Always Be My Banshee - Molly Harper - E-Book

Always Be My Banshee E-Book

Molly Harper

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Beschreibung

The latest Mystic Bayou novel from Audie Award-nominated author Molly Harper will have you swooning with passion and wailing with laughter! Cordelia Canton is on a top-secret assignment: travel to Mystic Bayou and use her powers as a touch-know psychic to learn more about the mysterious artifact that's been pulled from the rift site. She's partnered with Brendan O'Connor, a rare male banshee whose tall, dark, and broody good looks are a major distraction. Before long, it becomes clear that the artifact they're studying is sentient—and brimming with supernatural power. Can they harness its magic in time to stop the secret forces conspiring to steal it?

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Seitenzahl: 353

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2020

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ALWAYS BE MY BANSHEE

MOLLY HARPER

This book is licensed to you for your personal enjoyment only.

This book may not be sold, shared, or given away.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the writer’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Always Be My Banshee

Copyright © 2020 by Molly Harper

Ebook ISBN: 9781641971621

Print ISBN: 9798579171092

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

This ebook is based on an Audible Original audiobook.

No part of this work may be used, reproduced, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without prior permission in writing from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

NYLA Publishing

121 W 27th St., Suite 1201, New York, NY 10001

http://www.nyliterary.com

Contents

1. Cordelia

2. Brendan

3. Cordelia

4. Brendan

5. Cordelia

6. Brendan

7. Cordelia

8. Cordelia

9. Brendan

10. Cordelia

11. Brendan

12. Cordelia

13. Brendan

14. Cordelia

15. Cordelia

Acknowledgments

Sneak Peek at Book 6, ONE FINE FAE

Also by Molly Harper

About the Author

1

Cordelia

If there was one thing Cordelia Canton understood, it was hair-soaking, ass-cheeks-sticking-to-the-upholstery heat and humidity. Even to her sturdy Floridian sensibilities, southern Louisiana was freaking ridiculous.

She lifted her heavy, umber-colored hair off of her neck and twisted it into a bun with the practiced efficiency of someone who had wintered in the relentlessly tropical Sunshine State. She secured the bun with an extra elastic from her purse, then peeled off the cotton gloves that were essential to her any time she left her apartment. She felt like she was suffocating, one body part at a time.

Steam curled up from the sidewalk after that afternoon’s waterfall of a rainstorm, making her sensible travel clothes stick to her like a second skin. She scanned the lineup of vehicles that seemed to cycle in and out of the lanes in a chaotic automotive ballet. None of them was the white van she was told to expect. She was starting to feel like a child left after school by a forgetful parent.

This was supposed to be her reward for years of competent service to the International League for Interspecies Cooperation—fieldwork. She despised fieldwork, loathed it. She hated the crowded airports, the never-ending cycle of gloves she needed to protect herself, the hotels that were never clean enough⁠—

Stopping herself mid-mental rant, she shook her head, muttering, “No, you’re not going to do that to yourself. You will see this as a positive. You’re here because you’re the best analyst in your department. This is an opportunity. That’s what they said in the letter—an opportunity. It’s a good thing you were sent here. Just stop trying to turn this into a pity party.”

The last line sounded like Bernadette Canton, shockingly so, and it made Cordelia seal her lips against further “affirmations.”

Sitting on her well-worn luggage and talking to herself in her mother’s voice on the sidewalk outside the Louis Armstrong New Orleans International Airport was not how she expected to begin this assignment. She’d traveled for the League before when artifacts couldn’t be moved safely to her office; to Hong Kong and Rome and a very strange convenience store in Parsippany, New Jersey. Each time she’d been treated with the same efficient consideration she received as an in-house psychic evaluator in the League’s Washington DC headquarters. She’d been picked up on time, in a nice air-conditioned town car with a translator/guide—which had been particularly helpful in New Jersey. She definitely hadn’t been left to sweat her ass off at the arrivals gate, amongst tourists who were already three-quarters drunk—she paused and checked her watch—for thirty minutes.

She pulled her pale blue linen blouse away from her neck and fanned herself. She understood the League’s need for subtlety and secrecy, especially with this particular assignment—an assignment so top secret that she didn’t know anything about the artifact she’d be examining, its origins or exact location. She did not understand why her supervisors insisted on all personnel for Mystic Bayou arriving separately and meeting up at the ride-share lane like a bunch of tourists. She also failed to grasp why the League would hire someone who clearly didn’t understand punctuality or the limits of a woman’s ability to tolerate boob sweat.It was October for goodness’ sake.

