 
# The Celtic Collection

The Eclective

Copyright © 2012 by the Eclective

Smashwords Edition

The six authors in this collection retain and hold their individual respective rights to their stories.

This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or other unauthorized use of the material or artwork herein is prohibited.

Cover Art by Jack Wallen

# Table of Contents

Title Page

Shéa MacLeod—Irish Kiss

M. Edward McNally—The Luck of the Irish Brigade

Heather Marie Adkins—Song of the Banshee

Jack Wallen—The Red Veil of Vengeance

P.J. Jones—Zombies Eat Leprechauns

Alan Nayes—Five Shamrocks

The Eclective

# Irish Kiss

Shéa MacLeod

"You can't be serious." I gave Kabita a death glare across her desk before turning my attention back to our prospective client who was lounging in the chair next to me.

Many strange clients had walked through the doors of Kabita Jones's private investigation firm where I worked as a vampire hunter, demon spawn slayer, and general bad-guy ass-kicker. But seriously? This latest client pretty much took the cake for weirdness.

"Oh, I am quite serious, I assure you." He folded his hands calmly over his slightly rounded stomach and returned my glare measure-for-measure from under his bushy red eyebrows.

"You want us to find your ... " I couldn't say it. I really couldn't say it. " ... pot of gold," I finally choked out. It was all I could do not to bust a gut laughing. I'd finally heard it all. Next he'd want me to follow a damn rainbow or something.

"Yes. I want you to find my pot of gold."

"Mr. O'Leery is one of the Leprechaun people, Morgan," Kabita interrupted. Her voice was calm and even, but her eyes promised murder and mayhem if I didn't behave. She was probably afraid I'd open my big mouth and say something stupid. She was right to be worried.

I eyeballed him. "You don't look like a leprechaun." Actually, he looked pretty much exactly like a leprechaun except that he was nearly six feet tall and was wearing jeans and a gray cable knit sweater. I was just trying to be nice.

He heaved a sigh that spoke of long-suffering. "What do you expect a Leprechaun to look like? Short, red beard, green suit, holding a shoe?"

He'd pretty much nailed it. I mean, come on, we've all seen the Lucky Charms guy, right? Okay, Lucky didn't have a beard, but still.

Our new client looked nothing like the Lucky Charms guy. Not only was Mr. O'Leery too tall, there wasn't a speck of green in sight. No beard, either. Heck, he didn't even sound Irish.

"Okay, fine, so you're a leprechaun ... "

"Leprechaun," he corrected.

"What?"

"Capital 'L'. Like American."

I blinked. "Excuse me?"

He heaved another long-suffering sigh. "I'm not one of those moronic fairytale people you humans like to make fun of. I am Leprechaun and I've come to you because I need your help. Now are you going to help me or not?"

Render me speechless. I glanced over at Kabita who gave me a slight nod. "Of course," I gave him my best professional smile. "That's what we do."

"Good," he said with a slight nod.

"Right." I settled back in my seat. "So, when was the last time you saw your, um, property."

"Last Tuesday."

I blinked. "You waited a week to come see us?" If I lost a pot of gold, I certainly wouldn't be dilly-dallying around. I'd have called the cops. Scratch that, I'd have called my friends and follow crime solvers, Kabita and Inigo and Jack. I'd have had the whole gang on the case within minutes.

"Well, I know who has it," O'Leery admitted.

Kabita and I exchanged looks.

"You do?" Her voice was just this side of testy. Kabita did not like when clients withheld important details.

"Oh, yes. I thought I would try to recover it myself. Unfortunately, I didn't have any luck."

I really, honestly tried to keep a straight face. I swear I did, but I couldn't help the smile that spread across my face. "Right, you lost your luck."

His eyes narrowed. "Don't be ridiculous. The pot of gold has nothing to do with luck. I'm not talking about some ridiculous children's story."

This from a leprechaun. Excuse me. That would be "Leprechaun."

"Fine, so who has your gold? And if you know who took it, why didn't you have any ... luck getting it back from him? Or her." If he beat around the bush any more I swore I'd grab the stapler off Kabita's desk and bash him over the head with it. Why clients always insisted on being clever and mysterious was beyond me. If you want a crime solved, being clever and mysterious is not the way to get it done.

O'Leery leaned forward in his chair and glanced around the office like he thought men in black might come popping out of the walls or something. "I'm pretty sure it was the mermaid."

"Excuse me?"

"She's had it in for me for ages," he said, as if that explained everything.

Seriously? I needed a drink. A really big drink. Or maybe I needed to go back to bed and pretend this day never happened.

"What mermaid and why does she have it in for you?"

O'Leery gave me a glare that clearly said he thought I was thick in the head. "The one down at Fringe," he named the local club frequented by members of the supernatural set. "We used to date, you know."

Now I could say see why a woman who used to date O'Leery might want to key his car or TP his house or set his garden gnomes on fire. But steal his pot of gold? He must have done something really bad.

"So, you tried to get it back from her and she wouldn't give it to you," I said.

"She claimed she didn't have it. Obviously she must be lying." His voice dripped with disdain.

Kabita and I exchanged another look.

"Exactly how do you think she stole the gold, Mr. O'Leery?" Kabita finally asked the burning question.

How on Earth would a mermaid get out of a fish tank and steal a pot of gold presumably stored on land? For that matter, how on Earth could the two of them ... ew, never mind. The thought made my stomach turn.

"Well, obviously she grew legs," he said, as if that solved everything.

"Mr. O'Leery," Kabita's voice took on an edge I was very familiar with. She was obviously at the end of her patience. "Mermaids cannot grow legs."

Kabita was right. The whole mermaids growing legs thing? Total myth. They couldn't breathe on land, either. Like fish, they could only breathe underwater.

"Well, then, no doubt she had help," O'Leery said.

"So, you have no actual proof your ex-girlfriend stole your gold?" I asked, already knowing the answer.

"She must have done it." Damn but he was stubborn.

"Okay, fine, you're probably right, she probably did it," I decided to humor him. "But let's just suppose for a minute somebody else might have had something to do with it. Helped her, maybe. Who else might have done it?"

He tugged at his lower lip, a frown creasing his forehead. "Well, there's that sorcerer."

Kabita flipped open her laptop and started tapping at the keys. "Which sorcerer, Mr. O'Leery?" She had an entire database of all witches, sorcerers, and magic practitioners in the area. Which wasn't entirely surprising seeing as how Kabita was a natural born Witch.

"Oh, what's his name ... Megatron."

We both stared at O'Leery our mouths hanging half-open. I was pretty certain there weren't any sorcerers anywhere in the world named Megatron. If there was, the guy needed to seriously rethink his moniker.

Kabita peered at her screen and tapped a few more keys. "Do you mean Margeon?"

"Ah, yes," O'Leery nodded. "That's the one."

I stared at him. Seriously? What the hell kind of name was Margeon? "Um, why would this Margeon guy steal your gold?"

"Well, he's my neighbor."

"And?"

"And I might have accidentally killed some of his roses."

I rolled my eyes. Great. A pissing match between a leprechaun — excuse me, Leprechaun — and a sorcerer over gardening. That was all I needed.

"Anyone else?" I was half afraid to ask.

"Well ... " he hesitated.

Great. Just great. "Spill it, O'Leery."

"There's this vampire, you see." He shifted in his seat rather nervously. "He might have a slight grudge."

I narrowed my eyes. "Why?"

"I might have sort of cheated him at cards."

That was a new one. "Vampires don't play cards." They cared about one thing: Drinking human blood. Playing cards wasn't in the cards, so to speak.

"Oh, no, this was while he was still alive."

Oh, hell. It wasn't just any grudge, then. Not if the vamp had carried over into undeath. Shit. I did not like this case, not one little bit. "You got the vamp's address?"

O'Leery gave it to me. "So, you'll help me, then? You'll find my pot of gold?"

I glanced over at Kabita, shrugged, then turned back to our new client. "Yeah, we'll help you."

"Excellent. You best get to work then. Time's wasting." And with that he was out the door before I could catch my breath.

A Leprechaun. Fabulous. Must be my lucky day.

***

I decided to hit Fringe first. It was midafternoon which meant the club would be closed for the day. Fortunately, the bartender lived above the club. He knew me. Sort of.

I stopped in front of a blue door sandwiched between the club's entrance and the travel agent next door. The button for the doorbell was half hidden behind some planter thing filled with what looked like dead geraniums. I pressed it. One quick ring, nice and polite.

I waited. Nothing. So, I gave it another quick ring, just in case. Still nothing. So, I leaned on the bell.

From somewhere inside the building I heard a thump followed by a crash, followed by a few more thumps and a whole lot of cussing. Finally the door swung open and I was greeted with a snarled, "What?"

"Hey, Nate. How's it going?"

He glared at me, squinting in the late afternoon sun. "Was going fine until you showed up."

Nate wasn't a large man. He was wiry and quick with a ridiculously sharp memory recall, which made him an excellent bartender. He was an average-looking guy with dark hair cropped short and intelligent brown eyes. He obviously hadn't bothered taking off last night's eyeliner. It was smudged around his eyes like a raccoon.

"What do you want?" It was just this side of a snarl.

"Come on, Nate, is that any way to treat a guest?"

"Seriously, Morgan, it's way too early in the fu ... "

"I just need to talk to the mermaid," I interrupted.

He blinked. "The mermaid? Morgan, mermaids don't talk."

"Yeah, I know, but you have to communicate with her somehow, right?"

He frowned. "Not really. The Boss sort of takes care of all that. The rest of the time she just swims around in that damn tank."

"I'll figure it out, but I need to talk to that mermaid. Please?"

I wasn't going to get into an argument with Nate over the morality of keeping a living, intelligent being locked up in what amounted to a giant fish tank. I'd seen her before on my visits to Fringe and nobody, least of all the mermaid herself, had ever seemed bothered about it. I'd have to ask Kabita. Maybe she knew something about the situation.

I finally managed to convince Nate to let me into the club for a few minutes. He didn't know the mermaid's name or anything about her, and he claimed he'd never seen O'Leery before. I had no idea how O'Leery had managed a relationship with the mermaid if she never left the club and he'd never been there. Guess I'd have to ask her. If I could figure out how to communicate with a being who couldn't talk.

Nate flipped on a few low lights and left me to do my thing while he messed around behind the bar. I slowly approached the giant tank which took up most of one wall of the club. Inside, I could just make out the curled form of the mermaid. She was still, as though sleeping, her arms wrapped around her chest, her long hair waving gently in the water.

I pressed my face up close to the glass like a little kid at a fish tank. I'd never gotten a really good look at her before. The club had always been too crowded.

She basically looked like you'd expect a mermaid to look. Girl on the top half, fish on the bottom. Her long tail was covered in scales that shimmered ever so slightly in the dim light of the club. I knew from before that her scales were purple and blue with hints of green, just like her hair. Her skin was milky white. I could even see the blue veins just under her skin.

Suddenly her eyes flew open and I found myself staring into a pair of golden orbs. I'm talking true gold. Like the metal. The eyes were flat, expressionless, and very not human. Frankly, they freaked me out.

"Um, hello," I kept my face close to the glass and my voice low. I knew fish were sensitive to sound, and that sound carried underwater. I had no idea if mermaids were the same.

She opened her mouth, peeled back her lips, and hissed at me like a freaking cat. Her mouth was full of razor-sharp teeth. Like the kind only found in predators. So, mermaids weren't the pretty fairy princesses of the underwater kingdom, after all. I'd hate to think what her idea of a good meal was.

"Sorry to wake you," I tried again, "but my name is Morgan Bailey and I'm a private investigator. I need to ask you a few questions."

She hissed again and made a run — er, swim — for the glass. My instinct was to duck back, but I held my ground. I knew I was safe on my side of the glass. With a snarl she whipped away deeper into the tank. I stared after her, wondering what to do next.

"She doesn't understand you, you know."

The voice that interrupted my thoughts was light, feminine, but not necessarily female. Definitely not Nate. I turned around, but the speaker was well hidden in the shadows.

"Sorry, who are you?" I asked.

I made out the vague wave of a hand. Still not sure if it was a woman's or a man's. "This is my place."

"You're the Boss." The one Nate and the bouncers always talked about but no one had ever seen.

"Yes. The Boss. I like that."

I could almost hear the smile in his or her voice. "I'm sorry for intruding, but I'm ... "

"Morgan Bailey, private investigator. Vampire Hunter."

I frowned. "Yeah. That's right. How did you ... "

"How did I know?" said the voice. "I know a great many things. I also know you don't speak Merr, so you will never be able to communicate with our little friend, there."

"But you can," I said.

"Of course."

"And if I tell you what I need to know, can you ask her for me?"

There was a pause. "Perhaps. It depends what you need to know."

"I have a client named O'Leery. He claims he's," I paused. The whole thing was so ridiculous. "He claims the mermaid is his ex and that she stole something from him."

There was a light chuckle from deep within the shadows. "Oh, yes, Mr. O'Leery. He claims, I believe, that our little friend stole his pot of gold."

"Yes, that's right. Frankly I don't understand how a mermaid and a Leprechaun can possibly have a relationship to begin with, let alone enough of one that she'd steal his gold. Still," I shrugged, "I have to ask."

"Of course."

There was a moment of silence followed by a strange humming sound which made the hair on the back of my neck stand up and goosebumps break out all over my arms. Freaky, that's what it was. Spooky.

Finally the humming stopped and the voice of the Boss spoke again. "It is true Mr. O'Leery and she were once ... a couple, but that has been over for many years. She has not left this tank. She has not touched Mr. O'Leery's gold and she does not know who has or where it is now."

"So, she didn't maybe hire someone or, uh, something?"

Another chuckle. "No."

I didn't know if I could trust the Boss or not, but frankly, I didn't have much of a choice. It was obvious the mermaid wasn't going to speak to me, even if I had been able to speak Merr. "Okay. Thanks for your time. I very much appreciate it."

"Not a problem," said the Boss. "Any time. Any time at all, Morgan Bailey."

I left the club as quickly as possible without making it obvious, and took a deep breath of fresh air the minute I was outside. The Boss totally freaked me out. I'd be quite happy if I never saw him, or her, or it, again.

***

Since it was still light out, I decided to head for the sorcerer's house first. Last thing I needed was for my suspect to go up in flames before I had a chance to question him.

As I got into my car, my phone rang. It was Inigo, the third member of our investigation team and my boyfriend.

"Kabita tells me you have a new client. You going to ask for your three wishes when you find his pot of gold?" He was all but laughing out loud on the other end of the line.

"Very funny."

"Seriously, is there anything I can do to help?"

I almost said no, but figured I might as well put him to good use. "Yeah. Can you check with local pawn shops, see if anyone has brought in a large amount of gold recently? Or some unusual gold?"

"Like a big pot of it?" He went off into gales of laughter.

I rolled my eyes. "Oh you are very funny. Can you do it?"

"Sure thing, love. Let you know what I find out." He was still laughing when we hung up.

I gave Kabita a quick call. "It's a no-go on the mermaid angle. Have you found out anything about this Margeon character?"

"Not a lot," Kabita admitted. "His real name is Melvin Smith and he's from Omaha. He works for the Wal-Mart out in Troutdale."

"Are you kidding me? No wonder he changed his name to Margeon. Does he have any real abilities?"

"Hard to say." I could hear her tapping at her keyboard as she spoke. "He's pretty new to the area and he keeps to himself, mostly. He's a low-level member of the local sorcerer's guild, but that could just be because he's new. So be cautious."

"Roger that."

***

Melvin Smith — er, Margeon — lived in outer Southeast Portland. It had once been a nice, lower-middle-class neighborhood of small but cozy houses with large yards and friendly neighbors. In recent years the gangs and drug dealers had moved in. Now the small houses were more run-down than cozy and the large yards grown out of control. Don't even get me started on the neighbors.

Margeon's house was just off the main street on a quiet side road. It was a typical neighborhood for the area with the usual sixties style ranch houses. Paint peeled almost completely off the walls, cracks laced the windows, and even a couple had doors with gaping holes in the paneling. I wondered if they'd been kicked in by the police or the criminals. If I hadn't been a Hunter, I think I'd have been a little nervous about visiting Margeon's street.

The sorcerer from Nebraska's house stood out with its neatly trimmed lawn and fresh coat of paint. It was sandwiched in between two of the worst looking houses on the block. I wondered which house was the Leprechaun's until I saw the dead rosebushes along the East side of the property. Bingo.

I parked my car right in the drive and strolled nice and slow to the front door. I could see a couple of less-than-savory types eyeballing the Mustang from across the street. So, I did the one thing guaranteed to make them think I was a crazy person.

I walked back to the car, strolled around and popped the trunk. Inside was my hunting gear: UV guns, knives, swords, machetes. You know, the fun stuff.

