The Curse of the Fallen

By Colleen Halverson

Catherine O'Halloran is going to die. Twenty years ago, her sister heard a terrible wail, a relentless keening that no one else could hear. Catherine didn't believe her—until she saw a banshee crying at their bedroom window the night her sister died. Now Catherine has begun to hear the same wailing, and she knows it's only a matter of time before the same dark specter pays her a visit.

But Catherine has no intention of going gently into that good night, so she travels to Ireland for answers about the banshee's curse hanging over her family. After a near deadly attack from a malevolent spirit, she meets Liam—a Fae sent to help her. Liam tells her the terrible truth: the banshee is part of a league of Dark Fae that collects human souls. If Catherine doesn't find a way to stop the banshee, her and her sister's souls will be lost forever.

Catherine and Liam must travel through the past and into the misty Fae underworlds for a miracle. But when Liam reveals he has his own agenda in this war of souls, Catherine must decide between saving herself and her sister's soul or protecting all of humanity from darkness.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Colleen Halverson
• Release date: Oct 1, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386083443

Book preview

Chapter One

I was looking for the storyteller. The bartender two pubs over had mentioned she sometimes came out to the music sessions here on Friday nights. She didn’t have a website or an email address. No phone number or social media page. If I hadn’t been so broke and desperate, I might have found the level of mystery intriguing. A real quest. And to Ireland of all places, the land of saints and scholars. But there was nothing romantic about why I found myself squeezed in the corner of a cramped, windowless bar in that tiny town at the edge of the Atlantic. Glancing down at the doodles in my notebook, I absently chewed on my pen and ran through sample questions in my head. I scanned the crowd again, my elbow grinding into an ancient table layered in decades of cigarette smoke and beer stains.

I had scraped together my measly savings to travel here for a story. My editor, Robbie, had arched an eyebrow when I pitched it to her, refusing to fund any part of the project. "Why banshees?" she had inquired without looking up from her laptop. I had tried my best to keep the strain out of my voice when I explained my new-found fascination with Irish folklore. No way could I have told her the real reason I wanted to travel thousands of miles across the ocean to talk to an old Irish woman about ghosts.

At the other end of the pub, the circle of musicians rocked together in unison, the rhythm of the song reaching a fever pitch. Sweat beaded off their foreheads, eyes closed, brows wrinkled in intense concentration as the music swelled, faster and faster. Frayed strings flew wildly off the fiddle player’s bow, and the guitar player’s fingers blurred in a storm of sound. A young woman hammered on a bodhrán, a kind of round, Irish drum. She stood up, kicking her chair behind her, and the crowd cheered and whistled. She chanted in Irish Gaelic, a wide grin spreading across her face as she flung her ash blond hair over her shoulder. I took my pen out of my mouth, tapping it against my cheek in time with her, wishing I could be so free, so raw and open. But I had work to do. Always the work.

I scanned the pub and let out a small, satisfied sound, my pulse quickening. She had arrived. Eliza McMahon. I recognized her from the author page of her book. Her soft smile juxtaposed against her shrewd, cutting gaze, and her wild gray hair trailed behind her like wisps of smoke. It was her. A little older now, but her. The storyteller. But that label didn’t quite do Eliza justice. Everyone told stories in Ireland. It was pretty much a national pastime around here. According to my research, the right title for Eliza was Seanchaí, an honorary position reserved for some of the most revered members of ancient Celtic tribes. A Seanchai wasn’t just a storyteller, but the possessor of tribal history, stories and lore spanning centuries. Eliza would know everyone’s ancestral history in this region of Ireland. She understood the Ireland’s darkest secrets, tales whispered in corners and passed along on the other edge of midnight. Fairy tales. Ghost stories. Someone had tried to collect them once, but those were just drops in a well. I needed more.

The song ended abruptly, and the plucky bodhrán player shouted they would start up again in ten minutes. Taking my cue, I shoved my pen behind my ear, grabbed my bag, and slipped through the pressing crowd, the conversation bearing down on me like an avalanche. Eliza had wandered to the bar, and she chatted with the man behind the counter as he poured her a dram of whiskey.

I sidled up beside her and plastered a smile across my face. Eliza McMahon?

She turned, her brow wrinkling and a frown settling into the deep lines of her face. Her ice blue eyes scanned my body slowly, lingering on my hair. She blinked once. Aye.

"I’m a reporter for Impulse, a New York-based lifestyle magazine, and I’m doing a story on Irish folklore. Could I ask you a few questions?" The words came out in a blitz of syllables, and I took a deep breath, trying to calm my racing heartbeat.

Eliza stared at me, her pupils dilating. She was a tall woman, almost six feet, and she towered against the bar, her hand clenched on the edge. No, she said, turning away.