Of course, it wasn’t unusual for her to be brought into a work situation blind, so to speak. Her supervisors didn’t want to influence her evaluations. She’d worked in the League’s DC research offices for the better part of ten years. Day in, day out, she’d been comfortably enclosed in her little climate-controlled office, examining artifacts, determining their value and power, and cataloging them for the archives. Then the League whisked those items away and stored them in deep underground vaults in undisclosed locations. Not all of them were supernaturally powerful objects; some were just old. She’d seen some of history’s greatest events, living them as if she were there. And on occasion, she saw nothing. She loved those days. She slept better.

She opened her small travel pill organizer and dry-swallowed two Extra Strength Tylenol, a calcium supplement, and a prescription multi-vitamin. Traveling always left her feeling like a wet paper sack in a windstorm, even when she’d been on the road with her mother. The effort of keeping up her shield leeched away the nutrients from her relatively healthy diet, leaving her more susceptible to anemia, fatigue, bone fractures, and a host of other health issues. She had a box of supplements in her suitcase that would put a hypochondriac to shame, but this little travel kit should keep her covered until she got to her assigned League housing in Mystic Bayou.

Of course, if she didn’t get inside an air-conditioned space soon, she was going to toss those supplements and several bottles worth of water onto the shoes of her tardy driver. Even if that driver showed up in the next minute, she considered throwing up anyway out of spite.

She stared off into the hazy heat of the horizon, imagining that she was somewhere more pleasant— skipping a show to watch the sun sinking into the ocean off the coast of Oregon, or in that freak September snowstorm that had trapped the whole caravan in Wyoming. It had been the first time Cordelia had ever seen snow. For all her power, watching those little tufts of untouched ice fall out of the sky had been the most magical thing she’d ever witnessed.

Cold, lashing pain spiked through her temples, and suddenly she remembered how angry her mother had been when she’d skipped that show in Oregon, and the punishment that had followed. She shook off the memory and was suddenly aware of a white van pulling up to the curb. The side of the van read, “Crazy Jock’s Self-Storage” in bright orange block letters, just over what she realized was a rather offensive caricature of a Cajun.

“What fresh hell is this?” Cordelia said.

The driver put the van in park and stepped out. He was tall, lean, and pale, almost unnaturally so, and he wasn’t sweating even in this heat. Was he a vampire? She’d never actually met one, but after working for the League she’d come to realize that everything else existed, so why not vampires? Then again, it was broad daylight. She was pretty sure that was still a rule for vampires, right?

Ugh, the heat was making her all dull-witted.

She supposed it was his cheekbones that made her think of vampires. They gave him the haunted air of a Byronic hero, all hollows and edges and sharp-eyed misery. His hair was black, not just dark brown, but so black that it seemed to absorb the light around it. All he was missing was some heavy collared coat flipped around his ears and he would look very mysterious indeed.

This is what she got for traveling to New Orleans. She had vampires and all manner of nonsense on the brain and she hadn’t even left the airport.

Bottom line, he was gorgeous, even in jeans and a plain black dress shirt. But she was just too sweaty to care or concern herself with the very limp and sad first impression she was surely making on one of the most attractive people she’d met in a very long time.

This lack of confidence was temporary, not a chronic condition. She knew she was delicately pretty with a slim build and wide blue eyes. She’d made a career out of those guileless looks when she was younger. After all, Bernadette would insist, what audience wouldn’t believe pretty lies when they came from such an angelic little face? When Cordelia was feeling more like herself, she might have to put her wiles to her best advantage. Right now, she just wanted to scrape herself off the sidewalk and get out of this heat.

“You heading to the Devil’s Armpit?” he asked in a lilting Irish brogue that seemed much more cheerful than his tone. Of course, he had a beautiful—if slightly flat—voice to go with the face. The accent just wasn’t fair to her poor celibate soul.

She nodded slightly as she recognized the code her driver was supposed to give to confirm his involvement with the League. “Just a bit further off the map, actually. Here there be dragons.”

He rolled those blue eyes, just slightly, and she realized it wasn’t for her. The League’s archaic spy games could be trying even when you weren’t driving a bright orange rental van of dubious origins. “All right then, in you get.”

Without asking, he took her two large suitcases and loaded them into the van. She noticed that he was careful not to touch her with those pale, long-fingered hands, which she appreciated. She wondered if Dr. Ramsay had informed the driver of her “condition.” From what she’d heard of Jillian Ramsay, that was just the sort of thoughtful detail that had made her such a good fit for the community liaison position in Mystic Bayou.