In plain view of the two men, I started pulling out and inspecting my little arsenal. Only the blades were deadly to humans, but they didn't know that. Out of the corner of my eye I could tell they were getting more and more interested. So, I pulled my _dao_ out of its sheath and held it up to the light, giving the sword few flicks and slashes. Then I turned and caught the men's gaze.

Very slowly I smiled and I let the Darkness inside me creep into my eyes.

That did it. The two couldn't get out of there fast enough. With a laugh I carefully placed the blade back in the trunk and slammed the lid shut.

Then I carefully tamped down the Darkness. It snarled a little before reluctantly returning to the place where it lived, deep within my ... soul, for lack of a better word.

I can't explain the Darkness. It just is. Some kind of weird superpower which makes me even stronger and faster than a normal Hunter. Why it decided to show up when it did is anyone's guess, but it was part of me now. I'd learned to deal with it. More or less.

I rapped on Margeon's door. I heard some shuffling inside before the door cracked open. A pale hazel eye in a pasty-white face appeared in the crack just above the safety chain. "What do you want?" They should have been forceful words, but coming from Margeon, they were anything but.

I decided using his real name probably wouldn't get me far. "Margeon?"

The eye widened. "Who are you? How do you know my name?" The eye narrowed. "If you've come here to put a hex on me, it will fail!" His voice wobbled a little on the last.

"Uh, I'm not a Witch, so no hexes, I promise."

He seemed to think about that. "All right. What do you want."

"May I come in?"

"No way!" he gasped. "You might steal a lock of my hair or my toothbrush or something."

I stared at him, baffled. "Why would I do that?"

"To give to a Witch so she can put a hex on me."

Riiiight. "Fine then. My name is Morgan Bailey and I'm a private detective. I just need to ask you a couple questions."

"Private detective? What do you want with me?"

"We'll, it's about your neighbor. Mr. O'Leery?"

Margeon's eyes widened even further, if that was possible. "That son of a newt? Do you know what he did? He killed my rosebushes." The fury in his voice was obvious. And loud.

Hoo-boy. Loony on the loose. "Yeah, he told me you think that. So, I was wondering, did you decide to take any kind of revenge on Mr. O'Leery for the death of your rosebushes?"

"Of course I did. What kind of a sorcerer would I be if I didn't take revenge?" There was an almost maniacal gleam in the one eye I could see.

"That's true. So, what form did your revenge take?"

"I cursed him, of course."

I almost choked. "Really? What kind of curse?"

He grinned. "I cursed his hair so it would all fall out."

"Oh, excellent curse. Excellent." It obviously hadn't worked. Last time I saw O'Leery he'd had a very full and luxurious head of hair. "You didn't happen to take your revenge in any other way, did you?"

He frowned. "Like what?"

"Like steal something of his, maybe?"

He drew himself up to his full height, which was a good three inches shorter than my own five-foot-five, and bellowed indignantly, "I did no such thing! Sorcerers do not steal. Rule Number 96."

I'd never heard of any such sorcerer rules. In fact, the few sorcerers I'd run into hadn't exactly been full of scruples. Still, Margeon seemed very convinced of said rule so who was I to crush him? "Okay, thanks, Mr. Sm ... uh, Margeon." I turned to go.

"Do you work for O'Leery?" Margeon called after me.

Shit. I turned around. "Yes, Mr. O'Leery did hire me."

There was a shriek of outrage and the door slammed shut. I stood there for a moment blinking in shock before the door ripped open again revealing Melvin Smith in all his Margeon the Sorcerer glory.

I wanted to laugh, I really did. Who could blame me? The guy was wearing a burgundy velvet bathrobe to which someone had sewn (rather badly) some sort of fake fur trim. On his feet were a pair of blue and gold satin slippers, the kind that curl up at the toes like something out of Arabian Nights. But the crowning glory was on his head: A tinfoil "wizard's hat" with stickers of suns and moons and stars.

He stormed out onto the front porch and started waving around what looked like a stick from a drum set. I could only assume it was supposed to be his wand. Then Margeon started screaming at the top of his lungs. I had no idea what he was saying, but it didn't sound good.

I'm only mildly ashamed to admit I turned tail and ran for my car. Once I had driven far enough away from crazy Melvin Smith, I pulled out my cell and rang Kabita.

"I think that Melvin/Margeon guy just put a curse on me."

Kabita snorted. "Doubtful."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. I had a word with the guild. Apparently good old Margeon is a bit of a wing-nut. He has zero powers, but he's absolutely convinced he's the next Merlin."

"You've got to be kidding me." I started laughing. "Why on earth did they let him in, then?"

"They were afraid he'd start blabbing if they didn't," she said. "The last thing they need is that kind of notoriety. When he showed up claiming to be descended from a long line of powerful sorcerers, they brought him in and made him swear an oath of silence. They've been keeping him busy writing a 'Sorcerer's Code of Ethics' or some such thing."

So, that explained the Rule Number 96. I was relieved I didn't have to worry about my hair falling out or something.

"Any luck on O'Leery's gold?" Kabita asked.

"Not yet," I admitted. "But I've still got one more suspect to interview."

"Let me guess. The vampire."

I sighed. "Naturally."

"Maybe you should take Jack with you."

I frowned. "Why? You think I can't handle a vampire on my own?"

"Sure you can. But you don't want to kill him before you have a chance to question him. Jack can hold him down while you beat him up." I could hear her laughter on the other end. "Besides, where you're going, you could use some back-up."

She was being a dope, but she had a point. I could take a vamp, no problem. But that was if I wanted him dead. If I wanted him alive, well, that was a different ballgame. It would be easier if I had some help. "Okay, I'll call Jack," I finally said with some reluctance.

"No need. I'll have him meet you there."

I rolled my eyes. "Fabulous."

***

Jack was waiting for me when I arrived at the home of the last suspect. I use the term "home" loosely since it was actually an abandoned auto body shop in one of the rougher areas of town. And by "rougher," I mean it made Melvin's neighborhood look downright Mayberry.

I hated that my heart skipped just a tiny beat when I saw Jack leaning up against his car. All long legged and muscular chest and shaggy haired with eyes the color of the ocean. He was the stuff romance novels were made of. Still, we'd had our chance and he'd blown it. Big time.

"Hey, Morgan." His voice had that rumbly Vin Diesel thing going for it. Still, I refused to melt like butter. Not this time. I was done melting for Jackson Keel.

"Jack." I gave him a brief nod. "Kabita told you the plan?"

"Go in, hold him down while you beat the truth out of him, then dust his ass."

"Yeah, pretty much." It was a simple plan, as plans went, but just between you, me, and the lamppost, things don't always go to plan. "I take it there's a back door."

He nodded. "Side door, actually. Looks like that's what he's been using. The garage door is still padlocked and the front looks like it hasn't been opened in years."

Normally I wouldn't worry about leaving one door unguarded, but it was quickly approaching twilight. I wouldn't put it past the vamp to make a run for it. "Do you think you can open it?" I nodded toward the front door. Jack was right. There was plant life growing up through the cracks in the pavement in front of it and the doorknob looked rusted through.

He shot me a look. One I could only interpret as "duh."

"Fine. Wait for thirty, then go in. I'll hit the side door." I didn't wait for his reply. I knew he'd be ready when I was. I might not be able to trust Jack with my heart, but I could trust him to have my back.

The side door definitely showed signs of regular use. This was it. The little gripping sensation at the back of my skull confirmed it. My Hunter senses letting me know a vampire was near.

I took a deep breath, counted to three, then shoved open the door. The inside of the old auto body shop was nearly pitch black. I couldn't see or hear anything, but my "other" senses were definitely screaming at me, so I knew the vamp was inside somewhere, waiting.

I heard the front door screech open on rusty hinges, and light from the streetlights outside spilled across the dusty floor. The light was blocked momentarily as Jack moved through the doorway into the room.

I edged across the floor cautiously, straining to catch the slightest sound that might give the vampire away. There was nothing. I stepped a little further into the room. I saw Jack mirror me, his body a dark shape against the outside light.

Then a big, black something dropped from the ceiling right on top of Jack. The thing was man-shaped and I watched in horror as a pair of fangs flashed in the dim light before sinking into the side of Jack's neck.

Jack let out a roar and tried to shake the thing off, but the vamp clung like Super Glue. Jack might be big and strong, but when something is on your back, big and strong goes right out the window.

I darted across the floor, but before I could get to them, Jack had rammed himself back into the wall of the shop. I heard a couple of the vamp's vertebrae make a sickening pop, but that didn't seem to faze the thing. It still had its fangs buried in Jack's neck.

Dusting the thing would be easy. It was so focused on Jack, I'm pretty sure the vampire didn't even know I was there. Unfortunately, killing it was out of the question. At least for now.

I grabbed the back of the vamp's shirt and tried to heave it off Jack. All I succeeded in doing was ripping its shirt half off. Great. Now what?

I had some great abilities like channeling the power of Fire and Air, but either one of those would be more likely to toast the thing than get it to answer questions. Plus, with Jack so close, there was no way to avoid collateral damage.

So, I did the only thing left. I pulled my UV gun out and shot the thing in the leg. The vamp reared back, ripping its teeth out of Jack's throat as it howled in agony.

Now, a UV gun is totally harmless to humans. Well, except maybe that whole skin cancer thing. But a concentrated blast of UV light to the heart with dust a vamp. Heck, a long enough blast anywhere on the torso will put it out of its misery pretty darn quick. An extremity shot, on the other hand, will mostly just hurt it. Badly.

Unfortunately, the vampire didn't let go of Jack. Instead it lunged for his throat again, no doubt hoping for the healing power of the blood.

So, I shot it in the other leg.

The vamp dropped to the floor like a sack of potatoes, screaming and cussing and carrying on. It squirmed a bit, but with both its legs useless, it wasn't going anywhere. Jack wheeled around, ripping his sword out of its sheath with one hand while he clamped the other to his still bleeding neck.

"You okay?" It was hard to tell in the dark how bad the wound was.

"I'll be fine."

No doubt he would be. Like me, he was immune to whatever virus thing it was that turned a person vampire. He was also pretty much immortal, so a little laceration of the jugular wouldn't bother him much.

The vampire was still screaming and cussing, using words even I'd never heard before. And believe me, I can cuss like a sailor when I put my mind to it.

"Will you shut up already? You're not going to die. They're just a couple of burns."

"You _shot_ me," the vamp hissed.

"Uh, yeah. You were trying to turn my friend here into breakfast. Now stop your whining. I've got some questions for you."

"Screw you," the vamp snarled, its eyes glowing a little in the darkness (I still couldn't make out if it was male or female and its voice was totally androgynous). "I'm not telling you anything."

I glanced over at Jack who shrugged. I turned back to the vamp with a little smile. "Well, that's unfortunate." And I shot him in the left knee.

The vamp howled like a banshee. "You bitch!"

"Yes, sometimes that's true." I smiled at the squirming creature. "Now answer my questions or I keep shooting until you do."

"Fine, fine. What do you want to know?"

"You know a Leprechaun named O'Leery?"

"That cheating scum-sucker?" the vampire shrieked. "Did he put you up to this? I'm going to rip that bastard's head off and suck out his brains. I'm going to ..."

"Yeah, I get it," I interrupted before the vamp could really get going. He obviously knew O'Leery. "He claims you stole his pot of gold."

That shut the vamp up. "What the f- ... what would I want his damn gold for?"

"So, you didn't take it, then?"

"Hell, no. If I was going to take anything it would be his cold, black heart. I'd rip it right out of his chest and I'd ... "

I pulled the trigger and sent a pure ray of UV light straight through the vampire's own shriveled, black heart. From one blink to the next he turned to a pile of dust.

"Was that really necessary?"

I turned to Jack. His neck had stopped bleeding and looked like it was already healing up. Still, he was quite a mess.

"Yeah. Pretty much. You know as well as I do that the minute we left he'd be off ripping out someone else's throat. And since you're pretty much the only person I know who can survive that ... " I let my sentence trail off. Vampires lived for one thing only: To kill and eat. The bloodlust left little room for anything else. They were not sexy. They were not good boyfriend material. They were killing machines.

Jack sighed. "I just sometimes worry it's getting a little too easy for you."

I blinked. I had no real answer for that. Because sometimes I worried about that, too. But I had a mystery to solve, so I shoved that thought aside for the moment.

"None of the three people who O'Leery thought might have his gold even cared about it, let alone took it. What now?"

"I think now you need to have another conversation with your client," Jack said.

He wasn't wrong about that.

***

"Are you calling me a liar?" The Leprechaun's face was nearly purple with outrage.

"No, Mr. O'Leery," Kabita tried to placate him. "We are simply saying that none of the leads you gave us have panned out. None of these people took your gold, so someone else must have. We just have to look somewhere else."

That seemed to mollify him slightly. He went from purple to an ordinary red. With a slight huff he straightened his waistcoat before sinking into the chair across from Kabita's desk. "Very well, then, what do you need to know?"

"Well, Mr. O'Leery," I said. "It would be helpful if I could see where your gold was stored. Maybe it will give me a sense of who might have taken it."

His eyes narrowed. "A Leprechaun never gives away his hiding place."

"Please, Mr. O'Leery. This is important." Gods, could this client be any more difficult?

O'Leery mulled it over. Then finally gave a little huff. "Very well. Do you have a computer I can use?"

Kabita and I exchanged looks of bafflement. "Computer?" I asked.

He rolled his eyes. "Naturally. If you want to see where I stored my gold."

Without a word, Kabita slowly turned her laptop around toward O'Leery. He scooped it off the desk and onto his lap. He tapped away at the keyboard before turning the laptop back around. The screen showed what looked to be some kind of computer game.

"There. I stored my gold in there."

"In a computer game?" Kabita asked.

O'Leery scowled. "Virtual world."

"You mean it's not a _real_ pot of gold?" I finally managed to speak past the sheer shock.

"Well, of course not. This is the 21st century. Do you have your money sitting in piles in your closet? No. You have it stored in a bank. It's all 1s and 0s. We Leprechauns do the same thing. Only instead of banks, we have a virtual Tir Na Nog."

I stared at the computer screen where a little fairy-like creature flitted around a green meadow while a faun played a pan flute. Then I turned and stared at Kabita. She looked about as shell-shocked as I felt. I'd been running around the city looking for a damn pot of gold that never actually excited. Fabulous.

After I finally got my voice back and my brain returned to some kind of working ordered, I turned to our client. "Mr. O'Leery, I think we're going to have to call in an expert."

How I managed not to strangle the leprechaun, excuse me, Leprechaun, is a miracle of the modern age.

***

A few hours later Kabita and I were standing in a dingy studio apartment out near the airport. "I can't believe all this trouble was caused by this one little ... " I struggled for the right word as I stared down at the inert form of our "perpetrator."

"Geek?" Kabita suggested.

Yeah. The word definitely fit. Or maybe ... "Nerd?"

Kabita nodded. "Could go either way. Though the sci-fi stuff says "geek" to me."

"Hey! I like sci-fi."

She gave me a look that clearly said "geek." I guess if the shoe fits.

We both stared down at the kid slumped over the keyboard, snoring lightly. He was slightly pudgy and wore a stained Star Wars t-shirt. His glasses had been knocked slightly askew when Kabita put the magical whammy on him. "Is he going to be okay?"

"He'll be fine. I just knocked him unconscious for a bit."

So, this was the cause of all our trouble. A technogeek game boy hacker who'd stolen a Leprechaun's pot of gold. Completely by accident.

Once we figured out the pot of gold was virtual, not literal, we'd had Inigo trace the hack back to this guy: Eugene Filps. With a name like Eugene, it was no wonder he'd turned hacker. Fortunately for us, he wasn't a very good hacker.

Apparently good old Eugene had accidently stumbled on the Leprechaun's virtual world and when he hacked in, he mistook it for a new computer game. When he tried to download a copy of the game for himself, he'd somehow managed to steal O'Leery's virtual pot of gold instead.

Don't ask me how he did it, I have no idea. But Eugene Filps had to be quite possibly the worst hacker ever. Once Inigo traced him, Kabita and I had paid Eugene a little visit. And once Eugene was unconscious, Inigo had hacked the hacker and gotten the gold back.

"What do we do with him?" I glanced down and the gently snoring Eugene. "We can't just leave him like this. And what if he tries it again?"

"Oh, I've got that covered." Kabita smiled and mumbled a few words in what sounded like Spanish before sprinkling some powder over Eugene's head. "There, he won't remember a thing when he wakes up, and since Inigo has wiped his system, he'll spend all his time trying to get World of Warcraft back."

That made me laugh. "Good, let's get out of here. This place smells like stale pizza."

Back at the office, O'Leery was effusive in his thanks. "I can grant you three wishes, if you like." He beamed at me, as though eagerly awaiting my wish for world peace or a tub of Ben & Jerry's.

Three wishes from a Leprechaun. What could possibly go wrong with that? "Uh, thanks, but no thanks."

