Brenn has never found it easy to follow her heart on Aesir occupied Earth where genetically unmodified humans are kept as second class citizens in the countries they'd called their own two centuries before. Life in the Human Districts is hard and pa...
I recently faced the challenge of writing a short story with good character voice, an implicit setting, and a strong plot in just 2000 words. My novel's characters called out to me from their past, and this story was born.
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Hang a wreath of rowan and herbs on the door. Carry a nail in your pocket. Don't forget to leave a small bowl of milk and honey out if you're able. Brennan's mam had taught her everything she'd needed to handle the fae but what she'd neglected, and might have gotten to if Death hadn't come knocking, was what Brenn should do if she found herself living with a goddess.
Of course, since fairies and goddesses didn't exist, it wouldn't have helped.
Jesus, she needed to get it together. When had she grown so fanciful? Other people lived with their heads in the clouds, not her. At least, not usually—that's how one ended up bleeding out on the cold ground with an Aesir bullet in her chest.
"Oy, Brenn, you with us?" Dermot asked, voice raised against the din of a pub full of folk trying to fill their stomachs and forget the hell of life in the Human District. He had a spark of mischief in his eyes and it'd serve him right if she ignored him, but that wouldn't be polite, so she sighed and turned to give her cousin's husband her attention.
"Something to say?"
He grinned now. It stretched across his face and lifted his rosy cheeks. Aaron stepped in behind and wrapped his arms around Dermot's chest, resting his chin on Dermot's shoulder, brown eyes sparkling.
Great, both of them were out to get her.
"I was just telling the band to take a break before the next set. Might be a good idea for you to take yours outside. Alone..."
"...with Rora," Aaron added. Dammit. He was grinning, too. "Since you can't keep your eyes off her and it's become a wee problem, don't you think?"
"Feck off." She'd had just about enough of their teasing this week. Sure, maybe she'd been a pest when Aaron had started snogging Dermot in the pantry at the beginning of their relationship, but she'd been a kid. *They* were grown men in their thirties. Would it kill them to act it?
She turned away from Dermot's chuckle only to catch Rora bathed in the glow of the makeshift stage lights. Her nimble fingers worked the latches of her ancient fiddle case. There were freckles on the backs of those hands. Bricaní in Irish; little stars. Brenn was drawn to them—fascinated. They covered most of her exposed skin only to disappear beneath her green, knit jumper. What would it be like to seek out new worlds along the galaxies mapped out on her soft skin?
Dammit.
Why did those Muppets have to be right? She put her tin-whistle in its case with too much force and glared over her shoulder "Fine, I'll go outside to clear my head, but you'll be sorry when I catch my death from the cold."
"We both know that's an empty threat. You're half soaked and frozen to the bone on that boat half the year and you haven't died yet." Aaron this time, voice full of infectious laughter, and her heart full of betrayal as it warmed to the sound of it. Love him or not, he didn't deserve a response. Instead she grabbed her worn trench from a worn stool and stomped off the worn stage in her worn boots, right past Rora.