Cordelia’s lips curved at the corners. It was nice, to find someone who was considerate of her skills. As much as they were a gift, psychic talents could be a curse. Having her head flooded with images, the emotional echoes from other people, other times—loving and hurting one another, and sometimes, dying. People had no idea the chain of others that held and touched the objects around them and left them teeming with memory traces. She avoided antique stores like they were radioactive. Everything she owned was new, from her clothes to her furniture to her utensils. It was just easier that way. Sure, she had enough control to avoid the worst of the pain, but it was exhausting to keep up that constant shield.

Hell, she’d had to spend most of the plane ride to New Orleans meditating, just so she could avoid the tide of anxiety, fear, and bladder fullness crashing down on her from previous passengers.

Cordelia climbed into the passenger seat. While the driver had gallantly wrestled her luggage into the van, he hadn’t actually introduced himself, which created a certain amount of social awkwardness when he took the driver’s seat. He cranked up the air-conditioner and pointed it in her direction, without comment. In fact, he didn’t say anything at all besides grumbling various colorful curses in what she thought maybe was Gaelic while he pulled smoothly into the melee of traffic.

While the hair on her arms stood up, she felt the familiar sensation of being in the presence of a creature who was “other” like herself. She couldn’t quite place what he was or what his gift could be. In fact, she wasn’t getting any sort of reading from him at all. Usually, when she was tired and distressed like this, she was practically bombarded with images, but all she felt now was blessed silence and air-conditioning.

Of course, the goose pimples could also be related to the air-conditioning. The blissful, blissful air-conditioning.

Cordelia expected that he might make some sort of small talk once they’d traveled out of the worst of New Orleans’ snarled freeways, but he kept his hands at ten-and-two and his tongue in check. No comments on the traffic or even the heat, just silence. She supposed it was a bit like taking a taxi—not that she’d ever tried that, since it would be the psychic equivalent of a rolling iron maiden. Maybe he was waiting for her to establish whether this was to be a non-verbal ride or a conversational ride?

It would be easier to sit there and enjoy the quiet, she supposed, not to mention the strong cell phone signal. Mystic Bayou was in the middle of nowhere. The assignment briefing mentioned the availability of satellite smartphones to keep in touch with loved ones in the “outside world.” Not that she had loved ones to contact, but context was always helpful—there may have been dragons at the edge of the map, but there certainly wouldn’t be more than two signal bars.

Still, Cordelia was going to have to work with this man and many other League employees over the next few months as they all tried to sort out the mess in Mystic Bayou. She didn’t know a single one of them besides the director of operations, Sonja Fong, and no one really knew Sonja Fong.

Ms. Fong was a League legend, only spoken of in hushed, reverent tones in the hallways and breakrooms. Cordelia never participated in those conversations, but still, she overheard things.

It wouldn’t hurt to have at least one acquaintance when she arrived in town. She’d developed a habit of keeping to herself since moving to DC, not just at home but at the office, too. She’d burrowed into her lovely private workroom with its light table and enclosed HVAC system, where she didn’t have to deal with other people or have their messy memories and emotions splashing all over her. Cordelia spent years methodically deprogramming her mother’s lessons from her brain, teaching herself to see the people around her as more than marks for the fleecing. And when she wasn’t sure that had worked, she kept her distance. The most social interaction she got was at the office, and that consisted of riding the elevator and making a concerted effort not to touch anyone or anything.

She lived in a nondescript building in an unexciting corner of Crystal City. She liked ordinary. She liked mundane. She’d had enough adventure and wandering. Through the miracles of the internet and home delivery, Cordelia could get groceries, clothes, movies, anything she needed without leaving her cozy apartment. And after the tumult of her childhood…yes, burrowing was definitely the right word. She’d built a den, dug in, and protected herself from the outside world.

The painful silence clouding the van was evidence enough of her rusted social skills, and of her tendency of burrowing inside her own head as well. And she still wasn’t talking. Was there a limit for how long they could sit there in silence before it was no longer acceptable for her to try to start a conversation? Had that window closed?

“So, Mystic Bayou,” she blurted out, surprising even herself.

The man’s shoulder’s jerked suddenly, as if he’d forgotten she was in the van at all. Cordelia tried to find it in herself to be offended, but she found she didn’t mind. It was funny, after spending so much of her time in front of an audience, blinded by a spotlight.

She cleared her throat, smiling hesitantly while she bolstered her mental shield. “What’s it like?”

“Haven’t the foggiest,” he admitted in that dry, musical voice. “I’ve never set foot in the place.”