He shrugged. "Very well. Miss Jones?" He turned toward Kabita. "Three wishes for you? As payment for finding my gold?"

"Oh, Mr. O'Leery," Kabita said with that sugary sweet expression I knew far too well. "That is so kind of you. But I only take payment in cold, hard cash."

Once O'Leery had paid his bill and was firmly out of earshot I turned to Kabita. "Let's make a deal. No more Leprechauns."

She laughed. "Sounds good to me. Listen, Kell's has a live band tonight. Clear over from Ireland. Buy you a Guinness."

I grinned. "Deal."

* * *

Shéa MacLeod has never met a real leprechaun. She's never hunted a vampire. She's never consorted with the fae. She is, however, quite convinced dragons exist. And sometimes, just sometimes, she sparkles.

Find more information on Shéa and her books at www.sheamacleod.wordpress.com, or follow her on Facebook and Twitter

A man without a past.

A woman without a future.

A world destroyed by monsters.

All that's left is hope.

In Rain Mauri's post-apocalyptic world there are no shades of gray to survival. Until she meets a Dragon Warrior and discovers nothing is as simple as it seems.

Together, Rain and the Dragon Warrior must uncover the truth behind the nightmare their world has become. Their quest will put them in the crosshairs of a ruthless enemy, but with her determination and his skill, they might just save their race from destruction. If they can save each other first.

Available at:

Smashwords

Other books by Shéa:

Sunwalker Saga:

Kissed by Darkness

Kissed by Fire

Kissed by Smoke

Dragon Wars:

Dragon Warrior

Dragon Lord (coming in March 2012)

# The Luck of the Irish Brigade

M. Edward McNally

Fredericksburg, Virginia

December, 1862

He shouted "Aye!" when the sergeant called for "Corcoran, Francis," though outside of roll call no one in the regiment called Corcoran by his given name. He had become "Corky," predictably, though that had changed when it turned out there was a James Corcoran over in Company D. So he had become "Corky II," which over the months had become "Corky, too," and finally, "Corky, also." Now, even his mess mates tended to call him "Also."

The regiment had been called to a halt, but not to attention, by the side of the road. There was a great deal of shifting around, switching muskets from shoulder to shoulder, and stamping feet. Thus Corcoran's motion did not draw as much attention as it otherwise would have. Only the men immediately around him turned to look as he hopped from one foot to the other, wooden canteen and iron cookware knocking together where they hung on his bulging pack.

"Is this the best possible moment for a step dance, Also?" Eamon MacDunnagh from Tipperary asked on Corcoran's left, having hooked his own musket against his side with his elbow while rubbing his hands together for warmth.

"Tis nay all tha' cold," Jimmy Bodkin added from behind Corcoran in his almost impenetrable Sligo brogue, and despite the fat flakes of snow drifting through the air.

"It's not that," Corcoran said. Right foot, left foot. "How shall I put this delicately? I need to crap like a Kildare race horse."

Snorts from all around, white breath leaving noses. Someone a row back suggested Corcoran quit moving before he shook it loose in his drawers.

Corcoran looked all around. They were just on the southern outskirts of the Virginia town of Fredericksburg, having camped at a steamboat landing on the Rappahannock the night before. With dawn the whole of the First Division had been roused and called to order on the road, though progress thereafter had been slow. Perhaps fifty yards of marching at a time, between frequent halts. Half of II Corps was still in front of them, trying to pass through the town while the Rebs shelled it from hills to the east. The booms and crashes shook the cold air, but after Malvern Hill down on the Peninsula last summer, and Antietam back in September, it took more than the sound of brass Napoleons to startle the old hands of the 2nd Brigade.

A shallow culvert running back to some trees by the riverside looked promising. Corcoran glanced hopefully to the man on his right.

"Doyle, be a love and hold my Springfield, won't you?"

The bearded man frowned. "It's Boyle, and hold it yourself. A good rifleman can shoot while he shits."

"Give thanks he only asked you to hold the musket ," someone chirruped from the row ahead, to general merriment.

The sergeant calling roll had reached the "M"s, and as he began with the first "Mick..." he paused so that all twelve-hundred men of the Irish Brigade could shout "Aye!"

"Go on, Also," MacDunnagh said as the chortling subsided. "It'll be half an hour to get through the damned McMacs. Was that me?"

"That was MacAhern." MacDonald said a row over.

"Oh, Christ, I'm going for it," Corcoran decided, sliding into the culvert on his worn heels. Someone called after him, and was answered by someone else.

"Jaysus, Also! Would you please not take the Lord's name in vain as we are about to enter battle?"

"And just who does yourself think Jaysus is? The Mexican drummer boy for the San Patrico brigade?"

There was laughing behind Corcoran as he waddled/ran in a crouch along the culvert and slipped into what proved a dense copse of trees, startling a rabbit the marching men had scared into a briar. The hare ran off back toward the road, and Corcoran could hear his fellows shouting "Sneak attack!" and shouting for the cavalry.

It took seventeen separate motions to reload a fired musket, and as Corcoran had mastered that process, it was not so difficult to manage gun, pack, coat, suspenders, trousers, and drawers, and do what needed to be done behind a tree. He reassembled himself and turned to go, just as the roll call sergeant up on the road concluded the Mc's with "McWilliams, William." Corcoran grinned as the "Aye!" was barely audible over hooting cries of "Wee Willie McWillie! Here, Willie-Willie!"

It was then that he saw the boots.

Corcoran missed a step and fumbled with his musket strap, as a pair of government-issue brogans were sticking out from behind a nearby tree, apparently still on the feet of a prone man. Corcoran stopped before raising the rifle for there was no movement at all from the downed fellow. He considered exactly what he should do. If some other poor soldier had just lost his nerve and ducked into the trees, Corcoran was inclined to leave the fellow be, for surely living with himself would be punishment enough. Unless of course your man was from the Irish Brigade, or even Corcoran's own regiment, the 63rd New York. Then it wouldn't be right to leave the fellow here, with the rest of the boys marching toward the Rebel guns.

With his musket before him but not raised too threateningly, Corcoran stepped over to the tree to peek around it, and dropped his jaw.

The boots were Federal-issue, no question, but the rest of the man's uniform was not Union Blue. It was the mismatched beige-and-butternut of the Confederate South. That was surprising enough, but what plain took Corcoran's breath away was that he knew the slack features and red hair of the immobile man, eyes closed and mouth slightly open.

"Spanish?" Corcoran stammered.

One blue eye opened, and when Lochlan Spanish saw a Union solider with a musket in his hands, he raised both his own and barked "I surrender, I do!" with an accent identical to Corcoran's own, as they had both been born in Kinsale, County Cork.

*

After the dispersal of the Spanish Armada in 1588, King Philip had tried a different tactic against the English. He landed troops in southern Ireland, where in 1601 they were besieged in Kinsale for months by English forces. The Spanish were eventually allowed to return home after surrendering, but one of the things they left behind was a large number of births in the ensuing months. Thus the surname "Spanish" had been not so very uncommon in Kinsale for the last two-hundred-fifty years, until now it was as Irish as the Mac's, Mc's, and O's.

*

Lochlan Spanish was a few years older than Corcoran and he had emigrated a few years before, in the middle '50's. He pushed himself up to his elbows and stared wide-eyed, bright red muttonchops framing what was a dark face by Celtic standards.

"Tommy Corcoran?" he asked in wonder.

"My older brother," Corcoran said, lowering his musket barrel to the ground as it suddenly felt silly.

"Francis?" Spanish asked, and Corcoran nodded.

"The very same. Be Jaysus, Lochlan, I thought your people were in Boston. Whatever are you doing in Confederate togs?"

Lochlan smirked as he sat up and crossed his arms over his knees. "We are, in main. Liam's in the 20th Mass. But I went South back in '58. To Savannah. It's Cobb's 24th Georgia, for me."

"Why on Earth did you enlist Reb?"

"Force of habit from the Old Country. That, and eleven dollars a month," Spanish frowned. "Of course, t'was before I knew you Union boys were getting thirteen."

Spanish held out a dirty hand, and Corcoran pulled the man to his feet. Both stood shaking their heads at each other in wonder.

"And whatever are you doing here?" Corcoran asked. " _Here_ I mean, out of your own lines?"

Spanish sighed and rolled his eyes. "My outfit was camped hereabouts until a week ago, before you blue boys started marching in. I...left something just here, and wanted it back. There was enough racket this morning to slip over."

Corcoran glanced around. Immediately beneath the tree Spanish had been lying behind was a shallow hole scooped out in the ground between the roots. The man was unarmed that Corcoran could see, and carried no supply apart from a dirty haversack tied at his belt. He held the sack up by the only object within, which Corcoran knew by its shape.

"Lord, Spanish. You crossed enemy lines for a bottle?"

"Oh, but not just any bottle, me lad. A tiny taste of home I've been carrying for eight years."

Corcoran removed the tall bottle of thick, dark glass and Corcoran knew it instantly by the handmade label.

"It can't be," he said, but there stoppered up tight was a bottle of Doctor Kavanagh's Kinsale Whiskey, which Corcoran knew to be the product of a tiny distillery in a farm cottage alongside the road to Cork city.

"Oh, but it is," Spanish grinned, revealing a mouth of teeth in rather rough condition. He cast one glance over to the road, where the roll call sergeant was now scarcely audible, and still on the "O's." Far beyond that on the other side of town there was the crackle of musketry, sounding like thick paper tearing. But it was a goodly ways off, and felt distant.

"I suppose you'll be taking me prisoner, then?" Spanish asked.

"Well, I should," Corcoran said. "For your own good, as much as anything. The next Union fellow to look into these trees might be English."

Spanish nodded soberly. "And they bayonet wild dogs and Irishmen. What say you then, Saint Francis? A last, quick nip for the road?"

Corcoran sighed, looking at the bottle as Spanish waggled it back and forth. He had a strong memory of so many nights out on the town with his brothers, or around their father's table after Mother and the girls had gone to bed.

"Just a wee one couldn't hurt, I reckon."

After the fifth or sixth wee one, Lochlan Spanish, still grinning, cracked Francis Corcoran over the head with the empty bottle.

*

It was well afternoon when Corcoran came around, face-down behind the tree with his musket and pack still nearby, but his blue coat was gone. As was Lochlan Spanish. The empty bottle remained, and Corcoran jammed it into his pack while he swore foully under his breath. His head ached from both the knot on his head, and too much of what was proudly called "The Worst Whiskey in Ireland."

He stumbled shivering back through the culvert to the road, though of course the Brigade was gone and had been so for hours. Corcoran was mortified, though he hoped he had not missed much. The Army of the Potomac had a new commander now, Burnside having replaced McClellan just last month after Antietam, and none of the men in the ranks expected the new boss would be eager to bring on a large fight.

Corcoran trotted toward town until stopping in surprise, for to the side of the road just short of the first houses were what looked to be a few companies, in bivouac under the flag of the 28th Massachusetts. The 28th was the only regiment of the brigade who actually had their colors with them, as the others had been sent back to New York or Pennsylvania for repair before this southern march started. Corcoran left the road and headed for the men, praying they weren't the only regiment still waiting to go in.

He slowed as he drew near, for the fellows sitting about near the flag, which Corcoran now saw was tattered, were in a bad way themselves. Dirty, not shivering despite the cold sweat caked on them, faces black around their mouths from biting open cartridges. Their eyes were distant, almost empty, and only a few even watched him approach. Corcoran was surprised to recognize one fellow, who was not from the 28th.

"Wille?" he asked William McWilliams of the 63rd New York, by way of Dublin. The young man stared back at him with an emptiness as long as a cathedral aisle in his dark eyes.

"What happened?" Corcoran asked. "Where is the regiment? Where is the rest of the Brigade?"

More men looked over, some from Massachusetts, New York, and Pennsylvania, though so many had been born on the same small island, so very far away. They were all Americans this afternoon. There were perhaps two-hundred and fifty of the twelve hundred who had answered the roll five hours before.

"We are they," McWilliams said slowly, the young man speaking like an oldster. "This is the Irish Brigade."

*

After repeated charges against the stone wall and sunken road at the First Battle of Fredericksburg, December 13, 1862, the five regiments of the Irish Brigade were reduced from a fighting force of over 1200 men, to 256. The section of wall immediately attacked by the brigade was defensed in large part by the 24th Georgia, a predominantly Irish regiment.

* * *

M. Edward McNally is the last descendent of the High Kings of Ancient Eire, and can kill ten pasty Englishmen with a stern glare.

Find him at his blog <http://sablecity.wordpress.com/> or follow him on Facebook and Twitter

Muskets, Magic, and Matilda Lanai.

Tilda Lanai has trained for years to take her place among the Guilders of the Miilark Islands, but now the Trade House she is to serve is imperiled by the absence of a legitimate Deskata heir. Scenting blood in the water, rival Houses begin to circle. The desperate search for an exiled heir takes Tilda across a war-torn continent and to the gates of the Sable City, where centuries ago dark magic almost destroyed the world. Along with a sinister sorceress, a broken-hearted samurai, and a miscreant mercenary long on charm but lousy with a crossbow, Tilda must brave the demon-infested ruins. Only then can she find John Deskata, who may not want to be found at all.

Available at:

Smashwords

Other books by Ed:

Death of a Kingdom (Book II of the Norothian Cycle)

The Wind from Miilark (Book III of the Norothian Cycle)

Eddie's Shorts — Volume 1, 2, 3, and 4

# Song of the Banshee

Heather Marie Adkins

Belinda stared into the bottom of her glass, admiring the way the melting ice distorted the whiskey. It looked like oil suspended _in_ water rather than on _top_ , which of course was a conundrum because oil couldn't do that. The effect was rather beautiful, though. And if she swiveled the glass to the left, the swirls almost looked like a cat. Or a tanker.

"You shee thish?" She leaned over, shoving her rocks glass in front of the dour man beside her. "D'you no' think it'sh an oracle?"

The man pulled away from her, wrinkling his nose. He was _large_ —his long, khaki coat couldn't hide the bulge of his midsection. His chin was nearly nonexistent and his eyes were framed by thick, rolling fat. He sneered at Belinda. "Excuse me?"

Belinda sighed. "An _oracle_. Like the half-naked'un in that shexy movie. What'sh it called? 800?"

The man rolled his eyes and motioned for the bartender with his sausage fingers. "Check, please."

"You're leaving, then? Why?" Belinda hiccupped, and then gripped the bar tightly with both hands as she swayed. Wooden walls and wooden floors swiveling, booths sliding and people turning into squiggly lines. The room was doing the cha-cha around her. Belinda had _not_ given it permission to do that.

"Because I'm not pissed enough to deal with the likes of you," the man said. With that, he dropped a twenty on the bar and waddled out on his three-hundred dollar loafers. He hadn't bothered waiting for his check.

"Are you quite sure you left enough?" Belinda called after him indignantly. "If not, you're shtealing!"

The only answer was the howl of the wind before the door slammed behind him.

She was left to stare mournfully into her whiskey once more.

*

It was cold outside when Belinda left the bar—not abnormal for Dublin in January, sure. It was also an hour past _last call_ , and she'd spent the past thirty minutes arguing with the bartender on the perils of closing too early.

McCarty's was just one more pub in a city of pubs; Belinda wasn't even sure why she picked it. Mediocrity, maybe. The need to blend in. In a city the size of Dublin, even a woman as beautiful as Belinda stood out. It was always the less fancy of the pubs that ended up having the strongest drinks and the cheapest prices, anyway. She should know—she'd frequented them all.

Belinda stumbled over her thick, black boots and fell into the front of a hat shop, her head making a dull _thunk_ as it connected with the glass. She didn't break the glass—this time—but the hit gave her a slightly concussed feeling, made woozier by the fact she could blow up the Guinness factory if someone lit her alcohol-riddled body on fire.

She pressed her palms to the frosty glass and watched her breath dissipate on the night air as she waited for the spinning to stop.

_Sure, but I should have worn something more substantial than jeans and a T-shirt_ , she told herself, turning so that her cheek rested against the glass. Closing her eyes, she took a few deep breaths, letting the chill infuse her with the strength to move again.

She lifted her face from the cool surface and stared groggily at her reflection. Her long, dark-red hair hung in shiny waves all the way to her lower back, and her pale skin shone in the moonlight. She had a heart-shaped face with a smattering of freckles across high cheekbones, and wide emerald eyes that were always a bit bloodshot. Even Belinda knew that she looked otherworldly, despite the red nose and cheeks that could be attributed to either freezing temperatures _or_ drink.

_Walk_ , she told herself wearily. _Home_. She shoved away from the shop front—thankful it was closed at the late hour and no one had been inside to see her miscommunication with the pavement—and aimed for the direction she thought _might_ lead to home. She passed through the rest of the quarter of the city known as "Temple Bar", where college students milled around in the night air outside the mainstream bars, finishing off the last of their drinks and smoking cigarettes. Belinda ignored them; she wasn't a people person. Hell, she wasn't a _person_ to begin with, but she tried not to think about that.

