At Speculative Chic, we feature a lot of authors who share everything from their favorite things to the inspiration for their work. Welcome to Fiction Friday, where you’ll be able to sample the fiction of a variety of authors, including those who write at Speculative Chic! Today, we’re featuring guest author Danielle Ackley-McPhail and her novella Eternal Wanderings, which is based on the Eternal Cycle Series: Yesterday’s Deams, Tomorrow’s Memories, and Today’s Promise. To learn more about the continuing journey of Kara O’Keefe, keep reading below!
About the Book
Eternal Wanderings (2019)
Written by: Danielle Ackley-McPhail
Genre: Fantasy
Pages: 168
Publisher: Paper Phoenix Press
Mortal. Immortal. Musician. Mage.
On a journey from the boroughs of New York to the heart of Tir na nÓg, from innocence to the deepest darkest crevices of her soul, Kara O’Keefe found power and strength in the discovery of self. But with that peace came a hard truth. As a bridge connecting many worlds, none of them held a place for her.
She must find her own way, forge her own path.
To honor a vow to Granddame Rose, a matriarch of the Kalderaš Clan, Kara joins the Romani caravan, only to find herself even more of an outsider than before. While she strives for acceptance, and to honor her vow, little does she know she has once more become a lure to an ancient and deadly enemy, drawing danger into the midst of her unsuspecting hosts.
Once savior of the world, Kara must now save herself and the innocents around her.
She has come into her legacy, but where will destiny take her?
Currently Available from: Amazon || Barnes & Noble || IndieBound
Eternal Wanderings Excerpt
Chapter One
As Kara O’Keefe followed Sveta through the portal leaving Tir na nÓg she staggered and nearly fell to her knees. At the heart of the Land of Youth, in Goibhniu’s court of Mór Halla, she had not grasped the scope of the change the Naming had wrought in her, but upon crossing into the mortal world it became clear. In joining the pattern of her life to the Great Wall, she had also connected her soul to the race of Tuatha de Danaan. She had known this but had not felt the impact earlier, deep as she had been in their magical realm. Beyond those bounds, she felt the links like silken threads trailing back to each and every one of her new kin. Not restricting, just connecting.
To think months ago she’d been nothing more than a simple, if gifted, music teacher from Queens, New York, struggling to save the house she’d grown up in. About as far as one could get from joining the magical ranks of immortal elves.
It was one thing to know she bore a Sidhe soul, their second-most cherished one at that, but to feel the connection to her people…to know to her very core where they were, in rough direction and distance, if not precise location…the awe nearly overwhelmed her.
She drew a sharp breath and resisted the impulse to examine those threads more closely, in search of one in particular.
Sveta looked back at Kara’s gasp, concern and confusion mingled in her gaze.
“It’s okay,” Kara murmured. “I just stumbled.”
“Thank you for waiting for me,” she added.
Sveta nodded but said nothing, clearly anxious to be away. Kara followed the young woman down the path leading to the Romani camp, fascinated by the long fall of her blue-black hair and the swish of her full skirt. As beautiful as it was with its bright colors and bold patterns, Kara couldn’t imagine wearing such a thing in the day-to-day. But this wasn’t New York or even Dublin. Things would be different among the Rom. Kara did not have the first clue just how different.
A little nervous, she reached up and fingered the rune-engraved copper pendant hanging from its leather lanyard around her neck. She wore it in memory of Granddame Rose, a reminder of both her promise and Rose’s sacrifice. The case containing Kara’s violin, Quicksilver, lay comfortingly across her back and the sprite, Beag Scath, had settled down to cuddle beneath the curtain of her hair. The rest of her scant things had already been taken to the caravan.
It felt odd to leave her parents behind. In many ways, she loathed to leave them or Tir na nÓg, but, even if not for her vow to Granddame Rose, leaving was the prudent thing to do. Everyone needed time to come to terms with this reordering of their reality — herself included.
Though born mostly human, Kara O’Keefe possessed a Sidhe soul. And not just any soul, but that of Anu, twin to the goddess Danu, from whom all other Sidhe had been reborn. It was difficult to come to grips with that, particularly when in the midst of the Tuatha de Danaan—the Children of Danu — not all of whom were pleased to welcome her as one of their own, despite evidence they could not refute.
