Fated: To the Banshee (The North Shore Fae Book 6) Page 2

  Slowly, she turned in a circle, awed by her temporary home at Hawthorn Academy. She took in the walls. Four of them. There was a bed, a desk, and a small TV. Plus a roof to keep out the rain. There was a door opposite the window. On the other side were the muffled sounds of happy voices passing in the corridor.

  Laughter. It was a sound she rarely heard, and never so close. No one laughed in the face of death. The sound reminded her of music. She stared at the gap under the door, wondering if the students’ faces were as happy as their voices, wondering if they were seelies, or succubi, kelpies or pookas, or maybe the worst of them all…fae hounds.

  Sighing with restless agitation, she examined the half-dozen paperback novels on the bookshelf. They’d been left behind by the former teacher whose suite she now occupied. Banshees didn’t have schools, but Devan had taught herself to read. It hadn’t been easy, but she’d had one hundred and sixty years to do it, and now she could manage quite well.

  She pulled out one of the books—Love Knows No Bounds—and gasped at the cover. A bare-chested man was cupping the breast of a woman whose parted lips expressed an emotion Devan couldn’t identify. She understood the title though, and it was a lie. Love knew all kinds of bounds when you were a banshee. She didn’t even have any friends. Banshees had a job to do, and that job precluded all ties.

  Turning away from the shelves, a shiver ran through her—icy and swift. She was always so damn cold. It didn’t help that the window faced north, providing the promise of another bleak Minnesota winter. “What am I even doing here?”

  No one answered, of course. But she was used to talking to herself. For her entire life, she’d been her only company. In fact, sometimes she went so long without talking, she forgot the sound of her own voice.

  Devan flopped onto the bed—yes, a real bed; her very first—and stared up at the ceiling, trying to get another glimpse of the vision that had been plaguing her for months. It was the reason she'd lobbied to be the first-ever banshee to grace the school’s halls. And it had nothing to do with four walls and a ceiling, or a bed, or getting an education, or even working on her social skills, that was for damn sure.

  Premonitions of death were the tools of a banshee’s trade. They didn’t make her happy, but they allowed her to be where she needed to be—sometimes mere seconds before the soon-to-be-deceased knew what was coming, which was why none of the fae were ever happy to see one of her kind.

  Devan didn’t understand it. The banshees were the good guys. They offered a kindness—ushering the newly deceased into the afterlife in Tír na nÓg. The borderlands were an unforgiving, frozen wasteland that kept many from ever finishing the journey. Did the other fae seriously want to navigate that trek alone? Banshees should be thanked, not feared.

  Her eyes scanned the pattern of cracks in the ceiling, trying to force them into another vision of what was to come. The bits she’d been getting so far hinted at something big. But she couldn’t make sense of it. Not yet.

  All she knew for sure was that a war was coming. She knew it right down to the marrow of her bones. She also knew that many of the school’s teachers and students would soon be in its crosshairs, which was why she’d come—here, to the academy—to be close to her work. War and death went hand-in-hand.

  But she couldn’t tell the dean any of that. There was no need to freak him out prematurely, especially since he’d already taken a risk allowing her to enroll. The dean was progressive, for sure; she’d heard he’d allowed halflings to teach at the school. But she didn’t want to test his limits quite yet.

  “Come on, come on,” she whispered to herself, willing the vision to return, willing more details to come into focus. “Where? When? Who?”

  An image shimmered at the edges of her mind’s eye, but just before it settled into frame, a loud thump startled her from the bed. Now on her feet, the hem of her silvery gray slip dress fell to her knees, and she straightened the straps over her shoulders.

  Had she imagined it? Devan stared at her door and listened as the thump came again. Her gaze dropped to the gap under the door. A shadow shifted restlessly in the hallway.

  Slowly, she drew her knife from the sheath belted around her thigh. While she expected all of the students to be skittish around her, she knew some would be even less hospitable.