Trinity's campus was quiet and dark when she passed. Saturday nights were downtime for the students—they were all at the pubs, drinking away their Da's money, while Belinda stumbled past the wrought-iron fence that separated the riff-raff from the smarties. Belinda hadn't bothered with college, though sometimes she wished she'd had that experience. If only for the booze involved.

_But_. Her future was decided for her.

She continued on Grafton Street and passed into darker city blocks, aiming for Stephen's Green and her apartment. It was nice living in such an affluent area, even if the homeless had more money than she did. She warily skirted the Molly Malone statue—creepy in the daytime, even creepier at night. Belinda hated the way its eyes followed her in the dark, illuminated from the side by the lights over the Korean grocery. It made good ole Floozy Molly's face appear animated, sinister.

Belinda hurried down the sidewalk, her combat boots clunky on the concrete. She shoved her hands in her pockets and turned her head down against the biting wind—though nothing could be done for her bare arms—following the curve of Grafton as it opened onto the Green.

She waited for a lone car to travel past before she crossed the street and took to the pavement that bordered the park. A dog barked in the distance: _Someone walking their pooch at this hour of the night?_ Belinda shook her head. Two a.m. was meant for drunks and hobos.

Belinda cut down the path, beneath the stone Fusilier's Arch that commemorated Dublin soldiers from the Second Boer War, and through the center of the park. Her apartment was on the opposite corner from Grafton Street, and it made more sense for her to save time by cutting through, even though the park was eerie at night.

She felt the familiar tingle as she was passing the fountain of the Fates, near the exit that would lead her home. It began at the bottom of her spine and tickled its way upwards until it nestled firmly at the base of her skull.

"Oh, no," she muttered, stumbling against the fountain's edge. She dropped heavily to the small, stone ledge that surrounded the empty pool, her vision swimming with black dots. The Fates gazed at her serenely. _Ironic bitches._

It always felt like a hand, gripping that lizard sense that lived inside her as it twisted her to its will. Belinda's fingers went even colder as her blood thickened. She stared down at her palms; they flickered with a pale, creamy light, like a dying lamp trying to hold on to life. The sensation inside her mind was worse with the high content of alcohol drifting through her soggy veins.

The change took her swiftly, and she faded to black.

*

When Belinda opened her eyes, she stood on a dusty dirt road with nothing but grassy plain to her left and a small, meandering river to her right. She couldn't see the ocean, but she could smell it. The wind was stronger here, and warmer. It whipped around her body, tangling her long, white dress around her legs.

Across the river, a small thatched cottage glowed warm and bright in the night. A steady wisp of smoke trailed from the chimney, dancing in the sea breeze and into the stars.

_I'd no idea those still existed_ , she thought, eyeing the expertly done thatched roof. It was expensive; a dying art. A hundred years ago, they were a dime a dozen. In the present day, most of them were owned by the government's preservation society. The fact that she could pull those inane facts from her store of infinitely useless knowledge meant she was stone-cold sober.

Grief flooded Belinda. She hated being sober.

She also hated the way the change put her in an ankle-length dress that was as pale as her skin—both of which shone like a beacon in the dark. If anyone were to look out the window of the cottage, Belinda would be a freaking 747 coming in to land.

The information began to pour in. _County Clare. Patrick O'Brien. 92. Pneumonia._ There were five family members present in the bedroom with the dying, and he was safely ensconced in the dream world that came before death.

Belinda took a deep breath and walked down to the riverbank. She braced herself—always worried she'd fall through even though it was unlikely—and stepped _onto_ the water.

Halfway across the river, Belinda wrapped her arms around herself and began to wail.

From conversations with other girls in passing, Belinda had learned that the keen was like a banshee's fingerprint—unique to each woman. Some of the older women Belinda had met said their wails were like fingernails on a chalkboard or guttural screeches that made dogs howl. Belinda, however, fell into the category of a beautiful, haunting melody. A song for the dying.

As such, it was never really long before the dying came for her. She felt Patrick reach for her almost immediately, and she held out her arms, beckoning to him. Underneath his determination to go, she felt the usual unwillingness to leave his family. It was common, though the only time Belinda felt the love of a family herself was while sharing it with her Souls. Patrick's family was particularly close.

Belinda flooded him with images of the Other Side, showing him with her mind something of what awaited him. The old man wrapped around the information, thoughtful, vestiges of his aura clinging to Belinda as she paused on top of the water. Her glow reflected from the river beneath her; she drew power from the liquid like a vampire to blood. She waited on her Soul to make his decision—it would be made, no matter what, it was only a matter of how long—and gently pulled strength from the water for the journey.

Just as she felt Patrick's final resolve to go with her, a rectangle of light fell across the grass in front of the cottage as the front door was thrown open. It hit the stone like a rifle crack, and a silhouette appeared. It was big, burly, and definitely _not_ the man she'd come for. Belinda paused in her keening, taken aback by the swiftness of the appearance.

And then he lunged.

Belinda had heard of it happening. Every so often, she would run into another of the girls who would have a lovely horror story of a family member gone mad. The stories had sent chills down Belinda's spine, and she'd hoped it would never happen to her.

_Are you daft?_ , Belinda would tell the girl. _The Irish fear us!_

_And hate us_ , would be the quick—and apt—response.

So, Belinda knew about it.

It had just never happened to her.

Until now.

The man seemed to fly the short distance from the bank to where Belinda stood on the river, his body horizontal in the air. Her wail was cut off as the young man's bulk fell squarely against her chest. The breath _whoosh_ ed from Belinda as they landed in a tangle of limbs in the shallows of the river, and she briefly disappeared underwater.

Belinda's senses were cut off and she inhaled a mouthful of water before strong hands gripped the front of her dress, yanking her out. She sputtered, wet hair plastered to her face and eyes, and yelled, "What the hell is the matter with you?"

"You canna have him!" a deep voice answered. His brogue was thick, west Irish, and it boomed over the water like thunder. He shook her as he spoke, either to emphasize his point or rattle her brains, Belinda wasn't sure.

She was finally able to snake a hand up through his arms and swipe at her wet hair. His face was shadowed from the moon behind him, but the information came anyway. _Patrick O'Brien's grandson. Kellan O'Brien. Twenty-nine. Farmer._

_A farmer? Are those still about? Damn, I'm out of touch._ Belinda would have given anything for a shot of Jameson's. As it was, she barely managed to get her feet underneath her.

"I've no _choice_ in the matter, ye idgit!" Belinda struggled against his grasp, nearly landing on her butt back in the water when he promptly let go. She righted herself, stumbled once, and poked him in the chest with a finger. "I take them when I'm called _by_ their impending demise. I've naught to do with the death itself."

Kellan threw his hands in the air and turned his back on her. "I care not, _bean sidhe_. You still can't have him. Get off my family's property," he said as he sloshed through the water towards the shore.

"You tackled me, you hulking oaf!" Belinda said incredulously. She stepped forward—the water was up to her knees. Her dress was soaked. "I can't believe you tackled me!"

He didn't bother looking at her as he answered. "You deserve it, and more. Keep the hell away from my gran'da."

Belinda splashed out behind him, slipping a couple times in her flats on the muddy bottom before she broke free of the water and stomped across the grass. "Hey! You can't just attack me and leave!"

"Watch me."

Belinda rushed across the yard to catch up with him, tripping over her dress as the soaked material tangled her legs. She grabbed his arm and tugged. "Kellan."

He whirled, his face like stone.

Belinda held back a gasp as she got a better look at him in the light from the cottage. He was beautiful: Enormous blue eyes under shaggy black hair, and skin darkened by work in the sun. His shoulders were broad, the arms under his Henley shirt were thick. Belinda's heart did a little dance, but she squelched it immediately. _No time for that, now._

Men were off-limits unless she was guiding them to death. And _that_ would certainly ruin a relationship.

"Kellan," Belinda said softly, letting go of his arm. "Your gran'da...he's slowly drowning in the fluid in his lungs. His body is already shutting down. This is his time to go."

Tears welled in the man's eyes, ripping straight through her. He turned away, his jaw clenched.

After a moment, Kellan muttered, "How do you know my name?"

"I know all there is to know about your grandfather. It's my job."

He massaged his brow, eyes closed and face pained. "I'm not ready."

Belinda sighed. She was a _bean sidhe_ —not a therapist. _What can I even say to this guy?_

"Please," he whispered, and he turned his big, sapphire eyes back to hers. Belinda didn't know whether to kiss him or hug him or run screaming in the other direction.

But, she had a job to do, and no control over whether Patrick O'Brien lived or died. Like Belinda's own fate, Patrick's had been decided for him.

"Kellan, if I don't take your grandfather, he won't make it to the Other Side." Blunt was always good. Especially sober bluntness; it was infinitely better than drunken bluntness, as she'd proved to herself time and again.

Kellan's brow furrowed. "Heaven?"

"The _Other Side_ ," Belinda repeated. "Name it as ye may, it is where he needs to go. And if I do not escort him, sure he'll be stuck on this plane of existence. The wrong plane. Dead, but still here. A ghost. _Woo woo_."

Real smooth, B.

She watched the emotions play across Kellan's face. Horror, despair...acceptance. His sigh held the world. "Alright."

_That was too easy_. But, she'd take it. Belinda half-turned to make the wet slog back to the river, when his voice stopped her.

"But—you have to come in and meet my family first."

*

_This is_ insane, Belinda told herself, staring wide-eyed around the room.

She stood in front of four disapproving faces—and a devilishly handsome _smirking_ one. Kellan's arms were folded across his chest and his shaggy hair barely hid the twinkle in his eye. He was propped against the door frame, blocking her only escape—unless she wanted to shove her lanky body through a porthole window.

The cottage was tiny—a single room that held all the family's needs. From the information she'd gathered from Patrick's mind, only he and his wife lived there at the current time, though it was where they had raised their children. One corner held a small kitchenette with a wood-burning stove and a tiny icebox, as well as a sink that had an old-fashioned pump. Another corner held the big four-poster bed where Patrick lay in repose, the rattle in his chest pronounced in the silence. A small sitting area and a tiny, scarred wooden table was all the couple had in the world.

Kellan's smirk irritated her. Belinda had never been up close and personal with the families of the deceased before. There was enough _awkward_ in the room for a pre-teen girl to subsist on.

_I'm going to take Grandpa Patrick over, and I'm coming back for Kellan_ , Belinda swore, narrowing her eyes at him. She could imagine all sorts of lovely things she could do to him. They weren't all bad, unfortunately. Some of them were quite good.

Focus, Belinda.

"She's a... _bean sidhe_ , you say?" Grandma O'Brien spoke at decibels louder than Belinda's wail—presumably because the woman was half-deaf in her old age. She was a thin, stooped lady with the same blue eyes as her grandson. She sat at the kitchen table, holding the hand of a pale, dark-haired woman who couldn't have denied that Kellan was her child anymore than Belinda could deny she had a thing for Irish whiskey.

"Yes, Nana, she is _bean sidhe_ ," Kellan replied. If it was possible, his smirk got bigger.

Belinda glared.

Nearby, a teen with a sullen face lounged against the white-washed stone wall: _Margaret O'Brien. 16. Student. Snotty. Kellan's younger sister._ A man with ebony hair lurked near the window, the moonlight shining on a visage that had seen a lot of rough in his life. _Timothy O'Brien. 37. Railway driver. Kellan's uncle._

Belinda searched for any information on Kellan's father and found none. Suddenly, Kellan's bond with his grandfather was explained.

"Well, now, I guess it's Papa's time to go, isn't it, Mary?" Nana looked at her daughter and smiled sadly. "We can't fight the _bean sidhe_."

"Your Nana's a smart woman," Belinda said under her breath to Kellan. He rolled his eyes, the effect somewhat diminished by the sadness that touched them. She felt again that weird combination of _need to protect_ and _need to kick ass_.

Mary stood. Her own pretty eyes were red-rimmed; the skin beneath looked raw. She crossed the kitchen floor in her bare feet and took Belinda's hands. "Love, will you take care of him on the journey?"

"Yes, ma'am. I promise. I'll stay with Patrick from beginning to end," Belinda told the woman, squeezing her hands. Mary's skin was soft and hot; at her touch, Belinda could feel the bottomless depths of her despair. She loved her father very much.

Mary gave Belinda a cautious smile, and then turned to her mother. "Alright, Mama. Go tell him."

Nana O'Brien heaved herself from the seat—helped by a quick hand from her son—and then hobbled from the room, leaning heavily on her cane.

"She's going to tell him it's fine to leave us," Mary clarified.

"I see." Belinda nodded slowly. "I think he needs to hear that."

"So, what do _you_ need to do, love?" Mary asked.

"I should go," Belinda answered, gently pulling from the woman's grasp. She needed to return to the water, but there was something about the O'Brien clan that spoke to Belinda. Usually, she abhorred human contact unless it was the brush of a bartender's hand as he passed her a glass. _But, this..._

The affection was so real.

In that moment, Belinda could feel Patrick letting go, his wife's hand in his own.

Mary patted Belinda's face. "Thank you, love."

Without another word, Belinda trudged back outside, her flats like mush beneath her feet.

*

"I'm sorry."

Belinda turned as she reached the water's edge. Kellan stood outside the cottage on the front path, staring at her. The warm light of the house illuminated his silhouette; Belinda shivered. Outside, looking in. Always.

"It's all right. I am sure, had I a family of my own, I'd feel much the same." Kellan moved forward, leaving the light. The moonlight shone on his face as he came closer, making his eyes like diamonds. "If?"

Belinda shrugged. She lifted the hem of her gauzy dress and wrung it out. "I am _bean sidhe_. Family does no' come standard."

"But...you had to come from somewhere?"

"I was _made_." Belinda's voice was so quiet in the night. "Banshees aren't born. We are created by the gods. We live at their will. So, too, do we die."

"That sounds terribly lonely."

Belinda shrugged again. She ran out of human interaction skills the minute she set foot in the cottage.

"And what of friends?" Kellan went on, closing the distance between them. He lifted a hand, caressing her cheek. His skin was rough, but warm. She felt it all the way to her toes.

"No." She shook her head and stepped back, her body aching for him to touch her once more. "Patrick is ready, Kellan. We have to go."

The old man's spirit, drawn to Belinda, was floating across the lawn. Belinda crossed the grass and stepped onto the water, waiting patiently for him to reach her.

He had Kellan's eyes.

Kellan couldn't see his grandfather, she knew. Not many humans were able to see departed souls. As the old man drew near, Belinda held out a hand for him, and he took it. Kellan's eyes widened.

"Bye, Papa," he said to the air near her hand.

The old man turned to his grandson and broke into a big smile, his eyes lost in the lines formed by years and years of happiness. "Goodbye, Kellan. Make me proud."

Belinda relayed the message, and her heart flipped as tears trickled down Kellan's face. She lifted her other hand in a goodbye wave, and let the light take her.

*

"He's a good lad," Patrick said. They had reached the gate, and the brilliant, white light that heralded the opening between the living world and the next fell across the old man's face like a veil.

"Who?" Belinda pretended ignorance. She didn't want to talk about it.

"My grandson. Kellan."

"Ah." Belinda gestured to the thin crevice in the fold of time. "Go through, Patrick. It's time."

"You know, he could use a good lass," Patrick went on, ignoring her. He eyed her as if he could see straight through to her soul.

"There's no room for men in a _bean sidhe_ 's life, Patrick O'Brien." Belinda patted him on the back. "Go on, now."

"Promise me something, Belinda the _bean sidhe_." The smirk on the old man's face was eerily similar to Kellan's.

Belinda was pretty sure she wasn't going to like what the old man had to say. "Yes, Patrick?"

"Take a trip, love. Kellan's farm is just outside Dingle town. On the ocean. You need a vacation, yeah?"

"Uh-huh. Goodbye, Patrick O'Brien." She ushered him towards the gate, but noted his knowing smile as the light took him.

That old man had something up his sleeve. She was in trouble.

*

"Belinda, it's an hour past time, love," the bartender said wearily. "Could we not have this argument again tonight?"

Belinda usually liked the toothless, hairless old man that ran the bar at _O'Callahan's_. But when he refused to serve her another drink, she had issues with that. Tonight, however, she really was just too drunk to bother.

"It'sh fine, Eoin. Fine. I'll go." Belinda dropped a ten on the bar as a tip for serving her for the past three hours, and then fell off the bar stool.

Spring had finally arrived in Dublin. Three a.m. or not, the city was alive with everyone out enjoying the weather. Belinda focused on the toes of her combat boots, trying to ignore passersby _and_ stay firmly on her feet. The two activities together seemed to be much harder than usual.

