Page 64 of Echoes of the Banshee

“Welcome to me humble hellhole,” he drawls. “Don’t mind the mess. The housekeeper’s been slacking off.”

“Who—” My voice cracks, hoarse from disuse or screaming. I’m still not sure which. I swallow hard, forcing the words out. “Who’s there?”

“Ah, just your friendly neighborhood prisoner,” he quips. “Though, if ya here to clean, ya missed a spot. Or several thousand.”

“Are you serious right now?”

“As serious as one can be while chained to a wall in this five-star luxury resort,” he says. “I can tell ya tryin’ to figure out if I’m worth talking to or if I’ll just make things worse.”

“I wasn’t,” I lie.

“Sure ya weren’t. Look, truth be told it’s not going to get any better, and there’s no secret escape route behind those loose bricks. I checked. A hundred times.” He pauses. “Ya know what day it is?”

“Excuse me?”

“Date,” he repeats. “Been here so long, I lost track. Don’t suppose ya got any idea what year it is, do ya?”

“Great,” I mutter, the weight of our isolation settling over me.

“I’m only joking, love. Only been here a couple o’ weeks, I think.”

“That doesn’t make me feel any better,” I tell him.

“It should,” he says, his tone bright with exaggerated cheerfulness. “Got me to keep ya company. Lazarus, at your service. Unless ya here to kill me, in which case, I’m afraid ya’ll have to get in line.”

I can’t help it. Despite the fear, I find myself biting back a grin. “And how long is that line exactly?”

“Longer than ya’d think. Me sparkling personality tends to rub people the wrong way.”

“Shocking.”

“Ah, there it is. Sarcasm. I knew ya had potential.”

We fall into silence as I rub at the cuff cutting into my wrist. The pain radiating out.

“So, Lazarus,” I ask cautiously. “What are you doing in this five-star resort?”

“Would ya believe me if I said I got lost on me way to the pub, aye?”

“Not even for a second.”

He chuckles. “Fair enough. The short version? I’m a banshee.”

“A banshee?”

“Wailing, foretelling doom, and apparently, now adding ‘chain-clanking ambiance’ to my resume. Very on-brand,” he tells me. For the first time since they’d taken me, I felt the corners of my lips raise in an unmistakable smile.

“You don’t sound like any banshee I’ve heard of. I thought you lot were more… dramatic.”

“Dramatic?” he repeats, feigning offense. “I’ll have ya know I’ve been accused of being many things, but dramatic? Never.”

“Right. Because ‘foretelling doom’ is the picture of subtlety.”

He chuckles, the sound unexpectedly warm. “Fair play. Though, in me defense, I prefer to keep the wailing to a minimum. Bad for the vocal cords. But we tend to hide, for obvious reasons. Ya know, like imprisonment and torture.” His tone sharpens, a bitter edge slipping through. “Not that that’s likely, of course.”

Despite the surreal horror of the situation, his sarcasm made the pain lessen. Like an anchor tethering me to something real.

“Well, I highly doubt it’ll happen twice.”