  Hawthorn Academy had never enrolled a banshee. It would take the students a while to get used to her. In fact, the handsome, golden-haired fae hound who’d greeted her upon arrival had gone white as rice when he set eyes on her.

  “Who is it?” she asked, adjusting her grip on the knife. Danu had created the banshees to be naturally inclined for battle, but Devan rarely had to use her skills for anything other than encouraging the reluctant dead through the portals.

  The thumping stopped, but no one answered.

  “Who is it?” she asked again, this time louder.

  There was another second of silence then, a deep, deliciously male voice replied, “Room service.”

  Room service? What was that? “I’m sorry. I don’t understand.”

  “Open the door and you will,” said the voice from the other side of the door. It took her a second to get the measure of his tone—not coy, not humorous, more like resigned with a hint of annoyance.

  “Maybe some other time.” She paused, not knowing what else she should say. “But…um…thanks!” Yes, that sounded right.

  “Oh, for the love of Danu,” said the voice. Now it was tinged with more than a little impatience. “Open the door. I can’t hold onto this forever.”

  Devan bit her lip and dropped her gaze to the light and shadow under the door. She probably should’ve gone with her gut and sent him away but, unlike other banshees, curiosity got the better of her. It always did.

  She crossed the floor, squeezing the handle on her knife. Then she slipped the security chain and opened the door.

  The first thing she registered was an intense rush of heat. She was probably imagining it, but she swore it blew her hair back. Second thing, strong hands holding a wooden tray. Next, two steaming cups of a dark brown liquid.

  Then her gaze moved up, up, and up the towering physique of the very same fae hound who’d first greeted her when she’d arrived. He was gorgeous, of course. Most fae hounds were. But this one was a dazzling six-foot-five mountain of maleness, golden blond, and looking like Danu had chiseled him from granite.

  What did he say his name was? Oh, right. He didn’t. He’d been too freaked to do anything other than what Dean O’Keefe instructed him to do—that is, to show her to her room then take off like an arrow. So why was he back?

  His deep, indigo eyes moved to her knife, which was currently aimed at his groin. “If you’re going to kill me, do you mind stabbing me someplace else?”

  She blinked, hit once more by the intense heat radiating off his body. “Excuse me?”

  His voice turned low and growly. “I’m just saying, it wouldn’t be very sporting of you, attacking me now. I can hardly defend myself with my hands full.”

  She stared at him, not knowing if this was a normal conversation. He went on.

  “Although…I could use the tray to deflect any blows. Or if you really wanted to get down and dirty, the coffee itself wouldn’t be a bad defensive weapon. It’s still hot.”

  Um…what the hell was going on? She looked down at the tray again. Was he going door to door with hot beverages? She didn’t need two cups, but did he mean for her to take both anyway? She didn’t want to do the wrong thing. Not so soon.

  “What did you call it?” she asked.

  “Coffee. I thought we could…I don’t know…talk.”

  “About the coffee?”

  He looked at her like she had the letters C-R-A-Z-Y written across her forehead. “Are you always this difficult?”

  Devan sucked in a breath. Was she being difficult? “I- I guess I don’t know yet.”

  “You don’t know…yet?” he asked.

  “You’re the first fae I've ever really talked to.”

  He blinked, as if seeing her for the first time.

  “Well, that’s not exactly true,” she said. “I’ve had plenty of fae argue with me, but I usually give them a sharp poke with my dagger and that’s where the conversation ends.”

  “I’ll bet.”

  “It doesn’t hurt them much. They’re already dead.”

  His face went a little gray. That was pretty typical for the hounds. Their race was created to protect the fae, so to them, she was death personified. A banshee’s very presence signified a hell hound’s failure.

  It was no surprise his kind bristled whenever she came near. Death was the enemy. She was the enemy. More than one hound had told her as much, even as she’d tried to assist them across the divide into the afterlife.

  Though, this one wasn't exactly bristling at her presence. Of course he wasn't smiling much, either.