I stood there stunned, my hands clammy and my stomach twisting. As a journalist, I had experienced doors slammed in my face, the occasional curt hang up, sources tight-lipped and ducking into elevators to escape my questions, but this felt like a slap in the face. I had traveled specifically to find her. After weeks of research and calling up every anthropologist, every specialist on Irish folklore, Eliza McMahon was my last hope.

Straightening my spine, I smiled wider, edging closer to the bar. They say you’re the greatest Seanchaí in Ireland.

She sipped he whiskey. Is that what they say?

I nodded. I’m writing a story on the Fae. Banshees, specifically, and I know you’ve had a lot to say on the subject. I’ve talked with so many people, but they all say I need to talk to you. You’re the authority.

Eliza threw back her shot glass and slammed it back on the bar. Banshees are a bad business. What would your readers in New York want to know about them?

A bad business? In what way? I probed, trying to keep my face blank and open as I reached for my pen and paper.

She relaxed her grip on the counter and leaned back, crossing her arms and narrowing her piercing eyes at me. We get a lot of Americans coming to this spot in Ireland, wanting to know the old stories, but a journalist? Don’t you have better things to write about?

No, I replied. We’re trying out something different. A travel and leisure kind of column.

She snorted. And what’s so leisurely about chasing banshees?

A nervous laugh escaped my lips. The column features more of the local flair, the off-the-beaten path information our readers crave. I forced my hands to my sides, aware that I was gesturing too much.

Eliza rolled her eyes and started to shuffle away.

I have a personal connection to it, you might say, I called after her, wincing. So unprofessional, bringing myself into it. But I was desperate.

She paused. Maybe if you buy me another whiskey, I’ll consider talking a bit with you.

I motioned to the bartender to pour Eliza another before she changed her mind, and I slipped some money on the counter, asking for a Guinness. Eliza took hold of her shot and raised it in an ironic cheers, a slight smirk stretching across her face.

So it’s personal now. She shook her head slowly, and I felt like a child caught in a lie, my face burning. The desire to confess everything welled in my chest. There was no column. Not really. No puff piece on the west of Ireland, where to get the best Guinness, the best fish and chips. No Whiskey in the Jar or Danny Boy lyrics. In the end, this was about a girl and a ghost.

I gripped my pint and stared into its dark contents. I thought coming out here might give me some answers. In the city there isn’t a lot of room to talk about paranormal stuff.

Eliza laughed. Too noisy for the ghosts then?

I shrugged. I think the city has its fair share of spirits, but the banshee is different.

Eliza raised her chin. And what does a New York girl know about the banshee?

I cleared my throat, my voice wavering when I spoke next. Well, she’s a woman, and that seems important. She follows old Irish families. There are so many different stories about her origins. Some say she’s the ghost of a spurned lover. Some say she’s a woman who died in childbirth. I was babbling, I knew that, but the words poured out of me, and I threw my pen and paper back into my bag, taking a sip of my Guinness to steady myself. And then there are other stories about the banshee that, well, I don’t quite understand. She’s a demon? She’s death itself?

Eliza glanced down at her shot of whiskey. Or maybe it’s all of the above, lass. With a long exhale she took hold of her drink and nodded to a table in the corner. My knees are tired. Let’s go sit down. I’ll give you a few minutes for your fancy New York magazine, but it sounds like you’ve done most of the work already.

Eliza settled in her chair with a heaving sigh, both elbows on the table, still watching me with her disarming gaze. And what did you say your name was?

If there was one thing I had learned since arriving in Ireland, it was that last names mattered. Last names contained history. Pedigree. Religion and ancestry. They were traces to the past, splayed in Celtic lettering across pub signs and street corners, marking where the roots of one family tree ended and another branch began. I knew my Irish last name, O’Halloran, was at the center of this story, but I didn’t know how. As a reporter, I was used to thin leads, leads like a single name scribbled on the back of napkins, whispered in my ear in a noisy bar. I could work with a name, which was a good thing because there wasn’t much more I could offer the woman seated across from me.

O’Halloran. I smoothed my sweaty hands on my jeans, glancing up at her and holding my breath for a response.

She stared back, a blank expression on her wizened face. Her skin was a map of lines, but her clear eyes twinkled in the dim light of the pub, the candle between us illuminating the brilliant blue of her irises. She didn’t move. Not even an eyelash.

I shifted in my seat, my lungs deflating. Catherine O’Halloran.

Eliza suddenly burst out laughing, knocking on the table, her shoulders shaking. Now I see.

What? I leaned forward. What’s so funny about my name?

She shook her head, taking a small sip of whiskey. I should have known. The minute I saw you.

