Warrior, Forbidden: Book Three of the Comhairle Chronicles

Chapter One: In a Haze

Thick smoke rolled through the air, the tell-tale odour of weed almost masking the stench of sex and piss that tainted places like Haze. It didn't matter that the establishment had recently moved premises due to a marionette attack, the new shithole already smelled just like the last one, but without the dubious class of having couches or chairs like the downstairs of the previous establishment. Instead, the whole place had been kitted out like the upstairs of the abandoned shop, with stained mattresses littering the grimy floor, upon which bhampairean and winged ainglean lay in various states of undress. Some were too strung-out to do much of anything, others had their inhibitions lowered and the base desires amplified, choosing to fuck or be fucked with no care about the consequences. They were all there for a same reason; to escape.

Mairsinn was no different in that regard.

Although she intended to keep her clothes on... Maybe... Depending how much of an affect the angel blood had on her.

Either way, she hated her modern garments. She tugged at her form-hugging t-shirt first, then ran her fingers around the waistband of her jeans, easing the pressure against skin that barely ever touched cloth. It wasn’t even like the jeans were too snug. They fit perfectly, but she hated the feeling of restrictive clothing against her body. The Taghadairean didn't wear clothing. Not often, at least. When they did, it tended to be loose tunics, not the skin-tight bindings that humans had taken to wearing.

Still, a visit to the mortal world meant blending in as much as possible, especially as she’d had to walk through the city to reach Haze. Her black eyes gave her away, of course, but at least some humans (and even a few bhampairean and incubi) had started tattooing their eyes in the name of body modification, or they wore coloured contacts. While she didn’t understand the trend, it did mean that her eyes had only elicited second glances at most, before spectators turned away, unsettled but not yet yelling ‘demon’ in her wake.

Either way, her garb likely made her more uncomfortable than her eyes made the mortals she’d passed along her way. It was a contradiction, really; she felt confined and claustrophobic in her clothing, yet she also felt naked and vulnerable without her helm and shield. She didn’t even have her great sword on her, something that she’d never normally leave behind, but the blade would have painted a target on her back. The ne’er do wells who patronised Haze might see the it as an opportunity; a way to make a quick buck by taking what didn’t belong to them, and she might not be in the headspace to defend herself or keep hold of her blade. In fact, she damn well hoped she wouldn't be coherent enough to do much of anything.

She just hoped the Great Father didn’t notice her absence. Or at least didn’t care enough to cast his eye towards the mortal realm in search of her. He wouldn’t approve of her quarry, but they all needed their outlets. Lord Ràsbàrd would be hard pushed to find a single Taghadair who didn’t break the rules occasionally.

They’d all been fey, once; creatures of instinct and intoxication, whim and wantonness, seduction and sensuality, mystery and mischief. Sometimes they needed to let their more devious natures out to play, or their more seductive inclinations. Sometimes they simply needed to escape the rigidity of being the protectors of the gods, the appraisers of would-be-ghaisgich, and the sparring partners of ghaisgich who’d already passed back into Tallamarbh, the realm of the battle-slain, for a final time. Sometimes Mairsinn needed to escape more than any other of her kind.

Gods, how many had she killed now? How many bhampairean children had she ended because they’d failed to understand the trials? Because they failed to grasp that they needed to keep going, that it wasn’t about strength or skill, but about still pushing on even when their bodies were beaten and broken because they couldn’t afford to ever back down, not with the enemies they fought against. Surrender meant defeat even in the mortal realm, so the trials reflected that. Yet understanding that didn't make her part in it any more enjoyable.