"Belinda?" the voice cut through her thoughts, and she looked up. An old friend—another Banshee by the name of Mallory—was walking towards Belinda, her arm tucked into the arm of a good-looking man with a blonde mustache. At her side, she held the small hand of a tiny, blonde girl.

"Mallory. Hi." Belinda gave her a half-hearted hug. Mallory looked great—her red curls still fell to her shoulders and her green eyes were bright and happy. Belinda gestured to Mallory's companions. "And who is this, then?"

Mallory smiled warmly at the man before saying, "This is my husband, Edward. And our daughter, Saoirse."

" _Saoirse_. Freedom," Belinda responded automatically. She'd always loved the Irish language, even though she couldn't speak it or read it if there were a fire beneath her. Her brows furrowed. "But...how?"

Mallory gave her daughter's hand to her husband, and put an arm around Belinda, pulling her to the side. "He knows what I am. I still...work. But, we've been married for five years. Happily. Can you believe it?"

"Has it really been five years since we last spoke?" Belinda shook her head. "Congratulations."

"Thanks." Mallory stared for a moment, her eyes searching Belinda's face. "You look unhappy, Belinda. Are you drunk?"

Belinda sighed. "When am I not, anymore?"

Edward interrupted them, placing a hand on his wife's arm. "Love? We need to get the wee one home."

"Yes, darling." Mallory turned back to Belinda. "You can be a _bean sidhe_ , _and_ be happy. Maybe you should think about that?" She wrapped Belinda in a bear hug and with a wave, disappeared down the sidewalk, hand-in-hand with her family.

*

The sun was high in the sky when Belinda pulled the car into a nearly hidden drive and bumped along a meandering incline. She rolled down the window so that the brisk, salty breeze brushed across her face.

The Dingle peninsula was one of those places that seemed like a world unto itself. It sat in the southwest corner of Ireland like a mini-paradise—vacation-land for the more northern Irish and a final Eden for those who lived there. The drive into Dingle town had been breathtaking—sweeping vistas of rolling mountains, intermittently broken by valleys that led straight to the beach and open ocean. Belinda was lucky she hadn't driven the car off the side of the mountain as she'd ogled the views.

It'd only taken three pubs—in which she hadn't had a single drink—before one of the bartenders could point her in the direction of Kellan O'Brien's farm.

And here I am.

She threw the car into park and sat back against the seat, staring at the modest white farmhouse. It was two stories tall with asymmetrical windows and a bright blue door. Belinda counted four outbuildings, five sheep, and fifteen cows.

What the hell am I doing?

She pushed open the door, hefted her duffel bag on her shoulder, and walked up the stepping stone pathway towards the house.

Her bag held everything she owned. She had no apartment to return to, nothing left behind to tie her to Dublin. It was a big chance, she knew.

_But even a_ bean sidhe _deserves happiness._

She knocked, her heart pounding like a drum.

When Kellan O'Brien opened the door, Belinda saw her future reflected in his sapphire eyes.

* * *

Heather Marie Adkins is a descendant of the Irish McCarty clan—they built Blarney Castle, and yes, she's kissed the stone.

Find more information on Heather and her books at www.heather.bishoffs.com, or follow her on Facebook and Twitter

Vale Avari has a mysterious past and a laundry list of super-powers, but that's nothing compared to what she finds upon moving from small town U.S.A to even smaller-town England.

A chance dart throw lands her in Quicksilver, an off-the-map place with a big problem — people are dying, and word is, it's supernatural.

At her new place of employment, a temple dedicated to the ancient Mother Goddess, Vale learns something even more shocking — women guards are disappearing at an alarmingly patterned rate; women who possess special gifts like her own.

Supernatural powers aside, Vale isn't ready to believe in the Wild Hunt as the culprit, and she's determined to prove the deaths are acts of human violence.

Plagued by a brute with a history of domestic violence and lusting after a dark-eyed man with a secret, Vale has a limited amount of time to discover the killer before he strikes again. In the process, she'll learn things aren't always what they seem and the supernatural might not be so extraordinary after all.

The Hunt could ride for her.

Available at:

Smashwords

Other books by Heather:

Abigail

Constant State of Disaster

Cause & Effect

Heaven Below (writing as Nolia McCarty)

# The Red Veil of Vengeance

Jack Wallen

Slemish Ireland 406 AD

The dark, cold, and wet winter was typical in Ireland. The usual gloom had already settled over the landscape the moment dawn broke the horizon. Underneath the landscape and loss of hope, an accidental rebirth promised to stem the tide of doom. Unbeknownst to the Irish, a bit of luck was about to grace their world.

But that luck would come with a vast and dark price.

The price would be paid into the hand of one of the most vile, hated demons to ever haunt the dark of night.

Vlad Kurvail.

A descendant of Vlad Tsepes, Kurvail was a grim reaper no one could deny. He cut a swath of death across the land and cared not that even those of his own kind spat out his name in hatred and mockery. He was despised by many, and feared by all.

Whispers of Kurvail's travels to Ireland spread quickly. No one knew why he would go there. Ireland was a proud but poor country with a spirit that refused to be broken. Kurvail was known to rain down his flavor of nightmare only on the joyous, the rich, the beautiful. Ireland had little to offer such a beast.

Something had intrigued Kurvail enough to bring him to a land he had never before wished to step foot upon. His travel led him into the underground passages, below the villiage of Slemish. And as Kurvail patiently waited below the dirt, his henchman searched above ground for a man their master knew was going to do great things for the Irish, and even greater things for the detestable creature of the night. That heathen would become a shepherd to help lead the vampire Kurvail into the collective heart of Ireland.

"My liege — " the nervous raider approached his master with a caution he had never bothered knowing ... until he became a foot soldier in an army lead by the Master of Death himself.

"Speak," Vlad Kurvail hissed.

The underling hesitated, with good reason. The last raider to bring their lord bad tidings had been torn to shreds, blood and viscera spraying the on-looking raiders as Vlad screamed his discontent. Once the blood spray ceased, Kurvail insisted his men lick clean his boots and the surrounding floor of every last ruby-red drop. Not one man dared step within Kurvail's reach after that moment.

The memory of that moment colored every word and movement before their lord and master.

"My lord — news has returned from the field."

Kurvail stepped in close to the raider; his eyes narrowed, his fangs dropped.

"Continue."

The young man dropped to his knees, his blood ran cold.

"The raiders have captured the young shepherd and are returning as I speak."

A silence chilled the air and sucked the breath from the young raider at Vlad's feet.

"My lord and master ... " The young servant's breeches filled with his own urine.

"Silence!" The vampire Kurvail's voice shook the rock walls, threatening to cause a cave in. "Your voice pains me. Your words hold as much meaning as that worthless mind trapped within the bone of your skull."

"Kurvail, I entreat you — "

"You dare call me by name?"

The vampire wasted no time with the underling. With an almost violent speed, Kurvail had the raider's head in his grasp and quickly cracked it on a rock outcropping on the wall. The stone opened a hole in the bone allowing the vampire's fingers purchase enough to separate the upper and lower half of the skull. The action was so swift, the raider was still coherent ... still alive and staring at the top of his skull rattling to a silent stillness on the stone floor.

Vlad scooped out a finger full of the spongy gray matter and held it up for the raider to behold. The man's eyes nearly doubled in size.

"Did this fraction of your brain hold the thought you were about to share? If so, let me assist you."

With a slow, almost seductive, motion Kurvail popped the chunk of brain into his mouth, chewed , and swallowed.

It was the last sight the young raider's eyes would behold.

"Tis a shame to waste such young blood."

Kurvail released a shriek that rang throughout the caverns. His patience for human incompetence and fealty had long since waned. He knew, however, the reward for his plan would be beyond anything any of his kind had ever dreamed. The Irish would be his puppets and playthings. Having such a spirited people under his thrall would serve as a gateway to the rest of humankind.

The plan not only promised Vlad a bright future, it offered him escape from a painful past.

Lower Moesia (Pre-Romania) 305

"Kurvail, they've breached the gate!" Tamora shouted above the din of the mob below.

Vlad Kurvail sat atop stone pillar on the front of the Drum Tower. His raging voice was just loud enough for his darling Tamora to hear. "What do you see?"

There was a hitch of hesitation in her voice. "They've brought The Saint. A group of priests and soldiers are marching him through the castle court! They've brought fire and prayer."

Vlad Kurvail scoffed at prayer as nothing more than pious desperation. The faithful offered prayer to whatever god they happened to hold dear at the moment, with an unwavering hope their prayers would be answered.

They weren't. And this confrontation would prove to them, once and for all, God was nothing but a delusion dreamed up to sooth the fears of children.

Before Vlad could drop from his perch, balls of flame shot up from the ground. The flame was not born of man but magic. It was The Saint — one of the darkest secrets of the Christian Church at the time. A magic user with the power of fire at his fingertips.

A searing ball of heat flew by, threatening to deprive him of existence.

"You dare?" Vlad Kurvail whispered as he leaped to the ground below. The earth shook as his boots slammed into dirt.

The ancient vampire rushed the small army, his fangs out, his blood boiling and thirsting. But when he reached the mass of humans and the mage, the sight he beheld reached into his chest and crushed his still, black heart.

In the middle of the group, The Saint had Tamora encased in a fiery blue ball, her skin tanning like old leather, until bubbles formed and popped. Her body finally went limp and then turned to dust.

Tears of blood poured down Kurvail's ivory cheeks. A howl of rage escaped his lips.

"What have you done?"

"Black beast, we have slain your whore," the priest mage, known to many as The Saint, cried out.

Kurvail hissed a hot stream of hatred at the intruders. "You dare take from me? You risk unleashing a plague upon your kind that will surely wipe the land clean of your pestilence! I shall spend my eternity culling your herd until there is nothing left of you but bones and dust. I will eradicate you — one man, one family, one kingdom at a time. And then I will wipe my brow with your flesh as the last of your kind disappears from my sight and memory."

Before the chaste fire mage could raise his hands to conjure a hellspawn bolt, Vlad Kurvail split the space between them and had the mage's head in his hands. With a swift snap and twist the head was removed from the neck and dangled from Kurvail's hand. The vampire put the stump of neck to his mouth and lapped at the cooling blood. When Vlad finished his snack, blood rained down from his mouth and the stump of neck hanging from the The Saint's head in the vampire's hand.

"I shall relish each of your deaths, savor the taste of your fear as your life's candles extinguish."

A sword slashed down from behind. In a wash of dark and cold light, the vampire disappeared from the trajectory of the sword. Kurvail was gone. Or so it seemed. The slashing swordsman stared forward with disbelief in his eyes. Those eyes quickly bulged out and broke free from their sockets, as bones cracked and skin ripped. The body of the knight quivered and fell to pieces on the ground around Kurvail. The vampire had reappeared within the soldier and slowly broken free of the skin and bone encasement.

Covered in the blood and organs of the soldier, the vampire reached out and wrapped his fingers around the neck of a nearby priest.

"Have a prayer you would like to say, priest? I would love to hear you entreat your God as I suck your soul from His very clutches. Pray now, pathetic creature!"

As the priest began his desperate devotions, Kurvail sank his fangs into the jugular and let the hot river of life flow into the back of his throat. The priest continued his prayer, until his veins were drained. The rest of the priests and invading men stood in shock at the horror and power the vampire exuded. Vlad tossed the emptied sack of flesh to the ground and turned to the remaining men with the dead priest's blood pouring from his open mouth.

"Which of you shall fall next?"

Without hesitation, the group of cowards ran. Kurvail stood and watched, his laughter chasing the living out of the castle court.

The echo of his own laughter chased Kurvail through time, a constant reminder of his need to eliminate the race of man for systematically destroying the only creature he had ever loved. It mattered not he would be eliminating his primary source of food. All the vampire Kurvail could see was the red veil of vengeance. The task grew more and more challenging as mankind multiplied like vermin. His only hope was to take down the scourge from within.

Slemish Ireland 406

Kurvail opened his eyes from his retreat into memory to see his men returning, a hooded stranger in tow. The lead soldier pushed the man forward onto his knees.

"Remove his hood," the dark voice boomed in the underground tunnel.

With a flourish, the lead raider removed the hood covering the head of the young shepherd.

"Where have you taken me? Who are you strange men?"

Kurvail walked up to the shaking stranger and stood above him. "I shall ask the questions, meat."

The Shepherd stared upward, refusing to offer any sign of fear or weakness.

"Tell us your name, shepherd."

The young man looked up and with a nervous gulp of pride spoke. "Maewyn Succat".

The raiders around Kurvail laughed — and laughed alone. The vampire raised his hand to silence the hideous sound.

"Irish. Just what I need."

The young man looked up at the vampire, tears raining down from his cheeks. "You are mistaken. I am not of the Irish."

"And I am not of the living!" With a single hand, Kurvail launched the shepherd across the room. The man slid down the wall and slumped over. Before he could hit the dirt floor, Kurvail was on him, lifting him off the ground by the throat.

"I could suck the life out of you before your mind realized what was happening. I could reach into your chest and remove your heart so quickly your body wouldn't have a chance to die before your eyes bore witness to your own death. But I do not. And why? Such a creature as I must find a purpose in something as worthless as you." Kurvail dropped Maewyn to the floor. "You are not a soldier. You are not a priest, a blacksmith, a farmer, a baker ... you are nothing but a shepherd of sheep, a watcher of flocks. You are weak and you have nothing. But I have a need, therefore you have a value."

A laugh disrupted the silence of the moment. One of the raiders found humor in Vlad's toying with the young man.

"Do you find my words humorous? Am I but a court jester for your amusement?"

Kurvail crossed to the laughing raider. The movement took an uncomfortably long time. The beating of hearts and the inhalation of breaths could be heard. Every living being in the room but the shepherd stood, locked in fear at what the vampire might do. When Kurvail finally reached the offending raider, only one question seeped from the undead master's lips.

"Slowly or quickly?"

"I don't understand ... " the confused soldier replied.

"Your answer. Slowly, or quickly?"

The man's jaw quivered as the answer slipped between his teeth.

"Slowly."

"As you wish."

The vampire smiled as he tore the man's clothing from his body. With a single fingernail, Kurvail sliced a chunk of flesh from the man's body and offered the meat for the soldier to devour.

"Eat this, or I continue."

From the other side of the room, the shepherd could be heard praying. Upon hearing the prayer, Kurvail launched into an agonizing scream.

"I will not tolerate your words of devotion, shepherd. Silence yourself or suffer the same fate."

Kurvail turned back to the raider who, with a shaking hand, held his own skin to his lips. "Master — ."

"If you are to survive this, the only movement your jaw should be making is the chewing of your own flesh. Now!"

The raider opened his mouth and slid the meat onto his tongue. As he chewed, blood and spit popped and spurted from between his lips.

"Delicious, the meat of man. Although the Germanic flesh has the best taste, I am partial to the Franks. The sounds they make as you peel off their bits are exquisite. Swallow my good man ... swallow."

The raider complied and swallowed — the lump going down slowly, painfully.

"You live another day."

Kurvail turned away from the soldiers and returned his attention to the shepherd. The young man cowered into a fetal ball, muffling his weeping with his robes.

"My dear Maewyn Succat, cry not. I have such pleasures and grand designs for you. You will not be stripped of your flesh, nor drained of your blood. Oh no ... I have a need for you. You are going to serve me in ways you never dreamed possible." Kurvail dropped to one knee beside the curled man and gently brushed his matted hair away from his cheek. "I am in need of a messenger, a servant. Over a century ago I was robbed of the only love I have ever known. When that happened, I swore I would exact my revenge upon the race of man. Until now, I was nothing more than one creature against millions. But with your help, I will secretly enlist an entire population of people to stand against their own."

"What do you want of me?" The quiet, sobbing voice of the shepherd was heard only by the vampire Kurvail.

Vlad bent down and kissed Maewyn Succat's cheek. "I want you to serve me. You will no longer be a slave to the Druid. You will take your gentle wisdom throughout Ireland where you will breathe the words of God over the oppressed and deposed. Give them life anew ... reason to follow you. You will lead them from the pits of Hell and sorrow ... " the vampire hesitated and again caressed the cheek of the Shepard. " ... and into my bosom."

Kurvail laughed softly. The sound was a lyrical music none in the room had ever known.

The young face of innocence looked into the eyes of the dark lord. "I don't understand. Why would you have me deceive such a poor but proud culture of farmers and peasants?"

Kurvail's laughter filled the empty space of the cavern. "Oh, Maewyn Succat, you are an entertaining one. Why would I do such a heinous deed?" Again the vampiric laughter echoed from the walls. "Because revenge is a power to which even someone such as I must bow. You see, Shepherd, the race of man stripped me of the only thing that mattered. I was once capable of love, just like you, but that capacity was eviscerated from my soul by men claiming to follow the path of God. At that moment, I swore I would exact a revenge befitting the crime. And you, my delicious young man, will be instrumental in my plan."