  Well, that was fine. The hounds were all insufferably bossy and controlling, even once they passed through the portal and were on her home turf. On top of that, trouble always seemed to find them, so they had a propensity for dying young. Not a single one ever thanked her for her assistance.

  “Who are you?” she asked, now genuinely curious.

  “Kane Fitzgerald,” he said. “Age twenty-two. Final year at the academy.”

  So, it was name, rank, and serial number? Well, he seemed safe enough. Devan pulled up the hem of her dress and slid the blade back into its sheath. “I’m—”

  “I know who you are,” Kane said, his eyes glued to her thigh. A tendon flexed in his jaw, while his fingers trembled infinitesimally. “I knew it from the moment I saw you.”

  Oh, right. Of course he did. A banshee was hard to miss, and clearly he was disgusted. “I’m sorry, Mr. Fitzgerald, but I—”

  “Kane.”

  “What?”

  “My name’s Kane. Kane Oisin Fitzgerald.”

  She blinked and took in his enormous size. “Oisin means little deer.”

  “I was smaller when they were naming me.”

  She blinked again, having a hard time believing this behemoth had ever been a baby. “Okay. Well, I’m sorry, Kane, but is there something you wanted?”

  “You…” He stopped there, his indigo eyes widening. Then he clamped his lips shut and his body tensed as if he were bracing for some serious self-flagellation.

  She really didn’t understand what he was trying to say. “Me…what…exactly?”

  He squeezed his eyes tight for a second. When he opened them again, they were resigned. “Listen, I’m not happy about this, okay. I don’t like you being here. This is a school, not your personal graveyard-in-waiting.”

  Devan’s arms fell straight to her sides, her hands curling into fists. Banshees didn’t kill the fae. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “I assure you, I do not.”

  There was flash of something in his eyes, something heated. “You shouldn’t have come here. Why did you have to come here?”

  Well, she wasn’t about to tell him that. Not yet. Maybe not ever. “Listen, I don’t have to explain myself to you. And I sure as hell didn’t ask you to come knocking on my door, accusing me of…whatever the heck you’re talking about. And what’s with the coffee, anyway?”

  His face went blank, then he looked down at the tray as if he’d forgotten he was holding it. His mouth got tight. For a second, she thought he was going to leave. But then he looked up, and his expression was back to annoyed resignation.

  “I don’t have a choice in this, all right? I had to come up here. I had to—” His eyes shifted to the side and he muttered a curse.

  “You can leave the tray on the desk if you want to.”

  “N- no, I—” he stammered, and his knuckles whitened as he clenched the tray.

  “What’s really going on here?”

  “Nothing!” he barked. “Nothing’s going on.”

  She folded her arms again. “You’re a liar.”

  He clenched his teeth as if he were trying to power-through an appendectomy without the benefit of anesthesia. “Nothing’s going on.”

  “Really?” she asked, arching a brow.

  “Really.”

  “Good.”

  “Great.”

  Well, there you had it. Except he didn’t leave. His gaze drifted past her and landed on her bed, lingering there for a long moment. Then he cleared his throat. “So can I come in, or what?”

  What on earth…? This couldn’t possibly be normal behavior, even for a fae hound. Knock on someone’s door, yell at them, then invite yourself in for tea? Or…coffee, or whatever.

  She looked at the tray, then up at his face. Danu had really outdone herself, creating such a perfect creature. Physically, at least. His mental stability was still in question.

  “No, you cannot come in.”

  His head jerked back and the coffee cups rattled on the tray. “Seriously?”

  “Seriously. No. Negativo.”

  He blinked and, for a moment, there was a surprising softness in his indigo eyes. “Devan, listen—”

  She closed the door before he could get out the rest. Unfortunately, it also shut off that lovely wave of heat, and her body instantly chilled, raising goosebumps on her arms.

  There was a beat of stunned silence, then, “It was just some fucking coffee!” His angry voice was thankfully muffled by the door. “I was trying to be nice!”