After the Battle of the Knock — where the demigods Olcas and Dubh attempted to besiege the gates of Tir na nÓg — Granddame Rose had offered Kara a place with the Kalderaš Clan, an offer seconded by the rest of the clan on the night Kara had first played for them. Astounding, really, given the insular nature of the culture. Accepting that place now seemed the best way to distance herself, as well as to fulfill the vow she had made.
Rose’s grandson, Tony DeLocosta, had been possessed by Olcas. At the same time as Rose had offered Kara shelter with the Rom, she had also made her vow to free Tony. Physically, Kara already had when she defeated the demigods, but Tony’s soul remained in torment at the memory of the atrocities committed using his body, including the murder of his grandmother by his own hand, if not his will.
The Rom had already collected Rose’s remains…and her grandson. Kara had the sense that none of the clan were too happy about that, but the Rom took care of their own. That was one of the first things Rose had ever said to her: Family before all others.
The Rom clearly weren’t too comfortable about honoring their offer to Kara, either, but hadn’t denied her. She wouldn’t have blamed them if they had, given the turmoil that seemed to follow her. First in New York, then again in Tir na nÓg. She never invited it, but it came just the same.
As they approached the caravan, Kara was puzzled by the faint haze and scent of acrid smoke on the air. She reached out and gripped Sveta’s shoulder. “What’s going on? I thought we were leaving…”
The woman flinched and her gaze shrouded further as she turned to look back, her eyes darting to view the far side of the clearing. Kara spied a fresh cairn just this side of the tree line, and beside it, Granddame Rose’s traditional wagon, or vardo, engulfed in flame. One of the Sidhe stood beside it, containing the sparks and embers with a mage shield.
Kara’s brow dipped down and her grip on Sveta’s shoulder tightened. “What’s going on here…and where is Tony?”
“Dinlo gorgio,” — stupid outsider, Sveta muttered beneath her breath as she spat on the ground, her tone sharp and her expression offended. “That one is already tucked in his wagon, ready to leave. As we should be…” She looked like she might say more, but Markos, leader of the Kalderaš Clan, called out harshly in Romani from the head of the caravan. At the sound of his voice, Sveta shrugged Kara’s hand from her shoulder and continued on.
“Now is not the time,” she muttered. “We must be away before night falls.”
Frowning, Kara glanced back at the burning vardo. She waved farewell to the Sidhe guarding the flames then followed, climbing into the wagon Sveta indicated. Kara still felt the leader of the Rom scowling back at them from the seat of his vardo. Inside Sveta’s wagon, three young boys stared at Kara from the built-in bunks lining the walls. She jumped as the door closed sharply behind her, but the boys did not laugh or even giggle. They continued to watch her with dark, solemn eyes as the wagon lurched and began to move. Grimacing, Kara braced herself against the wall before moving to sit at a bench inside the wagon.
She wondered if claiming a place with the Kalderaš Clan had been wise after all.
***
The urge to howl gripped her. The need to turn back and fight shook her, but the fleeing one resisted. In their kind, the instinct for survival ran stronger than any other impulse. She broke the bond of her pack to preserve her kind through the young within her. As rarely happened in their long existence, one of the Bás fled lest their race meet its end. Slinking through the brush, she dropped her jaw and drew hard on the air. She tasted nothing of those who hunted her, nothing of choice prey, but something tinged the air temptingly close. Huffing slightly, she crept forward, parting the brush to peer out. A corporeal creature knelt in the clearing, arranging sticks in a peculiar manner before kindling a flame and settling into a sack upon the ground. The Bás narrowed her gaze and watched. This one was a pale shadow of their chosen prey. No power well. No essence. Just a hint of energy not worth the effort to claim, and most certainly not sufficient for nesting the Bás’s young. Still, the creature drew her. Tickled the memory of the Black One and how he had hidden his spirit within another like a whelp returning to the nest. The Bás were mostly creatures of spirit, not earth. Could she hide in such a manner? Such a concept filled her mouth with a foul, bitter taste, but the need to survive gripped her harder and shoved. The Bás dropped low and slinked forward. Muscles rippled in subtle waves, and a low trill sounded deep in her throat, unbidden. The Bás stilled and dropped her belly to the ground, but the not-prey did not bounce up or flee.