Tears streamed freely down the face of the young man on his knees. His body trembled in fear. His voice struggled to get around the lump of his heart in his throat. "I beseech you — "

"Oh, do you now, dear sir? And would you beg I spare you from your fate? Beg me. Forget your dignity and beg for a mercy you doubt exists in my cold, dead heart."

Maewyn Succat stared up at Vlad Kurvail, maddening insanity rimming his tear-filled eyes. "I don't understand."

"Then understand this — " Kurvail took the shepherd's head into his hands and stared deep into the pool of his lost eyes. "Look within. Dive into me, into my past. Feel the loss, the suffering, the hatred born of centuries of persecution."

The man was taken back in time, to the moment Kurvail lost Tamora. The suffering of that exact second wrapped itself around Maewyn like a cocoon of despair, and began to squeeze all hope and will from his heart. The worm of revenge threaded itself into the mind of the shepherd.

Between the ebbing beats of his heart, Maewyn fully understood. He would comply. Will was no longer his own, his heart and soul belonged to the Vampire, Kurvail.

"You are my Lord, God, and Master." The shepherd's voice was but a frail whisper. The husk of a man took Kurvail's hand in his and laid the ring of the vampire to his cracked lips.

Vlad pulled his new servant to his feet and gently kissed each of his tear-stained cheeks. "As you do my bidding you will fall under the protection of my raiders. And should you have need, all you need do is call my name and I will appear."

The newly anointed slave wavered on his feet, still entranced and enthralled. "What is my first task my lord?"

A shameless and sinister smile etched itself across Vlad's face. "Upon kissing the soil of the Irish shores above us, you will entreat yourself as the voice of God and the mouthpiece of a new Ireland. When you have settled in as their one true spiritual leader your first task is to banish the snake from the garden of Ireland. I refuse to walk upon the same soil as that detestable creature. Once you have managed that simple task, I will begin visiting you to let you know your next steps."

Maewyn Succat again kissed the ring of the King of Vampires and found enough stability on his feet to allow him movement.

"Now, go. Be my eyes and ears among the Gaelic and infect them with your venomous love and righteousness. Once they are held in your sway, and in the sway of your tiresome religion, they will be but a mere suggestion away from my wrath."

The Shepherd turned on his bare and worn heels and awaited the raiders to part.

"Lead this man out. See to it he has safe passage. Should anyone threaten to visit him harm, disassemble them with haste."

The detail parted and the frail thrall of Vlad Kurvail was led out of the underground tunnels. As the group vanished from sight, the desire to rend asunder the living above ground overwhelmed the vampire. The desire gave way to action and Vlad Kurvail made his way to the surface to begin a reign of terror few would escape. He would sate his need for blood and lust and return to the tunnels to await the celebration of the beginning of the end of the pestilence known as mankind.

* * *

Jack Wallen has a streak of cannibalism in him, but only for true Irish red heads. It's something about the lilt of the voice and the spring of the blood-red curls.

Find more information on Jack and his books at www.monkeypantz.net, or follow him on Facebook and Twitter

In a moment of pure chaos, the majority of the Earth's population became the walking dead. One man promises to unveil the truth.

When journalist Jacob Plummer is bitten by one of the undead he turns to the written word not only to ease the pain of change, but to reveal a truth that could spare the world from extinction.

As Jacob attempts to reveal the conspiracy behind the virus he fights off the undead masses to save the planet from a collision with entropy.

Available at:

Smashwords

Other books by Jack:

_I Zombie Series_ :

My Zombie My

Die Zombie Die

_Fringe Killer_ :

A Blade Away

Gothica

Shero

# Zombies Eat Leprechauns

P.J. Jones

"I need to withdraw all my gold. Now!" Lucky pounded the counter while glancing at the doors behind him. The moaning outside was getting louder. More and more fairytale zombies began scraping against the bank windows and rattling the doors. He wondered how long the security at Gingrinch's bank would hold out before the horde of hungry creatures came crashing through their meager defenses.

The goblin in front of him set down his ledger and looked him over with a glazed-over expression. "I will need two forms of identification, sir."

"Hobnobbin, it's me, Lucky." The leprechaun slapped his chest. "We're neighbors."

The goblin sighed before turning his gaze back to his ledger. "I cannot release your funds without two forms of ID, sir."

"Here, goddammit!" Lucky slapped his wallet on the counter. He cast another glance behind him. More zombies swarmed the place.

After what he'd seen earlier today, he'd had enough of zombies. All he wanted to do was get his gold and high-tail it to someplace safe, like a magical Elven realm or Hawaii.

Anywhere but here.

He'd already watched helplessly as one of his leprechaun friends was eaten and two more were turned into zombies. He had no idea how a zombie virus had suddenly taken over the kingdom, but he was convinced it had something to do with the water. Riley and O'Leary were fine until they'd taken showers. Lucky thanked his lucky stars that he had an aversion to cleanliness.

"Luciano O'Mally." The goblin arched a brow as he scrutinized Lucky's driver's license. "Luciano is a strange name for a Leprechaun."

The moaning outside intensified.

Lucky's limbs began to shake. "My mom was an Italian water nymph. You know this," he hissed.

"I'll also need you to fill out this paperwork, Mr. O'Mally." The goblin pulled out a huge stack of papers and dropped them on the counter.

"Paperwork?" Lucky's voice rose several octaves. "The kingdom is being overrun by freaking zombies and you want me to fill out paperwork?"

The goblin rolled his eyes. "Standard procedure."

"Fine!" Lucky hastily snatched the pen from the goblin's outstretched hand and leaned over the papers.

"And you do understand there will be a ten percent early withdrawl penalty?" the goblin asked. "Your IRA isn't set to mature for another six months."

"You're busting my balls, Hobnobbin!" Lucky threw down the pen and roared. "There's goddamn zombies trying to break down the door and you want to charge me a penalty fee?"

The goblin wagged a finger. "It's in the contract, Mr. O'Mally."

The banging and moaning outside was getting louder. The windows rattled. The walls shook. Lucky's stomach churned.

"What if I transfer my gold to another bank?" he asked through a shaky voice.

The goblin folded his hands in front of him and leveled Lucky with a derisive glare. "There will be a five percent service fee."

"What?" Lucky screamed! "That's robbery!"

"Robbery!" All the other goblin tellers resounded as they dove behind the counter.

Lucky's mouth dropped as he took in the scene before him. Brain eating zombies weren't enough to make the goblins cower in fear, but mention the word 'robbery' and they all hit the floor.

"Yeah, that's right." Lucky called out while jumping on top of the counter. He stuck his hand inside his coat pocket and aimed his finger at Hobnobbin. His gaze swept over all the tellers who were lying on their stomachs with their hands shielding their heads.

"This is a stickup," he called before fixing Hobnobbin with a stern expression. "Now gimme all my gold."

Hobnobbin rose on trembling legs and pulled a big bucket from the vault. "Fine. Take it, but good luck carrying it out of here without getting eaten." He slammed the heavy bucket on the counter.

Lucky gawked at the full pot of gold and then turned back and warily eyed the bank entrance. More and more zombies had converged on the bank. It wouldn't be long before they broke down the door.

A loud crashing sound resonated from up above. Lucky and the goblins screamed and ducked for cover as they were pelted with shards of glass from the shattered skylight. A giant winged beast dressed in a ruffled chiffon skirt landed with a bone-jarring thud on the marble lobby floor.

When the dust had settled, Lucky popped his head from his hiding spot beneath a small chair. In all of Fairytale Kingdom, he knew of only one cross-dressing dragon, and that dragon was relatively harmless.

The village idiot and failed excuse for a dragon slayer, Barthalamew Huganut the Tenth, was dismounting from his unlikely sidekick, Drag. On an ordinary day, Lucky would do his best to avoid those two freaks, but today was no ordinary day.

He jumped up and wiped dust and glass off his pants. "Drag! Barth! My old pals. Am I glad to see you!"

The dragon snorted a plume of smoke and turned up his snout.

Barth ignored Lucky altogether as he strode past him and up to the counter. "Hey, Hobnobbin," he called to the goblin who was still hiding somewhere behind the counter. "Sorry I didn't use the front door." Barth waved a hand toward the entrance. The zombies were now banging on the windows with old shoes and severed heads. "The bank's surrounded by zombies."

The goblin stood and adjusted his collar. "So I see," he scowled.

Barth leaned against the counter and pulled out his wallet. "There's a problem with my debit card," he spoke with an air of boredom in his voice, as if the kingdom was not being overrun by flesh eating ghouls. "I just tried to buy cheeseburgers and it's not working. I think it must be the magnetic strip."

Hobnobbin slapped his forehead. "We go through this every week, Barth. You have insufficient funds in your account."

Barth scratched his head. "How can that be? I just got paid two days ago." Then he narrowed his eyes at Hobnobbin as he sucked in his slightly protruding gut and slapped the counter. "I demand you give me my money! I'm a peer of the realm."

Hobnobbin shook his head, smirking. "You're a minimum wage rent-a-knight who can't even slay dragons."

Barth unsheathed his sword and swung it in an arc over his head. Blood dripped off the tip and splattered the walls. "I just wasted zombie knights, zombie hobbits, an evil step-mother zombie, and even a few princess zombies. I demand recompense."

Hobnobbin sighed. "You'll have to take it up with the King."

"Fine." Barth sheathed his sword. "I will." He puffed out his chest and strode back toward the dragon.

"Hey, Buddy!" Lucky jumped up and raced after Barth. "Where are you going?"

Barth spun around and glared down at Lucky. "Do I know you?"

"It's me." The leprechaun elbowed Barth in the leg. "Your old pal Lucky."

Barth arched a brow. "Aren't you that leprechaun leg-breaker?"

"He's a bookie, Barth."

Lucky flinched at the sour tone in the dragon's voice. The large beast's skirt billowed in the draft while he glared down at Lucky.

"Oh, yeah." Barth pointed at Lucky with one hand and rubbed his nose with the other. "You broke my nose once."

"I told you not to bet on the hare," the dragon laughed while batting his large, painted eyes.

Barth spun around and glared at the dragon. "I still say it was fixed. The tortoise poisoned him."

Lucky cleared his throat. "Sorry about your nose. Business is business." He thumbed at Drag. "Mind if I hitch a ride on your dragon?"

The dragon arched his neck and wagged his head like a diva on crack. "I'm not a bloody charter bus!"

"Yeah, he's my friend." Barth folded his arms across his meaty chest. "He's got feelings."

Lucky plastered a smile on his face as he eyed the two with what he hoped looked like sincerity. He needed to play it cool with these freaks, just long enough to get the hell out of Dodge. Once they dropped him and his gold off in a zombie-free kingdom, he'd give those two losers a piece of his mind.

"I'll pay you two...er...one gold coin." He jumped back on top of the counter and hoisted his pot of gold up against his chest. "Just get me outta here." He grunted under the heavy weight.

"I dunno." Barth said as he exchanged a sly grin with Drag. "A dragon saving a magical creature by smashing through the glass ceiling of a goblin bank? I think this has already happened in a certain wizard saga."

"So what?" Lucky said while feigning indifference. Somehow he had a hunch these two were going to toy with him before agreeing to save his life. Well, if they wanted him to grovel, so be it, as long as he and his gold were safe. He had no shame, anyway.

"Can't you think of a more original way of escaping?" Barth chuckled.

"Please," Lucky cried out while falling to his knees, the pot of gold rattling with the movement. "I'm begging you!"

"What do you think, Drag?"

The dragon tapped his glossy red lips with one talon. "Well, there's going to be fuel costs."

Lucky felt nervous tension coil up his spine. He had the feeling these two clowns were going to try to con him out of his hard earned money.

"Fuel?" he spat. "You're not an airplane."

Barth shrugged his shoulders. "A dragon's gotta eat."

The ruckus outside was getting louder. Just then one of the windows shattered and a severed head came flying through the opening.

Lucky screeched and nearly crapped his pants.

"Fine," Lucky grumbled while tossing the dragon a coin.

"Really?" Barth smirked. "One coin is gonna feed _him_?"

"Goddammit!" Lucky tossed them several more coins. He picked up his gold and rushed toward the dragon.

"Don't forget baggage fees." Barth pressed his palm against Lucky's forehead and squeezed his scalp, blocking his escape. "Fifty coins per bag, each way."

"Fifty coins!" Lucky gasped.

He warily eyed the window. Several ghoulish hands were protruding inside. The opening began to widen as zombies pressed themselves against the shattered glass.

Barth let go of Lucky's head and made a face while picking grime out of his fingernails. "This is what it costs for convenience. If you want a cheaper way of travel, you can try to cut a path through the zombies and take the coach."

"Fine, goddammit! But this is robbery."

Lucky groaned as he heard all the goblins hit the floor behind him. He counted out fifty more coins and put them in Barth's outstretched hands.

"Climb aboard." Barth flashed a shit eating grin and bowed. "I'll get your luggage for you, sir," he said in a mocking tone. Lucky climbed up the rope ladder leading to the dragon's saddle and waited anxiously while Barth filled his pockets with the coins and then handed up the pot of gold.

Barth climbed up the dragon and then seated himself behind Lucky. "Thank you for flying Dragon Airways. Please keep your seatbelt fastened at all times and keep your tray tables in an upright and locked position."

Drag turned his head and smirked. "And try not to let go or fall off."

"In the event of an emergency," Barth added, "feel free to shit your pants."

"Bye goblins!" the dragon snorted as he pushed off the ground and began flapping his enormous wings. "Try not to get eaten."

Just then the zombies broke through the glass and poured into the lobby.

"You're just going to leave us with these zombies?" Hobnobbin jumped on top of the counter and threw computer monitors and calculators at the advancing horde.

"I'm on my lunch break," Barth yelled down to Hobnobbin, nearly shattering Lucky's eardrums in the process. "The Knights' Union says I get an hour each day. I'll be back in a little while."

The dragon continued his ascent upward, nearing the opening of the vaulted dome ceiling.

Lucky couldn't help the fit of laughter that overcame him. He watched screaming goblins run from the zombies while he sat safely perched on the dragon's back.

Cupping his hands around his mouth, he called out, "lock yourselves in the safe until help arrives."

Drag craned his neck and eyed Lucky. "Won't they suffocate in the safe?"

"Drag!" Barth gasped. "Watch where you're going!"

They all shook with jarring force as Drag's wing clipped a beam near the top of the ceiling.

"Ouch!" Drag wailed. "Stupid beam."

Lucky screamed and reached out, horrified as his precious bucket of gold tumbled off the dragon's back and landed with a crash on the floor below.

Gold coins scattered everywhere.

Numb from shock, Lucky could only watch in horror as the zombie horde fell on top of the gold and began stuffing their faces with the precious metal.

"My gold!"

"Oh, wow!" Barth exclaimed with an edge of wonder to his voice. "I thought zombies only ate brains. I didn't know they could chew through gold."

"That's some tough luck, Lucky," the dragon chortled.

Barth shook his head. "Talk about irony." He turned toward Lucky. "Do you want to climb down and get it?"

Lucky covered his face with his hands and wept. "No, unfortunately, zombies eat leprechauns, too."

* * *

Prior to becoming a full-time chair warmer, PJ Jones not-so-enjoyed a short stint as a journalist and then seven agonizing...eh blissful years as a high school English teacher.

Find her online at <http://pjjoneswrites.com/>

Follow her on Facebook and Twitter

As the official Royal Dragon Slayer of Fairytale Kingdom, Barth descends from a long line of monster-killing knights. There's only one problem: Drag, the kingdom's resident cross-dressing dragon, is also Barth's best friend.

When the King orders Barth to kill Drag, Barth knows they have to flee the kingdom or else another knight will do the job. But after a beautiful witch begs Barth to stay and help rid the kingdom of a dreadful zombie curse, Barth discovers he may have found his true calling. Is he knight enough to stop the zombie outbreak, save his best friend and get the girl?

Coming April 2012!

Other books by P.J.:

Driving Me Nuts!

Romance Novel

The Vampire Handbook

Melvin the Dry Cleaning Zombie and Vampire Shoe Warehouse

# Five Shamrocks

Alan Nayes

"He's dying."

"When?"

"Possibly tonight."

"You're sure?"

The oncologist's expression remained somber. With a barely perceptible nod, he replied, "There's nothing else we can do. I'm sorry."

Mattie O'Malley gazed into space. "Visiting hours are over. I know it's late, but I plan on staying with him all night."

The physician offered a rueful grin. "Being married for twenty-two years awards a spouse certain privileges. Take as long as you want, Mrs. O'Malley. No one will bother you. Besides, the hospice ward has no visitation limits."