  “Nice?” she yelled back. “I may not have grown up in some big, happy puppy pile like you did. I might not have a lot of experience with nice, but I’m pretty sure I’ll know it when I see it, and you...are not...nice!”

  Kane answered with a low, rumbling growl. The menacing sound raised the small hairs on the back of Devan’s neck, and her skin tingled. Any minute he’d beat down her door. That was a hell hound’s way.

  But Kane surprised her. He said nothing. He didn’t even knock. Well, all the better. She wasn’t here to make friends. Banshees didn't have friends. And Kane had to know that.

  Or maybe that was it. Maybe he’d been mocking her social inexperience all along.

  She wrapped her arms around herself, still missing his warmth. Then, after a few more moments of silence, she heard a muttered litany of colorful curses as Kane’s big feet carried him down the corridor, away from her door.

  When she was certain he was gone, Devan flopped onto her bed again and pulled the ice-blue comforter around her, picking up where she left off before being so rudely—and strangely—interrupted. The sketchy visions of war were downright frustrating. She’d seen an army, a thousand strong, marching from the east. But there was a hole in her information.

  “Come on,” she whispered to the ceiling, her breath vaporizing on the air. “Come on, come on, come on.” But the visions evaded her. When she closed her eyes, Kane Fitzgerald’s stupid handsome face was all she could see.

  3

  DEVAN

  Room 216

  Devan had read about cabin fever, but she didn’t know it was a real thing until now. The dean of students had told her to stay in her room until he could slowly introduce the other students to her but now, after being cooped up for days, Devan was walking in circles.

  She’d spent hours watching something called House Hunters International on the small TV in her room, and another show about people surviving in the cold Alaskan wilderness. Ultimately, she pulled Love Knows No Bounds off the shelf. It was about a woman who’d been snowed-in at a mountain cabin with no electricity until the hero showed up and saved the day.

  Devan herself might as well have been snowed in, but where was her hero, hmmm?

  Fat chance. Banshees didn’t have heroes. They sank or swam alone. Always.

  Of course…Kane Fitzgerald had looked the part. But he was the last fae she’d want to be rescuing her from this monotony. He’d probably aggravate her to death before he got her halfway to sanity. And besides…it had been three long days and he’d paid no more visits.

  She didn’t know why she was so hyper-conscious of this fact. She’d told him to go. He went. It was as simple as that. Perhaps the next time she saw him, she’d praise him for his obedience, call him a good little puppy, then pile it on with, “Who’s the good boy? You are! You are!”

  But then, not even a banshee had that much of a death wish.

  “I’ve met privately with those students whom I consider the most mature and to have the most leadership potential,” the dean had told her. “If given the opportunity to process their initial shock privately, they will get on board with you attending classes, and the other students will follow.”

  Devan had repressed her urge to snort in disbelief. If Kane Fitzgerald had been the dean’s first choice of the most mature students, she had her doubts about the others.

  Even so, when there was (finally) another knock on her door, she was curious enough about who she’d find on the other side. What surprised her, was how much she wanted to find that golden mountain of muscle—that arrogant Kane Fitzgerald—if only to verbally spar with him again.

  Devan turned the knob and pulled the door open a crack. Seeing no one, she opened it a little wider and leaned out, looking left, then right down the corridor. Sconces were mounted on the dark-paneled walls, one by each dorm room door, casting a soft warm light. But no one was there.

  Then her eye caught on something on the floor, right outside her door. It was bright pink and decorated with green sprinkles.

  She glanced down the hallway again, halfway expecting to see someone peeking around the corner at her, but still… No one.

  Squatting, she picked up the plate and examined the sugary-looking mound. There was a linen napkin, but no note. Her confusion was only interrupted by the approach of feet moving softly against the thick carpet runner. She looked up and saw an approaching hell hound in its human form.

  Not Kane; this one was of the female variety, obviously strong and definitely pretty, though not in an overly showy way. Her light brown skin had an incandescent glow and her dark, naturally curly hair was pulled back at the nape of her neck.