But there was no sense of a spirit, nor of anything out of the ordinary. Frowning, I went back to putting away the food, but in the back of my mind, I couldn’t shake the feeling something big was barreling my way, and I was right in the center of the road.
Chapter Two
I spent the next half-hour making the chowder. After it was done, I poured it into a slow cooker to keep it warm. The extra time would blend the flavors even more. While I cooked and simmered, Kipa sliced the French bread loaves in half, buttering them and then wrapping them in foil. He stowed them in the fridge, then made turkey and provolone sandwiches for lunch. We cleaned the kitchen again, together, and had just finished when the doorbell rang.
I glanced at the clock. “Three p.m., precisely. That’s my mother.”
Phasmoria was seldom late, but she never overstepped her boundaries when it came to my privacy. She rang the bell, knocked at the bedroom door when she stayed over, and didn’t try to snoop in my mail.
Beyond that, I knew that she was always a step ahead of me. But I didn’t mind because she was on my side, and that was the one place you wanted the Queen of the Bean Sidhe.
I opened the door.
She was leaning against the doorpost, clad in black leather—both jacket and pants—with knee-high platform boots. Beneath the jacket, she wore a blood-red tank top. Her hair was perfectly straight, falling to the curve of her lower back, and it was black, streaked with silver. My mother was a little taller than me—at five-eight—and far more muscled. She looked like a classy biker chick, and was tougher than any biker you’d ever meet. Her fingernails were painted blood red, and her lipstick matched both her top and her nails.
She swooped me into her arms for a quick hug. We weren’t a demonstrative family, but Phasmoria and I had gotten chummier over the past few years and we now willingly exchanged hugs when we met. I had noticed that, ever since Pandora had abducted and tortured me, my mother had kept a closer eye on me.
“You’re looking good,” she said, eyeing me up and down. “How are the memories?”
I shrugged. “They’re there, but…I’m all right. Wary, but okay. I’m having a lot fewer flashbacks.”
“Good.” Phasmoria sighed. “I’m glad that you’re feeling better, because I have some news, and…you’d better sit down for this one, because it’s big.”
A shadow passed over her face. For her to look so concerned made my blood run cold. The Bean Sidhe weren’t afraid of anything except their goddess. As I walked her to the living room, I wondered if Pandora was on the move again. And if so, was she gunning for me?
So, I’d better start with an introduction. I’m Raven BoneTalker, one of the Ante-Fae—the predecessors to the Light and Dark Courts. While my mother eclipses me, I’m definitely developing my own style. I stand five-seven, and I’m curvy in a plump sort of way with big boobs and big hips. Humans call me goth, though it’s truly just my nature.
I’ve got long brown hair streaked with purple—all natural—and my arms, torso, and back are covered with scrolling birthmarks that look like intricate tattoos. I’m a swirl of curls and spirals, and the markings on my back are wing-shaped. My amalgamation of birthmarks are from my mixed parentage. As I said, both my parents are Ante-Fae—my mother is Queen of the Bean Sidhe, and my father is the Black Dog of Hanging Hills.
And me? I’m a bone witch. I walk with the dead, and I’m a priestess of Arawn—Lord of the Dead—and Cerridwen—Keeper of the Cauldron. Mostly, I work fire and death magic, read fortunes, exorcise houses, and clear out the dead who should not be lingering. My mother has hinted that I have other powers that haven’t manifested yet, and so I wait, not pushing the envelope because when you encourage Fate to move too quickly, it usually implodes.
I’m hundred-plus years old, barely legal in my world, in love with a god, and trying to help out my friends who are on the front lines of a war against the dragons. If I were to encourage Fate to intervene again, I’d be dumping one too many things on my plate.
And of course, the moment that thought crossed my mind, I realized I had just jinxed myself.
Phasmoria glanced around, spotting Raj. Before doing anything else, she walked over to plant a big old smooch on his head. “How’s Raj doing?”
“Raj is good. How is Raven’s mother?”
I wasn’t sure why, but he seldom called her by name. He was wary of her because my mother treated him with the same buck-up attitude she treated everybody else. My mother was hard to ignore when she told you to do something.
“Phasmoria is doing well, but she needs to talk to Raven alone, so would Raj please go play in another room?” She turned to Kipa, whom she had a grudging respect for. She wasn’t thrilled I was dating a god, but she also had seen him stick by me during a very rough time, and she respected loyalty. “Kipa, hello, and would you go with Raj? We can all chat afterward, but I need to talk to her right now; and what I have to say needs to be said in private, at least to start.” She shooed them off the sofa.
“Raj and Kipa will go watch TV in the bedroom,” Kipa said, motioning for Raj to accompany him. He had a worried look on his face, though, and he glanced back once, frowning. As soon as they were in the bedroom and the door had closed, Phasmoria turned back to me.
“What’s going on?” I asked. “What’s happened? Is Da all right?”
“As far as I know. Sit down, Raven. As I said, this is…concerning news.”
Wondering what was going on, I sat down on the sofa and she joined me. “Is this about the dragons?” We were in the middle of a war against Typhon, the Father of All Dragons. Or rather, the gods were going up against him. Those of us who were puny and easily crisped by dragon breath were taking care of the collateral damage, which included a massive number of dead rising, and all sorts of delightful fallout like that.
But Phasmoria shook her head. “No, actually it doesn’t. Did your father ever tell you about the Banra-Sheagh?”
The name sounded familiar, but I couldn’t remember where I’d heard of it. “No, I don’t think so. What…who…are we talking about?”
She took a deep breath. “I wish your father hadn’t been so remiss in his duties. Granted, he’s one of the Exosan, like you, but he owed it to you to tell you more about your heritage.”
“My heritage? You mean his family…your family?” I was confused now. If we had a relative named the Banra-Sheagh, I’d never known about it.
“Not exactly.” Phasmoria paused, biting her lip. “All right, do you even know that our people have a queen?”
That was a new one. “Nope. I thought that we Ante-Fae are mostly…anarchists, so to speak. We don’t have a ruling government like the Light and Dark Fae do.”
“Yes, we do, though some of the youngsters like you don’t know about her because you’re being brought up in a human world. The Banra-Sheagh is Queen of the Ante-Fae. She’s ancient—far beyond reckoning. Like Arachana, she’s almost a goddess.” She paused, still looking troubled.
“What’s going on? Why does this matter to me?”