"Thank you for making him comfortable." Mattie took a slow deliberate walk toward the room at the end of the corridor. Which each step, images bounced in her mind—her and Joe's wedding day in a small church in Laguna Beach, California on a sunny balmy St. Patrick's Day, flashes from their fun times in Hawaii even though their luggage arrived a day late—she smiled sadly—she had been so upset until Joe had done what he had done so many times over the years to make her feel better—made love to her. One of her favorite images though was, after so long trying to conceive a child of their own, finally being able to announce to him, "I'm pregnant." That was seven years ago and though she thought her life couldn't get any better, carrying a baby inside her—their first and only—gloriously magnified how thankful she was for what she had. Having Emily was a miracle she thought she and Joe would never experience after so many attempts at trying.

Mattie stopped outside the closed door as another image momentarily shoved all the other ones aside. This time she couldn't resist a long smile. The Lucky Charm. This was the name of the quaint Irish pub in Kinsale where she'd first seen Joe. She had traveled to Ireland with a girlfriend to celebrate graduating from nursing school. She could still recall what she'd been drinking—a shot of Tullamore Dew with a side of hot Irish coffee, damn it'd been cold that night—when Joe and some buddies walked in, noisy, drunk, boisterous and singing off key. It was St. Patrick's Day so everyone was getting plastered. She'd turned when she heard a loud voice and instantly her gaze had settled on the tall young man with reddish blond hair. He was wearing a green leprechaun hat with a yellow bandanna and smelled of Creed Irish Tweed cologne. He looked at her, she at him, and they'd been together ever since.

She sighed. "Dammit," she cursed softly. _Be strong_. Their life had been so wonderful. Until...

Mattie gently pushed the door open and stepped in, immediately noticing the faint scent of Joe's Creed Irish Tweed. Even dying, he knew it was her favorite.

Joe was awake, eyes open, directed at the ceiling. He knew it was her because he murmured, "Hey, beautiful."

She approached the bed and took his hand. God, his skin felt so cold and paper thin. "Hi, baby, you in any pain?"

He smiled weakly. "Doc promised me enough morphine to anesthetize a rugby team." He shifted his frail body in the bed so that he faced her, though his pupils remained unfocused. "You smell so good, baby."

Mattie dabbed at a tear on her cheek, thankful he couldn't see her crying. He wouldn't want to see her so sad. Six months had passed since the diagnosis and they both knew this day was coming. Even though a metastatic glioblastoma was a death sentence, she and Joe had given the fuckin' brain tumor a run for its money, that was for sure. But medicine could only do so much. First the headaches, followed by the seizures, then going blind and finally the damn metastases. She wiped the moisture on her sleeve and grasped his hand again. How she was going to miss his touch. What the hell was she going to do without him? "You don't smell so bad yourself, Joe O'Malley."

This elicited a strained chuckle. "What time is it, sweetie?"

"Almost midnight."

"Emily?"

"With you mom. I'll bring her by for breakfast."

He inhaled and Mattie heard a low rattle in his chest. "You need to cough?" she asked.

Joe shook his head. "You know what day tomorrow is?"

Mattie sniffled. "Of course, baby. St. Patrick's Day. I'll never forget."

"The Lucky Charm. Wonder if it's still there."

"It was two years ago." For their tenth and twentieth wedding anniversaries, she and Joe had flown back to Kinsale and visited. It'd been so much fun. It was on this last visit they'd vowed to visit every ten years. They had planned on watching the nostalgic pub grow old together. _Not any more, not ever_. Mattie gazed at this man she'd so fallen in love with and this time she was helpless to stem the tears. "Oh Joe, I'm going to miss you so much."

"Baby, don't cry. We have some great memories."

"That's not the same. I want you here." Mattie was weeping now as she slid the sheet aside. "Can I?"

"You know I love having you close."

Mattie slid in beside him, pulling his frail body next to her. Once over two hundred pounds, he weighed less than a hundred now. "God, Joe, don't leave me and Emily."

"Mattie, I don't want you to remain alone."

"I have Emily."

"You know what I mean."

"Shush, baby. They'll never be anyone but you."

His voice was barely a whisper, the rattles sounding louder with each exhale. "Remember what we promised each other?"

Mattie placed his palm on her cheek and nodded. "I haven't forgotten."

She sensed him relax some as he spoke. "You'll be around long enough to hold our great grandchild, promise me."

"Damn, Joe, we were both supposed to be there together."

"I'll be there in spirit. Now promise."

"I promise sweetheart."

She heard his respirations become irregular. "Joe, wait, don't go yet. Emily..."

"I said good bye to Emily this afternoon. She's so beautiful. And strong."

"She's just a child."

"She's special, like you."

Mattie clung to him. This wasn't supposed to be so hard. They'd prepared for this time and now she was falling apart. "No, Joe. Not yet. I'm not strong. I need you. Wait until morning. You can do it. Please, baby..."

Outside, Mattie heard the distant _ding-dong_ of church bells. She felt Joe grow tense.

"I'll always love you. Always," Joe whispered.

She heard him gasp. "Joe! No!" she pleaded. "Joe..."

He lay still. Eyes closed. "Joe, baby." She pulled him against her. Damn you, fuckin' tumor. Damn. Damn

"Mattie..."

He wasn't gone. "What Joe. I'm here." She stared into a face, ravaged by a tumor run amok. Only she saw nothing of the horrendous disease, only the handsome twenty-five year old man she fell in love with twenty-two years ago.

His lips trembled, then moved. "It's midnight, honey."

She could barely hear him. "Yes," she whispered. "It's midnight."

"Happy St. Patrick's Day, Mattie O'Malley. I love you."

"Oh, baby, baby, I love you more."

"Our love will never die."

"Never, Joe."

"When you're..." He grew silent

"What, Joe. When I'm what?"

A long audible gasp. "Mattie, when you're ready, I'll... come... back... for... you."

She clutched him. "Back for me? I don't understand...Joe...Joe!"

Joe O'Malley died in her arms a few minutes into St. Patrick's Day at 12:02 AM.

He was forty-seven and Mattie O'Malley forty-five.

***

"Emily, honey, we're going to be late."

"Will you relax some, Mom?" a teenager's voice shouted downstairs. "High school graduations never begin on time. Did yours?"

Mattie waited near the foyer of their well-kempt two-story home. "I don't recall—that was too long ago." She checked her purse. The invitation and ticket into the assembly area afterwards was all there. All that was missing was her daughter.

"Mother, you're not that old."

"Right, only fifty-six," she mumbled.

Mattie heard a bedroom door open and looked up, feeling something catch in her chest. _Oh, Joe, if only you could be here..._

Emily bounded down the stairs in her taffeta graduation gown, holding a cap and purse in each hand. She stopped when she saw Mattie staring. "What...?"

Mattie smiled. "Come here, let me look at you."

Emily placed her cap on her head. "Is it straight?"

"Perfect, baby."

Mattie embraced her daughter. She couldn't believe eleven years could fly by so fast. Was it only yesterday her little girl was seven saying good bye to her father?

Emily stepped back. "Mom, you're crying. You're supposed to be happy. I'm graduating from high school. Yay!"

"Have I told you how beautiful you look today?"

Mattie allowed Emily to take her hands. "You're the beautiful one, Mother. And thank you for letting me be me even when I know at times it must have been really difficult."

Mattie simply savored having her only child so close. Sure, there were a few tumultuous situations, but what parent doesn't encounter those bumps in life's road when raising a teenager? Emily was a great kid, having inherited the best of both traits from her and Joe. If only he could see his little child now on the verge of entering the real world. _God, our girl was collecting her high school diploma. Then off to Stanford._ She just shook her head in amazement.

After some photos, they drove to the auditorium in relative quiet.

"Mom," Emily said as they drove into the packed lot. "Mr. Bensen, the assistant principal will be there tonight."

"And..."

"Well, he is single and I just thought—"

"Emily, we've been through this many times. I'm just not ready to date anyone."

"But it's been over ten years."

"Emily..."

"I was just thinking...I'm going to be leaving for college at the end of the summer and with me gone, you'll—"

"And I'm going to miss you tremendously but your mother will be just fine."

"I know." Emily leaned over and kissed Mattie on the cheek before staring at her purse. "Mom?"

Mattie found a spot and parked. "Yes, honey."

"Can I show you something and you won't cry?"

Mattie faced her. "Emily."

"No, it's nothing serious or anything." She removed something from a side pocket in her purse and opened her palm. "Look."

Mattie's eyes widened. "Oh my God, dear, where did you get that?" It was a small green plastic shamrock. "It looks just like—"

"It is from that place where you and Daddy met, Mom."

"You mean The Lucky Charm?"

"Yes. He said they kept little ashtrays of them on the bar."

Mattie couldn't believe it. "Yes, for good luck." She grinned. "Mostly people would throw them at each other after a few shots of whiskey. When did you get this?"

Emily's tone turned pensive. "When Daddy was in the hospice. He had some from that last time you and he visited Ireland. When you were out talking to the doctors, he gave me five and said it would be his and my secret. He said he thought you might get emotional at certain times as I grew up and whenever I sensed one of those times was about to happen I was supposed to give you one. That way you would know he was with you. So...here."

Mattie's sensed a flutter in her midsection as she accepted the small shamrock.

"That means Daddy's watching us, Mom."

Mattie gripped the cheap three leaf clover and reached over and embraced her daughter. But strangely the tears didn't come. Damn, she did feel good. Joe was watching. "Thank you, baby. This means so much to me. Really."

For almost a minute they held each other until a rap on the window startled them. A pretty girl dressed in a cap and gown shouted, "Emily, let's go. I don't want to walk in alone. Oh, hi, Mrs. O'Malley."

"Congratulations, Bridget."

Emily was watching her mother. "Mom?"

Mattie grinned. "I'm fine, now go. I'll see you after the ceremony." She watched her daughter bounce from the car.

After only a few steps, Emily paused and looked back. "I love you."

Mattie waved with the hand holding the shamrock. "Love you, too, baby."

And so does your daddy.

***

"Mom, I'm worried about you."

Mattie arranged the white lace veil around her daughter's face. "Emily, don't say such foolishness. This is your day. My God, I can't believe you're going to be a wife. It only seemed like last week I was—"

"Teaching me to drive."

Both mother and daughter laughed. That had been an experience. Or her daughter's freshman year at Stanford when Mattie had to fly up to Palo Alto the day after St. Patrick's Day because Emily had been admitted to the hospital for severe stomach cramps. But it wasn't appendicitis as the doctors had initially thought—Emily had drunk too much Irish whiskey at a frat party. Mattie could smile now, though at the time she'd been livid. At least the experience had taught Emily a lesson. She no longer drank, except a little socially. Time did fly. Fours years of college, five more years of law school and an internship. Emily had done so well.

Outside the private dressing room, Mattie could hear the organ playing. She imagined how full the church would be. Both Emily and Frank, the groom, had plenty of friends. And it was a big church—far larger than the small chapel in Laguna Beach where she and Joe had been married. She gazed at her daughter. Emily was one gorgeous bride. Frank Aron was a luck man. But Mattie liked Frank, and though he wasn't Irish, she thought they were perfect for each other. She grinned to herself.

She took one of Emily's hands. She could feel her eyes watering. "It's almost time, dear."

Emily squeezed her palm. "Nervous?"

"That should be my question."

"You know you can come live in San Francisco with Frank and me."

"I'm happy in Los Angeles."

"But you're alone."

"Emily, I have friends. And a mother shouldn't live with her newlywed daughter."

"Sell the house. It's paid for. Get a condo. And date, will you? You're the best looking sixty-five-year-old I know. Frank even said his dad has some male friends—"

"This is not a conversation we should be having right before you're to be married."

"Mom, promise me you'll visit a lot."

Mattie smiled. "You won't be able to get rid of me."

A soft knock said it was time. Emily's face tensed. "Mom, I am nervous!"

Mattie held her a long moment. "You'll do fantastic, baby."

The door opened. "Mrs. O'Malley, they're ready for you," one of the ushers said. "I'll escort you." The organ music echoed from the corridor.

"Mom," Emily squealed. "Wait." She removed a small envelope form under a vase of roses. "Now go, I'll be close behind."

They embraced and then the usher had Mattie by the arm. Mattie took her seat in the front pew and waited. Just as the wedding march began she opened the envelope allowing the tiny green shamrock to slip into her hand. _Oh, Emily, you didn't_.

***

Mattie O'Malley turned sixty-eight three weeks before her grandson was born. For the first time in her life she was feeling a little old. Retired from nursing, she spent much of her spare time exercising, trying to stay in shape. Yet, the aches in her knees and hips told her it was time to curtail the jogging and try an alternative form of recreation. Aqua aerobics suited her, though she didn't think she would ever get used to the coolness of the water.

When she looked in the mirror, her reflection told her what she already knew—she was getting older. And for the first time she could ever recall, she was relieved Joe couldn't see her like this. Crowsfeet, a few wrinkles under her chin, breasts—God, don't even go there—and gray hair that constantly needed dying.

Some days, Mattie would attempt to imagine what she'd looked like when she was married—she'd only been twenty-three. This wasn't a good idea. How could four decades slide by without her knowing it? It only depressed her. And even after giving birth to Emily at thirty-eight she'd still looked great. Yet now... She couldn't resist contemplating how Joe would look today? However she adamantly refused to recall those last images of him, rather her mind maintained a portfolio of mental photos of a young robust Joe—the Joe who walked into The Lucky Charm wearing a silly leprechaun's hat and smelling of Irish Creed.

Why couldn't they have had Emily when she was younger? She and Joe had tried for fifteen years. She should be at least ten years younger expecting her first grandchild. Not sixty-eight. Yet, she realized she should be thankful. Emily was one of the two best things that had happened in her life, the other being Joe O'Malley. Still, she couldn't help thinking of all the St. Patrick's Days she and Joe had missed together. Living alone, she rarely celebrated the Irish holiday anymore. This only made her more despondent.

When the phone rang that morning, Mattie had been expecting a call from one of her bridge partners. _Bridge. Yup, she was bonafide old._

It was Frank, though. "Mattie."

Instantly she detected the strain in his voice. "What's wrong?"

"Mattie, Emily needs you up here. It's the baby. He's decided to come early."

Mattie booked the first flight she could get out of LAX and Frank picked her up at San Francisco International Airport. "How's Emily?" she gushed before she'd even hugged him.

Her son-in-law wore a crooked grin. "Emily's fine, Mattie. And so is Joe Jr," he added.

Mattie literally felt like she was going to burst with joy. "No!"

Frank embraced her. "Yes, Mattie, you're a grandmother. Congratulations."

Mattie couldn't hold still on the drive to the hospital. _Oh Joe, we're grandparents!_ She kept fidgeting.

Frank glanced at her. "Relax, Grandma," he quipped.

"Everything's really fine?"

Frank nodded proudly. "Mattie, everything's perfect."

After parking, Frank led them to the lobby and then toward the elevators. He pressed the button for the maternity ward. But just before the doors opened on the third floor, Mattie felt Frank touch her shoulder. "Mattie", he started, before pausing.

"What is it, Frank?" His expression looked odd.

"Mattie," he began again. "I'm sure this is something private between you and Emily—she wouldn't explain—but she did instruct me to give this to you when I saw you. It doesn't mean much to me, but Emily assured me you would understand. So...here."

Mattie held out her hand and Frank dropped the little green shamrock into her palm. This time Mattie did cry.

***

Mattie checked the time again. The big clock above the mantel said 10:25 AM. Emily and Joe Jr. would be here in five minutes. She couldn't wait to see them. She'd taken some extra aspirin to alleviate the arthritic pain in her knees and back. It was helping some, too, along with the medications the doctors had prescribed. Regardless, no way would she allow a little discomfort to prevent her from a trip to the San Francisco zoo with her grandson and daughter.

Joe Jr. was six now—such a fun age to watch a child run around and explore the world. She recalled how she and Joe had gone on so many tiny excursions—the beach, planetarium, parks, carnivals—when Emily was young. They'd had so much fun together—before the tumor. Emily had been such a precocious child and Joe Jr. seemed bent on following in his mother's footsteps.

Four years ago Mattie had finally heeded her daughter's advice and pulled up stakes in Los Angeles and moved to the Bay area. She loved her condo and thought Joe would have approved. This near her family, she noticed she was no longer as depressed. True, she wasn't pleased with her appearance—it seemed more wrinkles appeared everyday—but she dealt with it better. Talking to Joe helped. _I'm old now, Joe_. She would imagine him chuckling and remarking, _we both are, baby_. Mattie would reply, _I still miss you so damn much, Joe O'Malley._

These private conversations helped Mattie though she never mentioned them to Emily. Sometimes she would take the tram down to the bay and watch the water. In some ways, especially when the sky was overcast and gray, the ocean reminded her of the water off the coast of Ireland. It was strange and something she regretted that she'd never made a trip back to Kinsale after that last one with Joe on their twentieth anniversary—over three decades ago. Now with her arthritis she was too old. She could barely take the tram anymore. She knew a part of her and Joe would always be in that quaint Irish pub The Lucky Charm where she and Joe had first met, if the bar was even there anymore. At least she had the three shamrocks. Once a week it seemed she took them from the tiny jewelry box where she kept them safe and held them in her hands—Emily's high school graduation, Emily's marriage, the arrival of her grandson.