She watched and drew herself forward. Again, she sampled the air. This one had the faintest of flavors that spoke of shared blood with the Daoine Maithé — in their own tongue, the Good People. To the Bás they were the cursed ones; just as to the cursed ones, the Bás were the Namhaid — or enemy.
The not-prey likewise had no sense of self-preservation, unaware that death stalked nearby. The Bás crept closer yet. Close enough to touch. She ran light fingers over soft, weak flesh and rough coverings. She leaned forward for a closer sampling of scent. A gentle tugging came as spirit clung to spirit.
On impulse the Bás hissed and drew back into a crouch, razor-sharp teeth bared and claws extended. The creature slumbered on, faintly snoring, as if safe and secure in its own den. It took long moments for the Bás to calm. She moved about the clearing in a not-quite stalk, skin twitching beneath its pale, velvety pelt and eyes searching for other threats.
Slowly she settled, again squatting close to what had become now-prey, of sorts, for instinct now spoke to the Bás most insistently. Again, memories of the Black One rose. Might the Bás hide within, as he had? Reaching out, she laid a hand to the other’s flesh, once more felt the tugging of their spirits as they twined. Following an impulse, she lay herself down upon the slumbering one, form aligned with form. The now-prey twitched as if deep in a dream. A moan flowed out on labored breath just tinged with fear. Limbs thrashed in jerking, uncoordinated motions. The Bás’s purr increased as the now-prey sought to free herself from the melding. Too late, the hunter murmured as she gripped that captured soul tight and sank deeper into the other’s body. She savored the bite of her host’s panic as they became one.
***
By the time they set camp late that night, Kara was too wiped out to do anything but sleep. When she woke the next morning in the wagon, Sveta and her sons were nowhere to be found.
The same with Beag Scath.
Trying not to worry what mischief the sprite might be up to, Kara helped herself to some oatmeal left warming on the wood-burning stove before slinging Quicksilver’s case across her back and venturing out into the cool bright day. It felt like early spring or mid-fall. For all she knew, it could be either. She’d lost all track of time in the Sidhe realm. Drawing a deep breath, she basked in the warm sun and took joy in the bright blue sky, two things to never be taken for granted.
She wandered a while, among the wagons, some brightly painted and built from wood in the tradition of the Romani people, others battered metal caravans traveling under their own power or pulled behind trucks or cars, as you would find at any campground around the world. All of them bore the essence of the Rom, brightly painted, delightfully unique. Each family had set their own camp, with carpets on the ground and cushions for sitting. Some had fire pits, others had portable grills. At some of the hearths, awnings had been raised for shelter from the elements, at others, battery-powered faerie lights had been strung from poles but the space left open to the sky.
As she explored, Kara relaxed into the day, enjoying the real-world magic of the Romani culture, free and untethered from any society but their own. Both the exotic and the mundane mingled as they adapted what they came by for their uses. Kara watched one group of women weaving a rug of intricate geometric patterns out of rags, while another bundled and hung herbs to dry. Some of the men were making horseshoes at a makeshift forge surrounded by smoke and ash and dry heat. If not for their dark scowls, she would have watched them longer, but instead quickly moved along. The sound of their hammers striking steel rang through the camp blending with the women’s chatter in an industrious song Kara longed to join.
Throughout the morning, she remained polite and cheerful, despite the lukewarm reception she received. Everyone seemed wary. Not hostile, but too reserved to be welcoming. Kara asked questions when something puzzled her, even offered to help when she saw them at their chores, but no one would speak to her in English—though she had no doubt the majority of them could—if they said anything at all. She gave up and continued exploring, wandering the camp that was, for now, her home, trying not to get in anyone’s way. At one point, she felt eyes focus on her, more so than the wary curiosity she’d met all morning. Her shoulders tensed with the weight of that gaze. Casually looking around, she noticed Markos, the caravan leader, his arms crossed and expression unreadable as he watched her. Though the sun picked out threads of silver woven through the waves of his dark brown hair, she could not tell if age or strain had added the faint webbing of lines across his forehead and around his bright blue eyes.