She glanced back into the open cargo space of the van, across a landscape of carefully labeled boxes. While her bags had been secured by freight belts near the back door, a huge faded green duffel bag was wedged against the back of their seats. The airline luggage tag attached to the handle read “Brendan O’Connor,” with a departure from Dublin, Ireland.

“I thought they were sending someone from town to pick me up,” Cordelia said.

Brendan, if that was his name, shook his head. “I’m just starting there, myself. This is what you might call a strategic carpool. They needed someone to pick up supplies this morning and…well, you. Three birds with one stone.”

“Why the culturally offensive rental van? I thought the League had a whole fleet stationed in the bayou?” Cordelia asked.

“They do. Stretched to the limit, apparently, by some local to-do. No one had time or the wheels to come fetch either of us. So, the van was booked, loaded, and ready for me to take from the overnight lot when I landed,” Brendan said.

“This sounds like how people become victims of sketchy internet-based crimes on Dateline,” Cordelia replied.

He snorted, but didn’t disagree.

She added, “Well, thank you, I suppose, for taking the time.”

“Eh, I’ve always wanted to know what it was like to drive on the wrong side of the road. Unless you’d like to drive?” Brendan asked.

“Oh, no, I don’t have a license,” Cordelia said.

He turned to her, mouth agape. “I thought everybody in America had their own cars.”

“My teenage years were what you might call ‘unconventional,’” Cordelia said.

Cordelia relaxed into her seat, preparing herself for the moment that her shield slipped and this man’s feelings and thoughts flitted into her brain like unwelcome AM radio signals. While her gift was primarily touch-based, she could get flashes when she was enclosed in a confined space like this with someone. It was what had made the plane ride so uncomfortable, knowing that she could pick up someone’s memories like a germ. The stronger the memory, whether it was picked up by touch or proximity, the longer it would stay with her—bubbling up in her own thoughts or as nightmares, waking her up screaming in the middle of the night. But now, she was just getting a blank sort of white noise, which wasn’t…unpleasant.

Outside the van windows, the buildings became fewer and farther between. The marshy landscape gave way to the wildness that had only been hinted at in the city. This should have made her uncomfortable. For all her travels, she’d never been this deep into the Louisiana swamp before, and with her talent, the unknown could be very uncomfortable. So instead, she focused on the stranger at her side, who seemed to make the unknown a more appealing puzzle.

Curious, she watched his sharp profile as she slowly reached behind their seats. It wouldn’t do for him to see her do what most people would consider a singular act of weirdness and intrusion. But one never really forgot sleight of hand, particularly when it was taught by Melvin the Magnificent himself.

Without him realizing she’d even shifted in her seat, she tapped her hand against his bag. Just two quick taps, just enough to form a fleeting connection and check it for “attachments.” But besides the agony of a baggage handler at Dublin Airport with a herniated disc, she felt nothing. She dropped her shield a bit more, opening herself up to the gut-deep despair a TSA agent felt while rifling through Brendan’s socks at Newark, wondering if this was what he was going to be doing for the rest of his life, if this was why he’d spent years acquiring a doctorate in philosophy. She could taste that poor TSA agent’s desolation like she could taste the stale vending machine burrito he’d had for lunch that afternoon. But still, nothing from the Irish driver himself.

She stared at him as they sped down the highway, her arm drifting across the center console. Even as her hand moved, she knew she was breaking one of her own cardinal rules, rules she’d established as a pre-teen to protect her tender mind from all manner of nastiness she wasn’t ready to process. She did not touch people without her gloves, particularly people she didn’t know well. The potential for seeing something that could never be unseen was just too much. And yet, here she was, her bare fingers millimeters away from the forearm bared when he’d rolled up his sleeve. For the first time in years, she wanted a connection, more than she’d ever wanted chocolate or maybe even oxygen.

He glanced at her, dark brows winging up, as her fingers closed around his arm. “What are you doing?”

She closed her eyes, expecting to be overwhelmed with psychic debris—feelings and memories like song lyrics she’d likely never get out of her head. But all she felt was cool, smooth flesh under her warm fingertips. She wasn’t even sure she felt a pulse. His eyes went wide, a combination of surprise and dread crashing through the blue irises.

For the first time in as long as she could remember, she was touching someone and sensing absolutely nothing from them. Her mouth dropped open as he pulled his arm away.

“What are you?” Cordelia asked.

“You don’t think that’s a bit rude?” he exclaimed, gesturing toward the steering wheel. “I’m driving here! On unfamiliar roads! You don’t just grab on to someone when they’re driving, especially not when they’re driving in a foreign bloody country! Did ya think I needed the extra challenge?”

