, work magic through art. Though I have to admit, before my encounter with Dorian, I had no idea any of the leannán sídhe could accomplish a soul transference. It seems your particular family line was an anomaly. The only ones graced with this gift.”
I would debate his use of the wordgift, but I’m too desperate to know more. “What else can you tell me about the leannán sídhe?”
Lloyd gives me an indulgent smile. “I’m happy to tell you everything I know sometime, but I think the skriken is a more pressing matter, don’t you?”
I bite my lip and nod.
Dorian shifts his weight restlessly. “You said a skriken goes after people with power? Like her?” He jerks his head toward me. “It wants to bring her back to something? Some god? What the hell?”
“Not anactualgod, dearest.” Lloyd chuckles as if Dorian has said the most ridiculous thing. “Not in these enlightened, civilized days of ours. Gods don’t exist, at least not in the form you might be thinking of. At most, the skriken would want to drag her to the nearest locus of supernatural or psychic power so it could absorb her energy into itself.”
“That’s it? God, I feel so much better,” I mutter.
“I need an explanation, Lloyd,” Dorian says tightly. “She hasn’t experienced this before, that much was obvious, so why is this thing after her now? Why here?”
“If you can be patient for a handful of minutes, I’ll explain,” Lloyd replies. “Keep in mind, I’m an amateur. I don’t know everything, and I may have mistranslated some of it.”
“You’re no fucking amateur,” Dorian growls. “Go on.”
“Let’s sit, then, shall we?” Lloyd gestures to the seating area.
Somehow Dorian and I end up on a couch, side by side, while Lloyd sits across from us, with his ankle propped on his knee.
“The Irish have had a rough time of it for centuries.” Lloyd sips his drink, then chuckles, low and dry. “Which is the understatement of the millennium. All of it started when their god-race, the Tuatha Dé Danann, left them almost two thousand years BC and came to this continent. But there were already gods here, you see, and those gods did not take kindly to the idea of sharing the land. The Tuatha Dé Danann were already weak from war, and they succumbed easily to the will of those first gods. Some of them dissolved altogether, a graceful end. Others gave up most of their powers, took on human aspect, and lived as mortals, passing some of their remaining abilities to their progeny. Others refused to dissolve or die, and those few were corrupted and conquered by the first gods, until they were forced into sleep under the earth. Some stories claim that remnantsor relics of those gods still in exist in a dormant state, somewhere beneath this city and others.”
Something in his tone jars my memory. The abandoned building I visited yesterday evening—the way the door hummed against my palm and the voice I thought I heard, distant and insistent:Let me out, let me out.
Unnerved, I glance at Dorian. The taut stillness of his face makes me believe he has never heard Lloyd speak like this before.