Known what? What are you talking about? Impatience laced my voice.

She set down her glass and drew back in her chair. O’Halloran is an old family in these parts.

My parents died when I was young, I blurted. I don’t know anything about my family, and I was hoping… I swallowed hard, the words catching in my throat. Was hoping. Past continuous. I tucked a lock of hair behind my ear and gripped my pint with both hands, the glass cold and damp with condensation. I was hoping that you might know something about the O’Hallorans. Something important. I mean, for the story.

Her long fingers drifted over to her glass of whiskey, and she brought it to her lips again and took a sip. She pooled the alcohol in her mouth for what seemed like an eternity before actually swallowing. I started to wonder if she had even heard my question, but then she set the glass down and leaned back.

The O’Hallorans. She blinked slowly, the name rolling of her tongue in her Irish brogue.

It struck me in that moment that I had never heard my name sound like that. Lyrical, all the consonants flowing together like an autumn rain.

Like I said, it’s a common enough name in these parts, she continued.

Right. I dug in my bag for my pen and notebook, ready to jot down some notes. But are there any local stories attached to it? Anything, you know, a little odd?

She laughed. You’re in County Clare, lass. We’re all a little odd here.

I gave her a weak smile, but frustration bubbled through me. Reaching into my bag, I brought out a faded paperback. A younger Eliza McMahon stood on the cover, her proud nose tilted up slightly, dark hair flowing around her shoulders. Her arms crossed her chest, a slight scowl on her face as if daring her readers to doubt her stories. Fireside Tales of County Clare blazoned on the top of the cover in bubbly 1970s disco font, and the yellowing pages smelled of mildew, almost comforting in the consistent way old paper smells. Like summer camp or forgotten laundry.

You have a story in here where you mention the O’Halloran family. I pushed the book across the table as if I was a spy and this was some contraband dossier.

Her eyes softened, and she flipped through the withering paperback, the words blurring together beneath her thumb. I didn’t think there were any copies of this left.

There were only a handful left. I had spent a fortune tracking it down in an online used bookstore.

There’s a story in there, I said. About an O’Halloran and a banshee.

Eliza stopped thumbing the pages. Aye. What of it?

Well, it stood out to me.

Stood out to me? It jumped off the page, waved its arms, and planted a neon sign. That old tale about a lord coming across a banshee on the moors was the only verification of what I had experienced as a child may have actually been real. Yet between my jet lag and the phantom noises that plagued me, I was definitely beginning to question the nature of reality.

I gripped the edge of the table. A lot of these banshee encounters, well, they seem benign, right? A howling spirit of some kind, but that story. That story seemed—

A bit evil, aye? Eliza quirked an eyebrow.

I nodded, recalling the details of the chilling story. Yeah. I mean, the man sees her out at night. Hears her keening. She touches him, burning his skin. My hands trembled, and I shoved them between my knees beneath the table. Then the next day, he up and dies. It’s like she cursed him. Like, it was inevitable after that.

An explosion of laughter from the bar shook the rafters, and Eliza looked up and shouted something in Gaelic to the men gathered there.

Her gaze shifted back to me. What are you looking for, dearie?

I bit my lip, my toe tapping on the ground. I don’t know how to ask this, so I’ll just say it. I took a deep breath and met Eliza’s aloof stare. Do you know how to get rid of a banshee? Say, for instance, if one was following you?

Is this for your story? she asked in a sarcastic tone.

I said nothing.

Eliza paused for a moment, then she shook her head. There’s no lifting of the banshee’s curse that I know of, lass.

But why does a banshee haunt one family and not others? There must be some reason to it? A cold sweat broke out on my upper lip, and I wiped it away. The pub had grown hot and stifling as more and more bodies pressed inside its cramped walls.

You use the words ‘reason’ and ‘banshee’ in the same sentence? You must be daft. There’s no reason for it. If the wee folk choose to follow a family, there’s no convincing them otherwise. She stooped her shoulders, her palms spreading wide across the table. She peered at me, her shoulders tensing. You’ve heard her. That’s why you’re here.

I dropped my head in my hands for a moment, steadying myself with a deep breath before speaking. Yes, I replied in a small voice, staring at her through my fingers. In some strange way, it felt good to confess, to share the burden with another soul.

She looked away, shaking her head, tapping her nails against the table, a pained expression on her face.

My heart raced, my knee pulsing beneath the table. My sister heard her crying in the weeks before she died. I glanced down at my pint. The creamy froth laced against the glass like a soft mist against the dark stout. I took a long draught before setting the glass down again, my hand shaking. And I’m here because I think I’m next.

Eliza let out a sound between a grunt and a sigh. I doubt you’ll be putting that in your magazine.