“I’m so sorry,” she gasped, laughing in shock. “But I don’t feel anything from you.”

“You barely bloody know me. You didn’t even introduce yourself, how are you supposed to feel anything for me?” Brendan demanded.

She laughed again and then, coughed over it to cover it. “No, I mean I don’t—I can touch you.”

“Well, it’s not that I find you repulsive, mind, but I think I get a say in that,” Brendan said.

She shook her head. “Yes, I’m sorry, you’re right. I’m being so rude. It’s just, I haven’t—It’s been a very long time since…”

“You don’t get out much, do you?” Brendan asked.

“No, I don’t.” She sank back into her seat, her face flushing red. “And you didn’t introduce yourself, either, by the way.”

He frowned. “I didn’t. You’re right. I’m being rude. Jetlag’s gotten to me, I think. Brendan O’Connor.”

“Cordelia Canton,” Cordelia said.

“That’s charmingly alliterative,” he murmured, returning his attention to the road. Again, he failed to offer her his hand, which was fine with her.

She stared out the window, wishing she was outside, drowning under the rippling bayou waters. Maybe inside an alligator’s belly. She used to know how to…people. She’d been considered charismatic, charming, even. But now, she was going to have to concentrate on not being a maladjusted weirdo 24/7 just to function in what promised to be a very small town.

What was it that Bernadette used to say about small towns, she mused. Small towns, smaller minds.

Sure, Mystic Bayou was supposed to be chock-full of shifters and fairies and all manner of magique, as the supernatural creatures called themselves, but psychics were a different thing altogether. Being able to see what other people couldn’t made those people uncomfortable, even if they were accustomed to the strange and unusual. Everybody assumed Cordelia was intentionally looking for images of them naked or their banking information—just another reason she spent so much time alone.

No, she’d spent too much time trying to forget Bernadette’s teachings. She wouldn’t try to be Miss Congeniality of Mystic Bayou, but she would be fine. This episode of grabbing Brendan’s arm was just a stumbling first step in a successful journey ending in professional success and painless social interactions.

“What in the world?” She glanced up as Brendan slowed the van to a crawl. Children were frolicking down the sidewalk in cheerful homemade Halloween costumes—ghosts and witches and fairies. Each carried a bag heavy with treats towards the town square, followed by indulgent, smiling parents.

They passed a number of cement block businesses, most of which seemed to be owned and operated by a family named Boone—the local bank, a boat dealership, the grocery store, the beauty salon, the hardware store, and a cafe marked “Bathtilda’s Pie Shop, Home of the World’s Best Chocolate Rhubarb Pie.” Those buildings, and the rare businesses that didn’t seem to be owned by Boones, were freshly painted, sparkling clean, and decorated with carved pumpkins and all manner of autumn-themed decorations. Mystic Bayou appeared to be a town on the rise.

“I forgot today was Halloween,” she murmured.

The corner of his thin lips lifted. “You didn’t notice all the people in the airport in costumes?”

She shrugged. “New Orleans.”

“Fair enough,” Brendan said.

In the distance, she could see Edison lights strung up between streetlamps. The entire fleet of League vans was parked around the town square in front of a large whitewashed parish hall, their back doors open and decorated with various spooky-but-bloodless family-friendly themes. People were stationed at each van, handing out candy to the trick-or-treaters.

“Well, that explains where the vans were,” Brendan muttered.

The closer they got to the town square, the more realistic the costumes became. Two people in over-sized porcupine costumes were handing out candied apples. A woman with extremely detailed fairy wings danced beside a pile of bread near the base of a fountain. A curvy brunette wearing a Wonder Woman costume appeared to be riding on the back of a full-size adult brown bear. And curled around a gazebo, blowing smoke rings into the air over a giant arrangement of pumpkins in all shapes and shades of orange…

“That’s a dragon,” Cordelia said.

“Aye.” Brendan stopped the van and marveled at the massive green and gold creature receiving ear-scratches from a blonde, pregnant woman in a medieval princess costume.

“A real-life dragon. Like Game of Thrones without the shockingly disappointing ending,” Cordelia said.

Brendan nodded. “Aye.”

She’d known that Mystic Bayou was occupied by shifters, but seeing this…all those people in costumes; they weren’t in costumes. These were people in their shifter forms, out in the open, handing out treats to children. It was different than the League office, where “alternate natures” were acknowledged, but no one just walked around the hallways in their other skin. What was it going to be like living here?

“This place is really fecking weird. And I say that as someone well-acquainted with the really fecking weird,” Brendan said.

