The Fairy Queen of Killaloe: A Father Declan Supernatural Mystery

By Patrick Dorn

Never Bargain With a Banshee!

 

A Franciscan friar must defend a philandering fiancé from a judgment of doom pronounced by an enraged fairy queen. Featuring guest appearances by Saint Flannán and Aoibheal, the dread banshee guardian of the O'Brien clan.

 

The Father Declan Supernatural Mysteries are a series of upbeat, redemptive, and often humorous contemporary fantasy short stories set in Ireland.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Patrick Dorn
• Release date: Aug 29, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201456245

Patrick Dorn

Patrick Dorn used to write weird westerns set in Old California, New Mexico, and Colorado, but then he visited Ireland. Now his supernatural fiction alternates between The West and The Emerald Isle, but is always, always weird. He's also an Anglican priest and a full-time chaplain. Check out Patrick's blog, stories, plays, musicals, children's books, and more at www.PatrickDorn.com. You can reach him at [e-mail]

Book preview

A Woeful Joke

Father Declan O’Shea was just raising his right hand to pronounce a blessing over the elderly couple seated in their wheelchairs at the head table when someone filled it with a fizzing champagne flute.

He considered offering a toast instead of a prayer.

The priest glanced over to whoever had interrupted his moment and saw one of the catering staff, a big girl with a pretty, pale face. Maybe eighteen years of age. She wore no makeup and her eyebrows were unplucked. Thick walnut brown hair was pulled back in a ponytail and fastened with a red elastic band. She was clothed in a white cotton blouse that strained at the shoulders and buttons, black polyester stretch slacks, a short white apron, and non-skid black shoes.

Her lips were pushed forward in an embarrassed O, her button nose was swollen and runny, and her puffy, red-rimmed, chocolate brown eyes appeared stricken.

Oh, Jaysus, Father, I’m sorry. I thought you wanted…

The Franciscan friar didn’t need his spiritual gift of Insight to see that the girl was struggling. One smart remark might tip her over the edge. He pitched his voice to his most pastoral tone.

Quite all right, my child. He raised the champagne flute to his nose and sniffed. Do I detect a hint of almond marzipan in the bouquet? He grinned his most disarming smile and winked. Or might it be the telltale burnt almond aroma of cyanide?

Tears welled up in those chocolate brown eyes.

If it had, I’d have downed it myself.

Father Declan wilted inside at how poorly his little attempt at a joke had landed, then breathed in and slipped lightly into his spiritual gift of Insight. He wanted to make sure no unclean spirit of self-harm or suicide had landed its parasitic fishhooks into the girl’s soul.

Distraught, but not oppressed by devils. Still, there was something unusual there…

The girl spun and fled the modest banquet room at Flanagan’s on the Lake. On her way toward the double kitchen doors she jostled a table, sloshing a few drinks, and disappeared from view.

Still in his Insight, Father Declan noticed a thin white cat follow close on her heels. The cat turned and looked straight at him with unsettlingly luminous pale blue eyes.

Stay out of this, priest. The girl Grace Kennedy is under my protection.

Father Declan took a step back as he was abruptly booted out of his Insight. The white cat turned, dismissed him with a lifted tail and the one-eyed wink, then vanished through the still-swinging doors.

The kitchen doors grew still.

He could hear the girl weeping on the other side.

Toasted

Somewhere, stainless steel flatware rang against the parquet disco floor, jarring Father Declan back to the task at hand.

Eighteen or so guests were arranged around four round tables. The dinner dishes were cleared and cubes of white cake sat on dessert plates. A boy with tousled hair wearing an ill-fitting suit leaned over, retrieved his fork from the floor, wiped it on his trousers, and jabbed it into his cake.

A scattering of middle-aged couples held champagne flutes in their hands, their patience waning as the drinks grew flat.

The Franciscan friar needed to regain control of the situation, make a toast, pronounce a blessing, and follow that cat.

I’ve seen a good many people cry at weddings, he quipped. But a 50th wedding anniversary? This may be a first.

Silence. But at least they were staring at him now, and not thinking about the poor, distraught server.

He turned to the elderly couple, the guests of honor.

The man wore a baggy brown suit coat over a blue flannel shirt and soiled gray sweatpants. He was dozing through the squealing of a dislodged hearing aid.

His bride wore a buttoned-up woolen