She met his gaze with a faint smile and nodded respectfully.
Markos’s brow dipped into a frown, clearly not happy she had noticed him. He dropped his arms and turned sharply away, heading across the camp to his wagon. Kara waited until he was out of sight then resumed her wandering.
The uncertainty she encountered from the adults apparently did not extend to the children. As Kara explored the camp the sound of muffled giggles and scampering feet followed her until she’d amassed a fair parade of young followers. A smile lifted her lips, and she began to skip and dance with joy at the curiosity of youth, which broke down the walls of reserve. She didn’t look too closely, but she noticed a few adult eyes crinkle at the goings-on, even if their lips refused to smile.
The giggles grew louder. Her timid shadows pranced forward to join her as she continued to dance. As they neared the center clearing of the camp, she slowed and tried—though not too hard—to mimic their fluid moves as they twirled and leaped and clearly executed steps unique to the Rom. The children collapsed, their giggles blossoming into laughter at her comic efforts.
Breathing hard more for effect, than from the effort, Kara flopped to one of the rough logs set around the center clearing, where an unlit bonfire sat waiting for the evening. Remembering the night she’d played for these same Rom after the Battle of the Knock, Kara drew Quicksilver from her case and began to tune the violin. That quick, the laughing and horsing around died down. The children turned bright eyes upon her, as did no few of the adults. Drawing a deep, calm breath, Kara allowed a subtle smile to grace her lips, while inside she sang hallelujah. Music truly was the universal language. Not that she expected to be automatically accepted now, but this gave her hope.
Kara allowed herself to savor this moment of happiness and peace. As the children settled in a circle around her she began to play, not bothering with anyone else’s composition but allowing Quicksilver’s own voice to rise in an unchoreographed song.
As the notes filled the camp, Kara felt Danu’s essence stir from where it resided in the violin and wrap around her in approval. Bolstered by the goddess, Kara continued to play through what was left of the morning until her fingers stung and her bow arm burned. The children came and went as they were presumably called to chores, but as the noon hour drew near they wandered back, followed by their parents. With delight, Kara noted that some carried instruments — fiddles and guitars and pan flutes and spoons, but also a darbuka, ukulele, cimbalom, bodhran, and half a dozen other instruments she wouldn’t have known the names of if she hadn’t studied at Julliard. Others carried food, or drink, or nothing but themselves. However they came, it brought a broad grin to Kara’s face.
Not unsurprisingly, Beag Scath came with them, the shameless sprite winding about the ankles of those carrying food, his thatch of unruly curls — a mix of every shade of red, brown and gold — bobbing enthusiastically to the music. Most shocking was the fact that he wore his own form — human in feature and proportion, but about the size of a twelve-inch action figure — rather than the cat seeming he usually favored. Not until that moment had she realized she’d not seen one feline in the camp. She filed that thought away for later consideration and turned her gaze back on her little friend. Kara laughed as he scampered just out of reach of the squealing children, before circling back toward the food bearers. After all, this group of Rom were friend to the Sidhe and surely were familiar with faelings such as Beag Scath.
Kara smiled as she continued to play.
“You they can keep their distance from, easily,” a woman spoke softly beside her, “the music, not at all. Smart that you should play. It reminds them you have done so before at our fire as an invited guest, and that they did not mind you so much then.”
Kara jumped a little at the unexpected comment, but quickly relaxed. It was comforting to hear words in English after a day of nothing but what she expected were Romani curses. She turned to find Sveta at her side. The woman sat down beside her and held out a mug of some herbal tea. Kara’s belly rumbled at the spicy scent mingled with the rich aroma coming from the foods being passed around.
“Thank you.” Kara set Quicksilver down beside her as other musicians began to play and accepted Sveta’s peace offering, for such it was.
***
After the impromptu lunch and concert, the members of the caravan rose and returned to their tasks. Some nodded at Kara as they passed, while the children waved or threw their arms around her in quick impulsive hugs. Beside her, Sveta laughed softly.
