Beautiful and mysterious, dressed all in black, Róisín Ó Duibh is an ancient creature—a banshee who comes to warn and weep before a death. More than a thousand years ago, she was human and she secretly dreams of being mortal again. That desire increases when she meets handsome Irish accountant Joe O'Neill. He suspects she's a banshee from the first moment but she denies it. Their immediate attraction leads to sweet, wild sex but it's more than that—the banshee's fallen in love with the human. After dodging his questions, she promises to tell him the truth and when she does, she learns he loves her too. It seems hopeless, but a rash gamble will either unite them forever or end in their deaths.
Framed in the doorway, she guessed he must stand better than six feet tall, a well-made man, lean yet muscular. When he stepped forward, a dim lamp burning in the room beyond backlit him and Róisín sighed with appreciation. Attractive did not begin to describe him. He appealed on a pure sexual level and she wanted him. Róisín should go, slip away in the night, but desire held her in one spot.
“Do ye think me mad?” he asked. There was more humor than vinegar in his voice. “At this hour, who but a banshee would be walking the Creggan Road or darting away up Helen Street in a tight black dress and lace over her long black hair? I heard ye, woman, and knew what it was. I don’t need to be fey to know my old gran has but a short time left. She’s lived to be a hundred plus three, more than most.”
“Sorcha O’Connor.”
“Aye, that’s her name and ye know it because you’ve come to fetch her.” His tone rang with triumph and he grinned. His smile smote Róisín hard. Her pussy melted and craved him even more. Deeper still, it touched some emotional chord within.
She pranced two steps back toward him. “I have not. ‘Tis not how it all works.”
“So ye are a banshee, then.”
“Did I say so? Everyone knows the old legends and stories. It’s not what a Bean Sídhe does. They come to warn a death and to pay honor to the one who’s time is nigh. And they grieve with the keening and the laments.”
He came closer as well until they stood face to face, no more than a foot between them. At that distance, she inhaled his man aroma, a rich blend of tobacco, Guinness, soap, something that reminded her of forest loam and a hint of patchouli. Róisín savored it, her nose drinking it in like fine whiskey.
“Ye know a great deal for a woman who says she’s no banshee.”
She tossed her head and her hair rippled like ripe grain in the wind. “I didn’t say I was one nor did I say I’m not. I’m called Róisín O’ Duibhir.”
“Joe O’Neill. Ye’d best come in, then, out of the cold rain. I was looking out for the priest, coming for Gran’s Last Rites or as they call it now, Anointing. He should be nearly here.”
As Joe spoke, a battered Toyota came round the corner and parked before the house. A priest emerged and Róisín, caught between the man and the Father, ducked into the house. It was that or bolt away, which she wasn’t keen to do. Joe O’Neill intrigued her and she wanted more before she departed. She craved his body with a deep erotic desire. For a chance at having him, she’d bide a bit.
Inside the front door, there was one comfortable chair across from an electric fireplace and near a large telly. A matching love seat faced a window that overlooked Helen Street and was horizontal to the hearth. At the opposite end of the room, a table and four chairs rested beside a door that led into the kitchen. After a moment’s consideration, Róisín settled onto the love seat as Joe led the priest upstairs, using a narrow staircase behind a doorway in the kitchen. In the quiet hour, she could hear the prayers and the families’ response. If she were a praying creature, Róisín might have said a prayer or two. She could have gone into the grandmother’s bedroom to join them but since she was both wild and pagan, she remained in place.
Róisín should have bolted but didn’t. She found the snug room pleasant. After a short time, the priest returned with Joe, then exited the house. Joe raised the window so that the cool, night air fresh with the scent of rain filled the room. “She’s gone,” he said. “But I expect ye know that. Mam’s called the police to get a funeral director to take Gran. I’m leaving myself so ye won’t want to stay, I wouldn’t think. Don’t you have other souls to snatch and take?”
“‘Tis not what a Bean Sídhe does, not that I’m one but no, I’ve nothing more tonight. I’ll buy ye a pint if ye’ve time and desire.”
He crossed his arms and frowned hard. “And where would ye do that woman? It’s well past midnight and no pubs open.”
“There’s one across from the Guildhall and not far from the Shipquay gate. It’s open round the clock.”
Joe’s fierce expression lightened a wee fraction. “That’s true enough. I’d rather not be here for what comes next. The windows are open above and down here. Mirrors are covered as well. My mam and da can handle the rest. Let’s go, then.”