She nodded. “On this, we agree.”

2

Brendan

All Brendan O’Connor wanted was a beer and some peace and quiet after a grueling day of travel. Instead, he got screaming children and worse—an Americanized Samhain.

He supposed it could have been worse. At least it wasn’t St. Patrick’s Day.

Brendan parked the van near the parish hall and climbed out. The air was marginally cooler here, but it was still bizarre to see an autumnal celebration while it was so damnably hot outside. The only thing between him and the crowd was the large, pumpkin-ringed fountain, its stones carved into bears, porcupines, and unicorns huddled with fairies and humans under the shelter of a dragon’s proud wings. Brendan’s sense of tradition was somewhat mollified by the appearance of carved turnips tucked in with the other jack-o’-lanterns. At least someone around here seemed to respect the roots of the holiday.

He glanced over his shoulder and saw his companion staring at the door handle like it was some insurmountable hurdle. The lady was a puzzle, that was for sure. She’d looked like she was ready to fall over when he found her waiting on the sidewalk. Not that she was any less gorgeous for it—dark hair that framed a fine-boned face and eyes big and blue enough to drown in, and those lips. He’d never understood what people were on about when they talked about a Cupid’s bow of a mouth, but he saw it now. And some perverse part of his brain kept wondering what it would feel like to lick that tiny divot on top of her lips…which would probably result in her smacking him—rightly so.

Inappropriate licking fantasies aside, there was a sort of delicacy about her that made him want to tuck her into his pocket and keep her safe from the world, a destructive impulse that had him forgetting all his proper manners and clamming up so tight he couldn’t even bother to tell her his name. But then she was all at once standoffish and distant, and he thought perhaps it was for the best. It didn’t do for a bansidhe to go around adopting stray damsels, no matter how fine. It only led to misery and marriages like his Auntie Bridget’s.

But then she’d grabbed him, and he’d been so afraid of what he might see that he’d damn near run off the road. He’d honed his “gift” over the years so that he only sensed immediately dire situations, but still, he rarely took the chance of casual contact. And the way she’d clung to him, the expression of wonder on her face when she told him she felt nothing from him—ouch—it was enough to make him want to pull the van over and kiss her senseless. And as she seemed like a generally sensible lady—the reserved manner, the travel clothes that wouldn’t show the wrinkles, the roomy shoulder bag with one of those slash-proof straps—that would likely take a very long time. But he was willing to devote himself to the task.

He watched Cordelia take a deep breath and open the door. She looked over the crowded square as if it was occupied by the spawn of hell. He circled the van and stood next to her, united in dread. What in the hell had he gotten himself into?

He’d been perfectly fine running the League’s underground artifacts warehouse in County Clare, thank you very much. The remote Burren area had interconnected caves and caverns aplenty to use as safe underground storage for western Europe’s more dangerous magical articles. He had his little cottage and his large flat-screen telly and he thought that’s all he’d need in life. But then his boss had come to him with this “opportunity” and like an eejit, he’d jumped at the obscene amount of money he was being offered for a few months’ work. Being a banshee wasn’t exactly rife with financial security.

“Fieldwork, they said,” Brendan muttered. “See more of the world, they said. Get the fresh air into your lungs, they said.”

Cordelia snickered and the relaxed, amused expression on her face tugged him out of his foul mood. His brow wrinkled, because normally his moods were a bit less tuggable. He’d been known to brood…extensively. It was the nature of the beast, so to speak.

“Is that really what got you out here? A rousing speech full of cheerful lifestyle suggestions?” Cordelia asked.

Something about the way she said ‘a rousing’ did terrible and wonderful things to the direction of his blood flow. He was blaming jet lag. It was the only possible explanation for this loss of control over his person.

“Well, that and the money,” said Brendan.

“Oh, good, I was worried about your gullibility for a moment there.”

Across the square, Wonder Woman slid off the bear’s back and he nuzzled at her leg as she passed. The bear ambled around the corner of the parish hall. The medieval lady gave the dragon one last pat and trotted across the square, one hand supporting the slight bump of her belly. She waved to two men dressed like Disney princes, who stopped handing out candy, bowed gallantly to several enraptured little girls, and began unloading the supplies from the van.

“Hi!” the medieval princess called, grinning widely. “You must be Brendan and Cordelia. I’m so sorry you had to drive yourselves out and serve as delivery drivers, but as you can see, it’s just been so crazy here lately. We need all hands pitching in. I’m Jillian Ramsay, acting executive director of the Mystic Bayou project.”