“Very smart indeed.” The woman rose and waved for Kara to join her. “Come, Markos would like to talk to you.”
Kara tensed for just a moment as she remembered the clan leader’s sharp tone and annoyance, as he grudgingly granted her request to join the caravan. She also remembered his impatience before they departed and the unreadable expression in his gaze as he watched her wander the camp earlier in the day. She expected that fear for his people formed the root of his displeasure. She could not blame him. With a deep, slow breath, she willed the tension to run out of her. She gathered up her things, brushed the dirt and bits of tree bark off her butt, and followed Sveta toward the wagon Markos had entered earlier.
The sounds of the bustling camp punctuated by the laughter of both children and adults comforted her. The calm, easy way Sveta chatted with her, telling her little details about the clan and its people as they passed, comforted her. The approaching conversation? That made her uneasy. Whatever the conversation she was to have with Markos consisted of, Kara would keep her promise to Granddame Rose.
As they entered the cool dimness of the wagon Kara fought not to laugh as Beag Scath — still in his true form — scampered up her back to hide beneath her hair. Clearly, something of her amusement showed on her face, however, given Markos’s deepening glower.
He did not offer her a seat on the bench across from him.
Only when the door quietly clicked closed behind her did Kara realize Sveta had left the wagon.
After a long moment of silence, Markos spoke, “I am honor-bound to give you a place among us. Do not believe for a moment I am happy about that. Through your actions one of our own is dead, and another broken.”
Kara’s heart clenched at the reminder and she reached up to finger the copper pendant Rose had given her as a protection against evil. It had become a touchstone for her. She did not dispute his claim, though Tony’s situation was no fault of her own. Her time among the Sidhe had not exactly been peaceful or without strife. Quite the opposite, in fact, or she wouldn’t be here. She nodded but remained silent.
“You are not a guest here, but you are not Clan. We have given you the place that was offered. In exchange, you will help where you are asked, and you will respect our ways. You will not intrude where you are not invited.” His bright blue gaze speared her until she nodded, then he went on. “If you bring trouble to my people, we will consider honor met and you will leave.”
She could not blame his bluntness. She knew exactly where it came from. Beag Scath, on the other hand, seemed to take offense, coiling beneath the fall of her hair until she worried what he might do. Placing a restraining hand over him, she nodded again. “Understood. Family before all others.”
Markos looked stunned that she would know the mantra by which the Romani lived, and, beneath that, she may have seen a glimmer of respect hidden in his gaze. Rather than respond, though, he went back to whatever he was working on before she’d entered.
Clearly dismissed, Kara lowered her hand and turned to the door.
Before she knew it Beag Scath had pushed his way through the back of her hair and blew a prodigious raspberry all over Markos.
Kara looked back, ready to apologize. Instead, she choked on a laugh at the expression on Markos’s face, a spectacular blend of amusement and outrage. Fortunately, amusement won out. As the clan leader unleashed an equally prodigious belly laugh, Kara smiled and took her leave.
***
As she returned to Sveta’s wagon, Kara noticed a vardo set aside from the others. Unlike the rest of the caravan, it was not in as good repair, its paint faded and peeling, the carving worn and damaged in places. Even to one unfamiliar with such things it looked ill-maintained.
“We had to scramble to find a place for him. That was all that was available.”
Kara turned as Sveta came up next to her, frowning as she realized the woman spoke of Tony.
“His puridaia’s…” The woman grimaced as she clearly grasped Kara would not know the word. “His grandmother’s things had to be burnt, lest we invite her mulo among us to wreak retribution for any of life’s slights, spirits hold grudges much longer than the living.”
Sveta went on, her words lilting and accented, but in no way halting. “We were not expecting this one, and could not ask any of the clan to bear the risk of taking him in. That vardo came from outside the clan, long stored away by one who left off traveling. The men will take turns driving it until that one comes around enough to drive himself.”
Despite the warmth of the afternoon sun, a chill settled over the glade where they stood. Kara tensed and pressed her lips closed tight, before she spoke her mind and offended the woman again when things were just becoming comfortable between them.
Before Kara could ask any of the half-dozen questions crowding her mind, Sveta nodded and turned away. Kara noticed the woman make an odd little gesture in Tony’s direction as she moved on, no doubt a sign to ward off evil.
