Page 46 of The Scald Crow
“Wedding ceremonies? That’s amazing.” Calla smiled.
“C’mere to me, Calla Sweet. We have a lot to celebrate.” Breda grabbed Calla’s hand, gesturing toward an open-air courtyard.
The narrow passage behind the pub held six painted picnic tables and exited to the alley behind. Pub memorabilia fastened to the century-old bricks added hometown charm.
“It’s plain to see we need refreshments, aye? Espresso martinis all around. My treat. Grab a seat, aye?” Breda circled away, humming a lively tune.
“I’ve spent my entire life hiding from this. This ability, as you call it.” She folded her long legs under a red picnic table.
“But none of it matters if you’re one of Them. You just ‘are.’” I took a step back, literally speaking. Approaching the Other Crowd should not be taken lightly. And yet, when my arms wrapped around that regal one, I felt no evil. Calla exuded darkness, yet a healthy degree of light shone within her.
“I just ‘am?’ You’d think I would know. You’d think I’d feel something. Something more than this. You believe, don’t you? In this Other Crowd. This Otherworld?” Her gaze narrowed, only half convinced.
“I do. I’m a pagan and a witch. The old gods are part of that. I believe in the spirits of the land and the spirits of nature. It’s all around us. Connecting with the magic and the earth’s power has given me my life back,” I admitted freely.
“Here we are, ladies.” Breda placed a tray on the picnic table with three espresso martinis foaming over the rim. “Sláinte!” Breda clinked her glass to ours.
“The gods? You mean theSidhe?” Calla rubbed her thumb over her chin, then swallowed.
“Yes.” I smiled at the simple human response.
“Eamon leaves an offering every night ‘to stay on good terms.’ Potatoes and milk. I thought he was pulling my leg. He seemed almost afraid to talk about Them.” She opened her mouth but then furrowed her brow.
“Eamon knows the old ways. His people knew them, feared them, and loved them. People nowadays think fairies are cute little winged creatures from Hollywood movies.” I ran my finger over the rim of the pretty glass.
“Granda knew how to keep us in line: “Don’t go out at night. Don’t follow the twinkling lights,” I was utterly terrified.” Breda shivered and chuckled, recalling a rule that all schoolchildren lived by.
“This is going down way too fast. How in the hell are we going to get home?” I giggled, then threw it back.
“Storey. My very only best friend, until now.” She shrugged her shoulders. “How about a ride in a Silver Phantom, girls?”
“Cheers to Storey,” Breda lifted her glass.
Calla tapped her phone, sending a text message.
“Not so fast, Calla. It’s my round.” I left the two of them sitting at the picnic table. Breda smiled, and Calla played with her fingers.
“Three espresso martinis.” I leaned on the bar top, and while the bartender prepared the order, I watched the O’Donnell men minus one: Hugh Jr. and Pádraig playing darts, Oisin talking up the pink-haired lady with purple glasses, Cillian and Tadgh shooting billiards. Tadgh lifted his gaze from the game, catching my eye. His smile warmed my heart.
I searched the room and found Colm alone, staring into his stout in the darkest corner of the pub. I studied him from a distance. I knew what love looked like and what losing someone felt like. Real or imagined, love hurts. I walked toward him and whispered into his ear. I owed him that one truth.
6
Ciarán
The grand hall, draped in billowing black silks, exuded a gothic grandeur. Marble columns crowned with inverted pineapples welcomed revelers to the ball. From the pages of dark fantasy—demons—gargoyle-like creatures leaped from pillar to post on disjointed limbs, their misshapen mouths dripping stardust onto the crowd below. Hydrogenous beings, neither male nor female, stroked pock-marked organs, hissing for release, which would come when their ruler gave the nod—the machinations of a depraved mind.
The beautiful people below seemed unaware of the baseless creatures above. They lounged on modular marshmallows, some in deep conversation, others in various states of undress. Strobe lights whirled pink and purple beams across the marbled dance floor, distorting reality—continuous motion broken into flashing still frames—the effect was mind-bending.
The ultimate trick for the trickster himself—Finvarra, the King of the Faeries.
Servers served enchanted wine while waiters dressed in black tuxedos cleared empty glasses from the glowing cubes.
The pounding beat enticed Finvarra’s guests onto the floor. Scantily dressed women doused in fragrance. Lust-crazed men flitted between partners. Each revolution of the circular floor took five minutes, the gentle motion leaving minds blurred. Pleasure became pain, and pain became pleasure.
The guitar player saturated the hall with screaming chords, and bodies thrashed to the head-banging riffs. Neon lights pulsated in sync.
I stared too long at a blue-haired nymph lost in the throes of a climax. The human, stationed between her thighs, planted his hand on the arch of her black velvet open-toed pump. He lifted her leg over his head, exposing her black lace garter and taut thigh. Suckling her pink flesh with hollowed cheeks, he gave her glistening core a thorough lashing. Her orgasmic screams heightened with the pulsing rhythm of the flashing strobe.