Jillian kept her hands behind her back, as if she had to remind herself not to reach out in greeting. Brendan felt himself warming to the princess, but given the way the dragon was eyeing him from across the square, he had no intention of trying to rescue her. Cordelia, for her part, was edging behind Brendan, like he would somehow shield her from social interaction.

“You’ve arrived in the middle of the town’s trick-or-treating, I’m afraid,” said Jillian. “People live so far apart around here, it’s safer for the kids to put all the treats in one place. Clarissa Berend is kind enough to make freezer meals for all the ‘newcomers’ as they arrive in town, so you don’t have to rely on kettle corn and candied apples for dinner. Unless you like that sort of thing. No judgments.”

Brendan glanced at Cordelia and realized she wouldn’t be speaking any time soon, as she seemed to have mentally curled into the fetal position. “Um, that’s much appreciated, thank you.”

“So, did you two have a chance to talk much on the drive?” Jillian asked. “I know the vague job descriptions can be maddening, but I hope they gave you enough detail that you were able to figure out you’d be working as a team.”

Brendan cleared his throat. “I wasn’t much company, I’m afraid. Jet lag’s a terrible thing and I could barely stay awake, much less make conversation.”

“Well, if you two don’t mind stopping by my office tomorrow morning when you’ve rested up,” Jillian said. “Normally, I’d let you settle in for a few days, but honestly, the situation needs to be addressed as⁠—"

Suddenly, an enormous bearded man came back around the corner, yanking a pair of sweatpants into place. Brendan considered himself to be secure in his masculinity. He definitely wasn’t standing a little taller at the sight of the other man’s broad shoulders and blacksmith’s muscles.

But honestly, what sort of supernatural steroids did they put in the water around here?

The man’s thick black beard parted over a genial smile. “Sorry, didn’t want to shift in front of the kids. Dani says public nudity isn’t very statesman-like,” he said, jogging forward, his hand already outstretched toward Cordelia. For her part, Cordelia seemed transfixed, unable to move from the path of the friendly human freight train headed directly for her.

Jillian had only managed to gasp, “Zed, no!” when the mountain of a man took Cordelia’s hand and pumped it up and down with so much vigor, Brendan feared for her arm. Cordelia’s eyes went wide and she braced herself as if she was preparing to be punched, not at all the same expression she’d had when she’d touched Brendan.

Suddenly, Cordelia’s shoulders sagged and she burst out laughing. “Herr Scalesnstuff?”

Zed’s smoke-gray eyes went the size of saucers as he whispered, “How do you know about Herr Scalesnstuff?”

“And Dr. Squeakenstein!” she giggled, bending at the waist now. Brendan began to wonder if the travel fatigue had claimed Cordelia’s sanity. “I can see you, up to your chin in bubbles this morning, playing with rubber duckies. And the bubbles⁠—”

“Le diable!” Zed whispered, jerking his hand away. “Jillian, is this the psychic lady you hired? I told you it’s not fair when you don’t warn us about another magique’s powers before introductions.”

Brendan struggled to follow what exactly was happening. Maybe the jet lag hit him harder than he thought?

“Well, you didn’t give me time, Zed, you just ran her over with the welcome wagon!” Jillian exclaimed.

And Cordelia was still laughing. Wonder Woman ran forward, her green eyes wide with alarm. She took Zed’s wrist, as if she was checking him over for wounds. “Is everything OK?”

“I’m so sorry,” Cordelia wheezed, wiping at the tears in her eyes. “It’s just, your mind. I’ve never seen anything so…”

“I am very worried about the words about to come out of her mouth,” Jillian murmured, shaking her head.

“Cute!” Cordelia exclaimed, making Jillian clap her hand over her mouth, smothering a cackle. “The bubbles smelled like strawberries!”

“Hey, now!” Zed grumbled, now visibly pouting. “I am very manly and terrifying. I just happen to enjoy a nice bubble bath.”

Wonder Woman tried to cover up the fact that she was laughing, but was shaking so hard that her dark curls positively bounced around her crown.

“What is happening?” Brendan huffed.

“You are the sweetest teddy bear of a man I have ever met,” Cordelia told him, positively beaming up at Zed. “Honestly, I’ve never seen pictures from a mind so genuinely kind. I mean, you love that woman. You love almost everybody here. It’s like being wrapped up in a big fluffy quilt made of hugs. It almost restores my faith in people.”

“Manly and terrifying,” Zed repeated, though given the soft expression in his eyes, Brendan suspected that Cordelia had just made herself some sort of muscle-bound guardian for life.