Outrage took hold of Kara’s heart. While she understood the Rom’s reluctance to associate with a man who had once been a vessel for pure evil, there was injustice in shunning him, when he was just as much the victim, if not more so.
Kara frowned, her gaze locked briefly on the wagon before following Sveta.
***
The wagon looked deserted. Kara had watched all morning. No one had come or gone from it. The Romani might have claimed Tony from the Sidhe, but none among them cared for him. Heck, Sveta wouldn’t even say his name. Only now, looking more closely at the wagon, Kara noted various charms had been hung from any available protrusion and symbols to contain evil likewise marked wherever the carving allowed. None of them held power that Kara could see. What the Rom did not seem to grasp is that charms guarding against evil already decorated the wagon. The symbols carved when the vardo was made were imbued with mage power. Old and faded, but still strong.
If Tony were evil, he never could have entered the damned wagon, to begin with.
Anger kindled hot and heavy in her breast. Tony was a victim. Foolish, perhaps. A delinquent who unwittingly invited the trouble that had been visited upon him, most certainly. But nothing about him as a person was evil. Kara knew this. Intimately. She had seen evil, been touched by it. Banished it. Destroying Olcas and his brothers had been a good start to keeping her vow to Granddame Rose, but it wasn’t enough when Tony’s spirit remained shackled. Not when his own people had clearly cast him out in all but deed.
Time to get to work.
She returned to the wagon she shared with Sveta and her young sons and gathered what cleaning supplies she could find, leaving a twenty on the table. When she stepped back outside, Beag Scath appeared at her feet. The fierce scowl on the sprite’s face reflected her own heart. Together they crossed the camp to the ancient-looking vardo where Rose’s grandson was housed. Kara knocked. No one answered, but the ill-latched door opened beneath her hand. Stale, musty air wafted out, causing Kara to cough as she peered within. The interior was dark as twilight, and nothing moved. In the faint light, she spied a man-shaped form huddled on the far bunk beneath a moth-eaten blanket. Part of her marveled at how he’d folded his 5’10” frame so small; most of her fumed at his living conditions.
Kara set Quicksilver and her supplies beside the door and stepped inside. She opened the two shutters at either end to let in fresh air, and then returned outside to deal with the exterior of the wagon. It took several minutes and no small amount of clambering by herself and Beag Scath to strip away most of the charms. Those left had been crudely painted on and would need to be scrubbed off. Still, it was a start. Squaring her shoulders and setting her jaw, she pivoted and headed for the communal fire at the center of the camp. Without a word to anyone, but challenge in her gaze, she dumped the charms into the flames and returned to Tony’s vardo.
There was not much else she could do about the condition of the wagon, but she would not give up on the man inside.
Returning to the main camp she approached the nearest vardo where one of the women, Susan Simko, prepared a meal. The herb-laden aroma of stewed lamb and vegetables set Kara’s stomach rumbling.
“Please, may I have a portion?” Kara asked, respectful, but determined, holding the woman’s gaze, daring her to look away.
“Mizhak,” Susan muttered as she spat into the dirt, her gaze clearly on Tony’s wagon. There was no doubt of her meaning.
“No,” Kara answered, her tone polite, but forceful. “Broken, not wicked. Family.”
She had no doubt the woman understood her words…and her determination.
Spitting again, Susan glared but shoved a smooth wooden bowl in Kara’s direction before disappearing into her wagon, slamming the door behind her. Holding the bowl with one hand, Kara took up the ladle hanging over the cook pot with the other and scooped out a single modest portion of the savory stew before hanging up the ladle again.
“Thank you,” she called out to the woman inside before carefully carrying the meal back to Tony’s wagon. When she reached her destination, she looked back only to see Susan not only dump out the remainder of the meal but throw both the pot and ladle away. Kara frowned and felt the bite of guilt deep in her belly. The Rom were proud people, without much in the way of worldly goods. Kara had forgotten they had very strong beliefs. And superstitions. She would not make the same mistake again. Tonight, she would ask Sveta what arrangements had been made to meet Tony’s needs, while allowing the others in the caravan to feel protected.