She'd even begun celebrating St. Patrick's Day again, though not like she and Joe used to. But the doctors had told her a half shot of Tullamore Dew wouldn't hurt so she would put on some Irish music and drink to Joe, her and The Lucky Charm.

At just a little past ten:thirty the door bell rang. Emily and Joe Jr. were here!

"Grandma," Joe Jr. squealed rushing to Mattie.

"Aren't you growing," Mattie exclaimed, wishing she could lift him, yet realizing those days were long past.

Emily walked over and kissed her mom on the cheek. "You look good."

"Yeah, for a seventy-four year old."

"How's the arthritis, this moisture not too bad on the joints?"

"I'm fine." Mattie watched Emily fusing with Joe Jr.'s jacket, just the way she used to fuss with Emily when she was young. Emily was thirty-six and still looked fantastic. A touch of sadness crept over Mattie. What if Joe suddenly appeared in the living room and saw them both—beautiful Emily and old Mattie—what would he say? The thought was ludicrous and quickly she shrugged it off. Today was going to be a fun outing.

And it was. As were the many other fun times Mattie spent with her family. The years zipped by, seemingly in overdrive now. St. Patrick's Days came and went. Every year that passed Mattie sensed a vague undefined pull on her psyche. She couldn't explain it, not to herself and Lord knows she never discussed this strange sensation with anyone else. Her arthritis continued to worsen to the point that at times she began to wonder if she'd ever really been that sexy vibrant woman that had caught Joe O'Malley's heart across the Atlantic along the Irish coast so many years ago.

By the time Joe Jr. graduated from high school Mattie was using a walker. She was eighty-six. Emily still looked pretty damn good for a woman nearing fifty. Some of Joe Jr.'s buddies had even made comments about his good looking mom. Not about the old wizened grandmother, though. That's because they never saw much of her. Mattie kept inside most days and rarely ventured outside except for a five or ten minute walk every so often. Her spine had taken on an unwelcome curve giving her the appearance of a humpback. God, some days she just wished she could go to sleep and not wake up. Yet, again that pull would return keeping her going. All she could guess was she wasn't ready yet. For what she wasn't ready for, she wasn't sure—dying?

Joe Jr. graduated from Emily's alma mater, Stanford, with high honors. Mattie didn't make the ceremony though she'd wanted so badly to go. She just wasn't feeling well the evening of the festivities. Stomach flu the doctors had called it. Rest and fluids. For a ninety year old, stomach viruses could be fatal.

Emily and Frank kept their promise, though, and brought Joe Jr. by to visit her the next day when she was feeling better. Joe Jr. had a surprise for Mattie when he introduced her to a young pretty redhead by his side.

"Grandma," Joe Jr. began. "I'd like you to meet Rachel. She's my fiancé."

Mattie's wrinkled face broke into a huge grin. She glanced at Emily and Frank who both nodded. Reaching for Joe Jr.'s hands, she gushed, "You and Rachel are getting married?"

Everyone laughed. Emily said, "Yes Mom, that's usually what happens between a grandson and his fiancé."

Joe Jr. replied, "You bet, Grandma. The wedding is going to be next St. Patrick's Day."

Mattie felt a familiar flutter in her abdomen. "Your grandfather and I were married on St. Patrick's Day."

Rachel reached out and took her hand. "I know, Mrs. O'Malley. That's part of the reason Joe and I chose that special day."

Mattie looked at her. "Part of the reason?"

Rachel grinned. "Also, I'm Irish. My last name is O'Toole."

To Mattie's amazement, they'd stayed until past lunch. She hadn't had this much enjoyment in a long time. Talking to her guests made her forget about her humped back, arthritic joints and upset stomach. She even broke out her only bottle of Tullamore Dew and they all drank a little, except Frank who was driving.

Before leaving Mattie gave each of them a big embrace. On the way out Mattie noticed Emily holding back a bit. "Mom, what do you think of Rachel?"

"She's so pretty...and she's an O'Toole!"

Emily beamed. "Joe Jr. and her are going to be so happy. The wedding is eight months off so stay healthy. I want you by my side in the front row."

"Thank you, Emily. I couldn't have asked for a better daughter."

"Or me a mother." Emily clasped Mattie's hand briefly, before stepping away. "I'll stop by tomorrow to see how you're doing. I love you."

Mattie watched Emily walk to the car before shutting the door. When she looked down at her palm, she found the fourth shamrock.

Daddy gave me five, Mom...

***

The church Rachel and Joe Jr. chose was St. Patrick's Church on the east side of San Francisco. The morning of St. Patrick's Day found the air cool and saturated with moisture. At least it hadn't rained—so far, Mattie thought ruefully. The sky sure looked bleak, though, and gray. Emily came over to assist Mattie in getting ready to attend her grandson's wedding. Mattie was not feeling really well—she'd been prescribed some antibiotics for a bronchitis—but when Emily voiced her concern about Mattie attending for health reasons, Mattie shooed her off.

"Miss my only grandchild's wedding? Never," she boasted with a slightly hoarse voice. She'd just turned ninety-one a month prior and on her birthday she told Joe, the love of her life, the only way she would miss the ceremony would be if she was with him.

Many nights since her birthday, she would lie in bed, recalling his last words to her. Not the "I love you," but the _when you're ready, I'll come back for you_. As Joe Jr. and Rachel's special day drew nearer, she'd come to believe this was what he'd been referring to. In spirit, Joe would be back for the wedding. This was foolish, she had to remind herself, because how could Joe have any inkling of what would transpire almost five decades into the future.

Mattie wore a long blue dress with a lavender shawl.

"Mom, you look great," Emily said, helping her with her hair.

"Oh Emily, don't say that. I'm old, bent and wrinkled—thank God you father can't see me now," she remarked wistfully—wistful because she would love nothing more than to hold her long dead spouse one last time.

"Don't talk like that. Daddy would be so proud to stand beside you."

"Not when I look like this."

When Emily handed Mattie a small box, she eagerly opened it, expecting the fifth shamrock. It was a shamrock, but this one was ornately carved and decorated with tiny diamonds wending along the edges of each of the three leaves

"It's so beautiful, dear," Mattie said, but if Emily sensed any of Mattie's disappointment, she gave no indication.

"Here Mom, let me pin it on you."

"Thank you."

Frank and Emily both assisted Mattie with her walker up the steps into St. Patrick's Church. Outside, a small statue of The Infant of Prague had been erected as a warning to the weather—no rain today. And there wasn't.

Mattie sat in the front row and marveled at how wonderful the Irish wedding ceremony played out. The many guests rang tiny bells as the handsome groom and beautiful bride exchanged their matrimonial vows. Rachel wore a small porcelain horseshoe on her left wrist for good luck. There were Irish dancers and later at the reception, Bunratty Mead, an Irish honey wine was served per Irish tradition.

Seated at a table near the dance floor, she couldn't resist murmuring, "Joe, I so wish you were here."

I am, my love.

Mattie smiled, wiping the tears from her eyes. Of course, the voice was in her head, but she didn't care.

She watched Joe Jr. and Rachel dancing and felt a tug at her heart. Again, she found herself wondering how time could have flown by so fast. Was this the way it was supposed to happen as a person aged—time would shrink down around you until you could almost reach out and touch it.

She danced a half song with Frank and a few steps with Joe Jr. before having to sit down. So little exertion got her winded these days. She watched Emily approaching her table. Her daughter had aged so well. An image of a seventeen year old Emily seated in the car in the high school parking lot flashed in her mind. _Daddy said he thought you might get emotional at certain times as I grew up and whenever I sensed one of those times was about to happen I was supposed to give you one._ Was this the time? She was feeling emotional and she relished receiving the cheap little shamrock

But no. "Mom, you look tired. This"—she waved her arm at the revelers—"is going to be going on until the wee hours. I thought I'd take you home now if you're ready."

Mattie was ready though she hated admitting it. What a beautiful ceremony it had been.

Emily helped her inside her condo and promised to check in later to make sure she got to bed all right.

"Thank you, dear." Mattie embraced her daughter long and hard.

Emily looked appraisingly at her mother. "Mom, you okay?"

Mattie smiled weakly. "I'm fine. Thank you for letting me be a part of all this."

"Mother...you _are_ part of all this. You—and Dad—are why this day happened. I love you so much. Happy St. Patrick's Day, Mom."

"Joe Jr. and Rachel make such a beautiful couple."

"Like you and Daddy."

***

Four months after the wedding, Rachel announced the good news. She and Joe Jr. were going to be parents. "I'm going to be a grandmother!" Emily exclaimed. Mattie was shocked as well. After all, it'd taken her fifteen years to finally conceive. Rachel and Joe Jr. had accomplished the feat in only months. Of course, she was thrilled but once the news set in she began to awake with a new nagging fear. Each day it seemed her arthritis worsened, her energy level declined and she began to worry if she would be around for the new arrival. She'd never seriously considered the promise she made so many years ago but now on the eve of her ninety-second birthday, the words played in her head many times a day.

You'll be around long enough to hold our great grandchild.

I promise.

No matter what, she would keep that promise to Joe, she vowed.

The day Rachel's water broke, Mattie was in the doctor's office. A breast lump Mattie had found several weeks earlier had proven to be malignant. Worse, the cancer had already spread to her liver and bone marrow. Less than two days before Mattie's last St. Patrick's Day, she was diagnosed with metastatic cancer.

"Mrs. O'Malley, we can give you a little more time with some radiation and chemotherapy," the physician explained

Mattie smiled sadly and shook her head. _I'm ninety-two, for godsakes!_ When Emily picked her up in the waiting room, Mattie had already decided this secret would remain hidden inside her, especially after seeing the excitement in her daughter's face.

"Mother," Emily gushed. "Rachel's in labor and delivery now!"

Sixteen hours later, Alannah Mattie Arons was born—a healthy seven pound baby girl.

Escorted by Frank and Emily off either shoulder, Mattie pushed the walker down the corridor of the maternity ward. She couldn't believe this was happening. Her arthritis, cancer, all her aches and pains suddenly seemed so trifle. She was actually going to hold her great grandchild!

The hospital room was decorated with flowers and pink and green ribbons. The room was crowded with both members of each family.

"Grandma." Joe Jr. proudly led her to Rachel's bed.

"Oh dear Lord," Mattie murmured, seeing the tiny face visible in the pink blanket. "So much hair."

Rachel's smile reached from ear to ear. "Thank you for coming, Mrs. O'Malley."

"I wouldn't miss this for the world. So this is Alannah."

"Alannah Mattie. Want to hold her?"

Mattie felt a nervous quiver in her chest. "Oh dear...Emily?"

Emily stepped beside her. "Mom, you can do it. I'm here. Let go of the walker. I'll balance you."

"She's so beautiful," Mattie spoke quietly as Rachel passed the infant to Emily, who then positioned the newborn in Mattie's arms.

"I'm really holding my great granddaughter." Mattie gazed down at the miracle in her hands.

She barely heard Rachel saying, "If Alannah had waited a few more hours until midnight, she would have been a St. Patrick's Day baby."

Holding the infant so close to her, Mattie was more aware than ever of that pulling on her, almost like someone tugging at her soul. It wasn't an uncomfortable feeling, though. In fact she welcomed it. "Alannah Mattie," she cooed. "You, young lady, are going to be so loved."

At that moment the infant burped, and everybody laughed, including Mattie.

I did it, Joe. I held our great granddaughter.

After she returned the infant to her mother, Mattie was suddenly overwhelmed with the strongest urge to be alone. She was going to weep and she didn't want anyone to see her so emotional. "Help me out, Emily," she said.

"Why Mom? I thought you would be so happy."

"Oh I am. But I'm also going to cry, baby."

Emily helped her away from the bed toward one corner. "Mom, cry if you want, but I have something for you. This may help. Give me your wrist."

Mattie held out her palm and watched as Emily placed the fifth shamrock in her hand.

"This is from Daddy."

And Mattie cried anyway.

***

Before going to bed that night, Mattie arranged all five shamrocks on her nightstand. She wanted to see them first thing in the morning. Joe must have known Emily was special, entrusting so young a child to pass the good luck tokens on at such particular times. Though she'd lost Joe so long ago, Mattie realized her life had been special too. She could honestly say she was content with the way things turned out.

She glanced once more at the clock. 9:20 PM. Soon she would see another St. Patrick's Day. Her ninety-third. Mattie smiled. She yawned realizing she was exhausted. Emily had left an hour ago and now Mattie just wanted to sleep.

' _Night, Joe._

She ignored the mild pressure in her chest and closed her eyes.

It must have been the church bells that awakened her when she opened her eyes. She listened, but could hear no bells or other sounds. How foolish, there wasn't a church nearby. She'd been dreaming. The clock on the nightstand registered 12:02 AM.

Mattie began to inhale and suddenly tensed. That scent! She knew it. _Creed Irish Tweed cologne._

"Hello, my Mattie O'Malley."

Mattie stared at the foot of the bed. Even in the dark she saw him. The tall young man was as robust and handsome as she remembered. "Joe?"

"I told you our love would never die."

"Joe, it's really you?"

"You didn't think I'd ever forget you, did you."

"But..."

"Let me take a close look at you, baby."

Mattie shrunk into the mattress. "Oh Joe, I'm old and beaten down. Please don't stare at me like this. You won't like what you see."

"Mattie O'Malley, you stole my heart the instant I set eyes on you."

"I'm not the same Mattie."

"I said _when you're ready, I'll be back_. Well, I'm here for you, girl. Are you ready, my love?" He reached for her.

"Joe, you missed so much—Emily, Joe Jr., Alannah...me."

Joe grinned. "Mattie, I saw it all through you."

Mattie sensed a soft breeze blow over her— _whooosh_ —and then she was standing beside him. She suddenly felt as weightless as a feather. No aches, no pains, and when she looked a her hands, the skin was smooth and vibrant. All the blotches and age spots had vanished. She reached up. Her hair was thick and full. _I'm young again._

When he kissed her, she felt carried away by a tidal wave of passion. "I am ready, Joe. I am!"

Mattie briefly gazed back at the old woman lying in her bed. Her face appeared relaxed and peaceful and this made Mattie feel good because this is how she would have wanted Emily to find her.

Joe's arms snaked around her slender waist. "Happy St. Patrick's Day, Mattie O'Malley."

"Where will we go, Joe?"

"Anywhere you want, love."

Mattie's eyes roved to the nightstand, settling on the tiny shamrocks. "Can we see The Lucky Charm one more time?"

Joe pulled her close. "Hold tight, babe. We're there!"

Like that, they were gone.

***

Emily waited for the organ and bagpipe notes to drift away.

She stood at the pulpit. She'd written out a eulogy but had set aside her notes. She knew what she wanted to say. She gazed out at the funeral crowd—Frank, Joe Jr. and Rachel holding tiny Alannah were seated in the first row. The congregation was full. Mattie would have been happy to know so many people cared.

Emily cleared her throat, glancing down just once at the small plastic Irish clovers she'd placed next to a glass of water—the same ones she'd given to her mother over a span of nearly five decades. Then she began.

"I was seven years old when my father, Joe O'Malley, passed away. It was on a St. Patrick's Day. My mother also passed away on St. Patrick's Day." Emily paused to gather herself. "But just before Daddy died, he gave me five shamrocks..."

* * *

Alan Nayes is not Irish but loves Baileys Irish Cream!

Read more about Alan Nayes and his books at www.anayes.com

Follow him on Facebook and Twitter

Brilliant pre-med student Amoreena Daniels needs money. Desperately. Her mother is dying of cancer and her medical insurance has run out. When a seemingly perfect women's clinic offers Amoreena a generous payment for service as a surrogate mother, Amoreena thinks her prayers have been answered. But then—much too early—her baby begins to move.

The strange dreams, another surrogate's mysterious death and a drug-addicted former medical intern confirm Amoreena's worst suspicions: there is something terribly wrong with the pregnancy. Amoreena embarks on a dangerous journey to uncover the truth behind the endless battery of genetic tests, sonograms and frightened patients, only to discover that she has unwittingly become a pawn in a high-stakes game of biomedical experimentation.

_GARGOYLES_ is the first book in the _Resurrection Trilogy_ series.

Available at:

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Other books by Alan:

Barbary Point

Gargoyles (Resurrection Trilogy, Book One)

Plague (Resurrection Trilogy, Book Two)

The Unnatural

Smilodon

Girl Blue

Return to Underland

# The Eclective

The Eclective is:

Heather Marie Adkins

P.J. Jones

Shéa MacLeod

M. Edward McNally

Alan Nayes

Jack Wallen

Thanks for reading! Please visit our website to learn more about us.

http://indie-eclective.com

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