I don’t know, I said absently, pushing back the tears welling up against my eyelids. I chewed on my pen for a moment before tucking it back into my notebook. Probably not. No. I mean, I feel like I’m going crazy. I thought if I could learn more, maybe it would go away. Or maybe I could figure out how to stop it.

Eliza’s gaze softened. I don’t know what to tell you. Perhaps it’s some other O’Halloran who has it coming.

I shook my head. Like I said, I have no family. My sister and I were orphans. Foster care. We don’t…I don’t have anyone.

The storyteller gave me a sad glance and shrugged. The Fae are a complicated lot. Perhaps she’s just giving you a mighty scare.

I gritted my teeth, my stomach twisting to knots. Wrenching my sleeve up, I displayed the scars on my arm. Does this look like a mighty scare?

She frowned, grabbing hold of my wrist. When did you get this?

I stared down at the red scars. Four fingers. I always said I got burned from a stove. But it was her. She marked me just like she marked that man in her story.

It happened when I was a child, I whispered. I was young. Just turned six, but I remember. I heard a great wail. But it wasn’t just a cry. It was…

A shot of terror ran down my spine as I recalled the memory of that sound. It was like a sound outside of sound. Sonic, tonal. The highest scream mixed with a dark, bottomless, hollow moan. It was something I wasn’t meant to hear, like how dogs can hear certain sounds humans can’t. The cry existed outside of my plane of existence. It tore through the air with juggernaut force, crushing it until the cry itself imploded, turned the space around the sound into a black hole of utter despair.

It was terrible. I shuddered.

Eliza nodded, her hand folding into my palm.

Out of instinct, I made to pull away, but I forced myself to lean into her touch.

I woke up, I continued. My sister had been very sick. They didn’t really know what she had, or maybe they did and they never told me. I lay in bed. The wailing. It paralyzed me. My limbs felt so heavy. My sister and I shared a bedroom, and I looked over at her. She was still. She was…

She was dead.

I wanted to say it, but those words were still too difficult to utter.

Eliza squeezed my palm. It’s all right. Take your time.

I nodded, inhaling deeply. My sister had a music box. Well, it was one of those snow globes, you know? With a dancer inside. Snow falling around. You could wind it up, and it played Beethoven. Für Elise. She said our mother gave it to her, but I don’t remember our mother.

Eliza gazed at me, a profound stillness settling across her wide face. Like the moon, she seemed to have her own gravitational pull. The noise of the pub had fallen away, and in that moment, it felt as if we were the only people there. Dark shadows fell around us, the only light the single candle burning in the red glass.

It started playing. On its own. I began again, shaking my head. I know how impossible this all sounds. My throat tightened, and I scrubbed my eyelids, clutching the edge of the table. I looked over to the dresser, and there she was—the banshee. She held the snow globe in her hands, her face raised toward the ceiling. She had long silver hair and pale skin. A white dress. But there was so much darkness around her, like the deepest shadow.

Eliza nodded knowingly, and I let out a long exhale, the burden of carrying this experience easing somewhat. I had never told anyone about the night Emily died. Not the full story anyway.

And I don’t know how, I continued, but I knew I had to get that snow globe from her hands. I fought that heavy feeling and stumbled toward her. The sound. God. I thought my eardrums would shatter. How did no one else hear it, you know? I played with the edge of my notebook with my fingernail. I finally made it to her and reached for the snow globe. She turned to me, and her eyes were—there was nothing there. Nothing at all. She grabbed my arm and threw me across the room.

I took hold of my pint and gulped it down, the froth leaving spider webs against the rim of the glass.

And that’s it. I shrugged. When I woke up, my sister was dead, and I had this scar.

Eliza let go of my hand. And the snow globe?

It was gone.

The Seanachaí made a low sound in her throat and rapped her fingertips on the table, shaking her head. She seemed to have slipped into some sort of trance, her light blue eyes gazing at the bar, but seeking something far beyond that. Beyond the walls of the tiny pub, beyond the hills outside. Her gaze limitless. I didn’t want to utter a word because I didn’t want to disturb her thoughts. Everything hinged upon her mind, her memory, years and years of knowledge archived in the deepest regions of her brain. She cocked her head to the side, gave a slow nod, and then abruptly stood up, knocking the table to the side.

I’m sorry, but I can’t help you, she said.

What? I squawked, shooting to my feet.

Like I said, banshees are a bad business, she mumbled beneath her breath, shaking her head low. They want no part in it.

I hounded her footsteps. Who are ‘they’? The Faeries? Why won’t they help me?

I knew how absurd I was in that moment. A grown woman. Standing in a pub. Begging the Faeries to aid me with my banshee problem. But I didn’t know