Mentally pushing up her sleeves, she went inside.
The bundle on the bed had cocooned tighter.
Kara set the bowl down on a massive wooden spindle that had been bolted to the floor as a table. She then moved to the bed and gently pulled the scratchy woolen blanket away.
Tony’s head whipped up, his face drawn and pale, framed by dark, unruly curls that had started to grow out of the neat style he’d worn in New York. He glared at her with dark, bloodshot eyes, dull and slightly glassy. As he realized who she was, he paled even further, his hand shaking as it reached up to tug the blanket back. She didn’t let him.
“Come on,” she said as if nothing were off at all. “Time to eat.”
Silently, he rose and did as she bid.
***
“That was a ballsy thing you did.”
Kara nearly dropped the bucket she was carrying. As it was, fresh, bitter-cold spring water sloshed all over her jeans plastering them to her legs. She fought not to scowl as she looked up at the young woman with golden brown hair and deep brown eyes. Eyes that laughed and danced, even if the woman otherwise restrained the impulse.
“Sorry,” the woman said, as she reached out a hand. “May I help?”
“Thanks, but I’ve got it,” Kara told her without stopping, not feeling particularly charitable toward the Rom at the moment. Besides, she didn’t have time to chat. With Tony fed, she needed to clean the wagon before she went to find her own meal. She continued to walk, Quicksilver bouncing against her back as the bucket weighed on her arms, expecting the woman would likely back off when she saw where Kara was heading.
Instead, the woman fell into step.
“My name is Linda, but they call me La-La.”
“La-La?”
This time the woman did not hold back her laugh. The rich, throaty sound called a brief smile to Kara’s lips though she didn’t particularly feel cheerful at the moment. “My nieces and nephews started it, and everyone else just seemed to pick it up. At this point, I hardly expect anyone remembers I was once called Linda.”
That made as much sense as anything else to Kara, and, really, it was unimportant. Her brow drew together as the woman’s first words came back to her. “What was ballsy?”
La-La nodded ahead of them toward the wagon, still unkempt, but now unburdened by the charms that had adorned it. “Taking a stand…showing such compassion, when everyone else only shows fear. He has a long road ahead of him. You will mostly ease the way, except when you make it harder.”
The words were like a pat on the back and slap in the face all at once. Too worked up to be diplomatic, Kara stopped and turned on the woman. “And leaving him to rot in a dank, broken-down wagon would be any better? It was the right thing to do! He needs taking care of, not shunning! Not one thing about that man is evil, except perhaps his memories, and those are none of his own doing.”
“Kushti, kushti…” La-La said in a gentle tone, her hand raised as if to soothe. “All right…I know.”
Kara’s first impulse was to bristle, until La-La’s words sank in. “You know?”
La-La nodded, her cheeks flushed and her gaze dropping briefly. “I am different. I See what others cannot.”
By her emphasis, Kara understood. “Visions…”
Again, La-La nodded. “You are also special. A good woman for a Rakli, and…”
“Kara…my name is Kara…”
“Well, one of them is,” La-La interrupted, her gaze knowing and her tone matter-of-fact.
Unsettled, Kara turned abruptly and continued walking.
“Please! Don’t be upset,” La-La called after her. “I wish only to be friends.”
“What does Rakli mean?”
Again La-La flushed. “Sorry, no offense was meant. The word means a non-Romani girl.”
“Well, I can hardly argue with that.” Kara looked down at where her hand still clenched around the plastic bucket handle. “As for the rest, please don’t say anything. I expect if the others knew, they might have more of a hard time with me than they already do.”
La-La got an odd look on her face, and, for a moment, her eyes seemed unfocused. Then she nodded. “I agree. I’ll keep this between us unless I See someone must know.”
Kara sighed. At least, La-La had been honest with her.
“Good day to you both,” the Romani woman said as she turned to go her own way.
Tension coiled in Kara’s gut. “Both?”
La-La looked back, her head cocked, and her lips quirked as her eyes flickered toward Quicksilver. “Both. Or have you already forgotten that I See?”
Kara grimaced inward, not sure she was comfortable with anyone else knowing of Danu’s presence. It was one of the reasons she rarely went anywhere without the violin across her back.