“Yes, honey, we all know you’re a great big brute,” Wonder Woman assured him, making him bend to kiss her neck. Wonder Woman blushed beautifully and gave him a smacking kiss. Brendan supposed he didn’t have to worry about this mayor’s intentions towards Cordelia after all.

“Our esteemed mayor, Zed Berend, ladies and gentlemen,” Jillian said, rolling her eyes. “Bael is going to be so mad that he missed this.”

“Nope!” A young woman in a mermaid costume held up her phone. She was so animated in her triumph, she nearly dislodged the fork stuck in her bright red wig. “I got the whole thing on video! I’ll email you the file tonight.”

“Rude!” Zed cried. “I’m telling your maman, Sonja!”

“Oh, I’ve already sent it to her!” the mermaid yelled back.

“I knew I could count on you!” Jillian cried.

“I’m sorry not to introduce myself properly,” said the mermaid. “But I swear I’ll do that tomorrow. Right now, I’ve got to get to the clinic. Will is dealing with several vomit-y kids. Next year, we need to put up a sign that says ‘one per child’ on the candied apple line.”

Jillian pursed her lips. “I will take that under advisement, Sonja.”

“Is that Sonja Fong?” Cordelia whispered. “Did I just meet Sonja Fong and not even realize it? In a mermaid costume? This is the weirdest day ever.”

Brendan marveled at the absolute madness around him. He’d signed on to a bloody asylum, operated by the lunatics. Cordelia, however, had bloomed in the last few moments. Her laughter seemed to have relaxed her whole body into a far less miserable posture, her pale cheeks flushed a healthy pink. He supposed it couldn’t be all bad, if it brought her out of the mental exile she’d imposed on herself.

Zed shook off the awkwardness and reached for Brendan’s hand. “Sorry about that.”

“I’ll decline the handshake, if it’s all the same,” Brendan said.

Zed eyed him suspiciously. “Are you a psychic, too?”

“I thought it was rude to ask something like that,” Wonder Woman reminded him gently. She waggled her hand at the pair of newcomers. “Hi, I’m Dani. This one’s mate. I swear, entrances aren’t usually so dramatic around here.”

“You know that’s not true!” Sonja called as she shuffled away in her narrow sequined mermaid skirt. “Why would you lie to these nice people?”

“The entrances are a little dramatic around here,” Zed conceded. “And if you’re tired, you’ll probably want to get settled into your bunks before dark. That’s when the kids go home for the night and the adult celebrations start up.”

Cordelia grimaced. “Not like in that Simpsons Grown-Up Halloween episode, right?”

Brendan’s still heart went pitter-pat for just a moment. She knew her Simpsons. Saints help him, she knew the good episodes of the Simpsons. If he was a wee bit infatuated before, he was practically a lost cause now.

Dani snorted. “I would say no, but I wasn’t here last year.”

“Y’all missed the Harvest Festival; that’s when things get real rowdy,” Zed said. “On Halloween, we try to keep to as many of the traditions as we can, to keep the balance and honor the old ways. We float lanterns on the bayou. We have big bonfires and leave out the most recent fruits from the harvest as thanks. We exchange soul cakes and say prayers for our dead. And then we stay up all night getting the graveyard ready for the various versions of Día de los Muertos—putting bread and pine boughs and flowers on the headstones, that sort of thing.”

Brendan nodded in approval. “Well, as culturally edifying as all that sounds, I do think I’ll turn in. It’s a very different hour back home.”

Brendan didn’t mention what really worried him. No matter the time zone, it was All Hallow’s Eve, the night when the veil between the human world and the spirit world was its thinnest. The chances of him receiving a death song were incredibly high. The chance of him being visited by the random phantom of some backwoods local was higher. It was rare, but it happened. He just didn’t think he had it in him to deal with messages from the other side. He needed to be indoors and preferably unconscious before midnight struck.

“I’ll show them their trailers,” Jillian said. “You keep an eye on things.”

“So far, so good,” Zed told her, as if he was trying to assure her.

Her expression was serious. “Yell for me if that changes.”

Brendan’s brows rose. This was an oddly serious exchange between two people who seemed otherwise composed of fluff. Were they worried about poison in the sweets or something? He’d heard of that sort of thing being an urban legend that terrified American parents, but surely no one would be bold enough to tamper with children’s treats at a League function in front of dozens of witnesses.

He slung his own bag over his shoulder and took Cordelia’s suitcases in hand.

“You don’t have to do that,” Cordelia said.

“You’re about ready to drop off your feet,” Brendan told her. “And it sounds like we have a long day ahead of us tomorrow.”