He caught a glimpse of eyes, soot-dark in Celtic cream. There was something insubstantial about her. Or him. He blamed the beer.
He raised his glass to her and she was gone. Turned, and found her behind him, lashes shyly shuttered against his bold, woozy New York stare.
“You’re not from here,” he said. Shouted, rather, against the Irish hum and roar.
She pulled at the silk shirt slipping from one narrow shoulder. He, peering for cleavage, felt those smudged eyes crinkle with dark irony. Called the barman.
“What can I get you?”
An American in Dublin. Would she want Guinness, or whisky? She – it must be she – turned a narrow, pale wrist towards him. A sign, he had read, of feminine interest. Or masculine?
The barman poured two shots, one for each. One earring, a four leaf clover set in old silver, dangled green as the liquid in the glass before him. A Gaelic speciality?
Perhaps. She drank, and watched him bring the glass to New York lips, too seldom still.
He saw her waver, ghost-like, a shimmer against the golden brimfuls and craic-drunk eyes of the crowded bar. They stood alone in the damp moonlight, on Tara’s hill, burial place of kings.
She spoke, warm breath in his ear, tickling.
“I don’t understand. I don’t speak the Gaelic,” he said, thinking how very drunk he must be, not to remember. And yet…
“Neither do I,” said the girl of faerie, breasts flat as a man’s under the silken fog, as she – or it could have been he – drew him beneath the curve of ancient ground. For there are things older than male, and female, and they speak no language now known, in a Dublin pub.
To celebrate the fact that my novel, Deeper, is on Amazon FREE for the next five days, I’m going to write a tale of dark fantasy each day as the moon sinks below the gum trees! Join me if you feel in a fey mood, and I’ll link. To read the latest review of Deeper, hop over to Tome Tender “When it comes to books, who needs shelf control?”. Dianne has lots of reviews, book giveaways and freebies, and a truly gorgeous front page.