Her discomfort must have shown. She sighed as La-La gave her an understanding look.
“She comes out and dances when you play,” the woman said, mimicking the act. “No more than a pale shimmering outline hinting at her beauty. Sometimes her features align with your own in a near-perfect echo, and I see her more clearly.” La-La’s gaze grew pensive, and she drew a shuddering breath. “Such power, such love, and yet just a fragment of the whole. It fills me with awe to consider the depth of both, were the essence of the spirit complete.”
Kara considered the woman’s words, uncertain of how to respond.
La-La didn’t wait for Kara to figure it out.
As the woman started to walk off once more, she turned back and nodded at Kara’s clinging wet jeans. “You’ll want to swap those out for long skirts as soon as you can, it will ease your path with the folk.”
With that La-La smiled and waved before going her way.
***
The Bás fidgeted and fussed, hidden in the crevices of the host, riding it like a beast. As she went, she sipped on the host’s soul, made savory with the fear and terror flooding it. Without a well of power to draw from, feeding on the host was more like lapping a trickle of water than supping on thick rich blood, but it sustained the Bás adequately for now. She conserved her strength and planned their vengeance. Through the bond of her kind, she knew others had survived the slaughter; and they knew the trick she had discovered of hiding within not-prey.
The cursed ones would not find them so easily.
They would not slaughter the Bás’s young.
They would not see the death stroke as it came for them.
This made the Bás twitch even more with eagerness.
And as the host wended its way through the wilderness, the Bás discovered something else that had her and her sisters poised and ready to pounce. All the tiny soul streams that confused the hunt, all the tiny drips of faeling power that had muddled the trail of the cursed ones since the time of Danu—the Cursed One above all cursed ones—something had sucked the strongest of them up.
The Sidhe…the Daoine Maithé …the Tuatha de Danaan….by whichever name the cursed ones called themselves, they could no longer hide as well as they once had.
When the Bás’s numbers built again, the cursed ones would remember the fear of being prey.
The Bás went still as the host stopped to rest. She extended her senses and would have opened her mouth to scent the air, if she had been able. Even so, what she sensed nearly jolted her from her hiding place. No knowledge was ever lost to the Bás. What one knew, the others knew, all the way back to the dawn of time. Somewhere nearby, this Bás sensed a familiar essence she could scarce believe: Danu herself. Nearby and drawing closer.
She hissed, though the effort was less than satisfying through the host’s blunt teeth and weak lips. Hunger and frustration filled her. There was nothing the Bás longed for more than vengeance against those called Anu and Danu, who together had brought millennia of misfortune upon them. Giving in to the frustration, this Bás slashed at her host, body and soul, devouring the shreds torn loose, not bothering to restrain herself when the host slumped over and her heart ceased to beat.
About the Author
Award-winning author and editor Danielle Ackley-McPhail has worked both sides of the publishing industry for longer than she cares to admit. In 2014 she joined forces with husband Mike McPhail and friend Greg Schauer to form her own publishing house, eSpec Books.
Her published works include six novels, Yesterday’s Dreams, Tomorrow’s Memories, Today’s Promise, The Halfling’s Court, The Redcaps’ Queen, and Baba Ali and the Clockwork Djinn, written with Day Al-Mohamed. She is also the author of the solo collections Eternal Wanderings, A Legacy of Stars, Consigned to the Sea, Flash in the Can, Transcendence, Between Darkness and Light, and the non-fiction writers’ guide, The Literary Handyman, and is the senior editor of the Bad-Ass Faeries anthology series, Gaslight & Grimm, Side of Good/Side of Evil, After Punk, and Footprints in the Stars. Her short stories are included in numerous other anthologies and collections.
In addition to her literary acclaim, she crafts and sells original costume horns under the moniker The Hornie Lady Custom Costume Horns, and homemade flavor-infused candied ginger under the brand of Ginger KICK! at literary conventions, on commission, and wholesale.
Danielle lives in New Jersey with husband and fellow writer, Mike McPhail and two extremely spoiled cats.
To learn more about her work, visit www.sidhenadaire.com or www.especbooks.com
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