C.E. Murphy - Raven Calls

She came down the stairs toward us, her hands extended in greeting. Prudently, and without discussing it, we all took a step back. Even Gancanagh, whose gaze was a mix between starstruck and avaricious, retreated. I wondered if Aibhill was like him, a seducer, and I wondered what happened if two of them started working their wiles on each other. I bet it would either lead to instant all-out warfare or fantasmagorically good sex. “You,” she said to all of us in what could be legitimately called dulcet tones, “you have all been very naughty. Which of you is the child of Sheila MacNamarra?”

Quite certain I would regret it, but also not entirely able to help myself, I reversed the step I’d taken and put myself forward. “That would be me.”

Aibhill pursed her lips. Fine full lips of a perfect pearly pink. Women spent vast amounts of money on lipstick trying to achieve that shade, but as she came closer it became clear it was her natural coloring, as was the milky pale skin and the honestly blond hair. No honey-colored roots saying the blond came from sun bleaching: she was one of those rare adults who made it to adulthood and remained towheaded. Why, I wondered, were the banshees so impossibly ugly, if Aibhill was so lovely, and at the back of my mind the suggestion of a penny dropped. I scrabbled after it, lost the thought and tried to focus on the unearthly beauty in front of me. “I’m Joanne Walker. Sheila’s daughter.”

“And you’ll be wanting her back,” Aibhill said with gentle amusement. Gancanagh took a step toward her, drawn like a cat to cream, and she smiled at him so sweetly that jealousy spiked in me. I didn’t want anybody smiling at Morrison like that except me.

He wasn’t Morrison. And my mother wasn’t Aibhill’s yet, not even halfway, because we’d burned her bones. “She doesn’t belong to you.”

“No.” Aibhill looked Gancanagh up and down, still smiling, then turned her attention back to me in a way that suggested I was a trifle to be dealt with and Morrison— Gancanagh ��was far, far more interesting. “No,” she repeated, idly, “I suppose she doesn’t quite, not yet, but I can hardly afford to let her go, can I? Not when you’ve struck down so many of my blades. Did you not think to ask? Ask, rather than come as warriors?”

I wet my lips and glanced at my companions. Gancanagh paid me no mind, his very breathing in tandem with Aibhill’s. I wanted to slap him. So, from Méabh’s expression, did she. I cleared my throat, trying to shake off caring how the banshee queen affected a fairy man, and said, “Well, no.” There was a reason I hadn’t come asking, either. I was sure of it. I was just having a hard time remembering, what with Morrison salivating over the white-gowned woman.

“It’s hard work,” Aibhill explained rather earnestly. Morrison cast me a condemnatory look, like I should be ashamed for not believing her. “Making the blades. Shaping their grief and anger into weapons. I give them revenge, you understand.”

I knotted my hand into a fist and stared at Aibhill’s hem so I couldn’t see Gancanagh-Morrison. “You mean revenge on innocent people they’ve never met, all so a horrible death monster can grow stronger.”

“Revenge on the lovers who scorned them,” Aibhill corrected. “As you would no doubt like revenge on Lucas, mmm? Or you on Ailill,” she said to Méabh while my stomach went heavy. Méabh made a sound like what I felt, and Aibhill’s smile broadened. “Shall we go to him together, Morrígan’s daughter? Shall we give him a taste of your anger?”

“He’s tasted my revenge already, and will again soon enough,” Méabh said thickly. I could hear the temptation in her voice, but really, she’d killed him once. That was probably enough for most people. Except she probably thought my captain, standing there mesmerized by Aibhill, was her Ailill, which meant she was not only deluded but that Morrison was potentially in trouble. I edged half a step forward.

Aibhill, unconcerned by me or by Méabh, turned her smile back to me. “Then think of the sweetness of your revenge, Sheila’s daughter. Served cold, all unexpected, all rich and savory. Would it not be a delicious dish?”

There was nothing even slightly cold about the revenge I was plotting on Méabh just then. My fist worked itself open and closed again. I might be able to take her, if I surprised her enough. Failing all else, I could turn to the wolf.

Heat flared in my left arm like excitement had taken up residence there. It would hurt for a second or two, but then I’d have Méabh’s long throat in my teeth and Gancanagh would be mine. I might have to rip Aibhill’s throat out, too, but I distantly thought that was what I was there for anyway. My voice had an awful lot of growl to it as I asked, “How do you even know what I want, anyway?”

Surprise filtered across her lovely face. “I see into women’s hearts, of course. Every score, every mark, every bleeding place a man has left, I see, and offer succor.”

Gancanagh drifted even closer to Aibhill, all moth-to-flame. Jealousy flared toward rage. He needed to stay away from the banshee queen. I didn’t like his expression of adoration. I didn’t like how she turned to him with a welcoming smile, or how their gazes met with a profound understanding. They were too much alike to be happy. I bet he could also see into the hearts of men—or women. I bet that was how he was so shiveringly appealing. Aibhill’s smile grew wider still, and she offered him a hand. Smitten, he extended his own.

Méabh, with a barbaric shriek, chopped it off.

Everybody in the room started screaming. Gancanagh, because he was holding the—not bloody, but dusty—stump of his arm in his remaining hand. Aibhill, for no reason that I could see except she was a banshee, which was reason enough. Caitríona, out of shock. Méabh, because she was going after Gancanagh again, sword whicking through the air.

And me, because my great-grandmother had just chopped off Morrison’s hand. Utterly ignoring my lack of weapons, I launched myself at her, knocking her aside just before another blow would’ve severed Gancanagh’s pretty head from his shoulders. Her hand hit the stone floor hard enough to loosen her grip on her sword. I batted it away, then punched her in the mouth.

She bit me, slammed an elbow up, caught me in the windpipe, then kicked me as I rolled around on the floor gasping and she jumped to her feet. Her sword wasn’t very far away. I didn’t have my breath back by the time she got it. Nothing to fight with. No chance against the warrior queen.

Not unless I gave in to the thickness in my arm, the poison running through my blood. Gancanagh’s screams, thin and high and furious with pain, reverberated against my skin. Méabh had hurt my Gancanagh, and a little lupine vengeance sounded just the thing.

Agony crackled in my arm as I relaxed my fight against the wolf. I rolled to all fours, struggling out of my coat, and lowered my head as the itch became unbearable, then delicious—

—and then stopped. Stopped cold, stopped entirely, stopped beneath the vicious cut of Aibhill’s harpy voice. “Both betrayed by Gancanagh’s love. I could ask for no more, with my host so depleted.”

Beautiful, gentle, sweet Aibhill stepped into my line of vision, unleashed a handful of claws and drove them into Méabh’s stomach.

I should have seen it coming. We all should have seen it coming, except the part of me that could still think about something besides Gancanagh had expected her to go for me. Méabh made a horrible soft sound of pain and wrapped her hands around Aibhill’s wrist, but moved no farther. Caitríona had never stopped screaming. I crawled one tiny jerky step toward the entangled pair, but Aibhill clenched her fist and Méabh went whiter and I held still again.