The Hallowe'en Twilight Liminal

The commercial conflation of festive seasons seems worse each year. The Christmas season is disrupted by the jarring sight of Easter-themed items sitting on supermarket shelves on the morning of the second day of the season. Equally, St. Valentine's Day -- and every other festive day -- suffers the same injustice, with Hallowe'en beginning around the end of August along with Christmas.

Daragh O'Crochán recalled the feeling of mild terror that had passed through him on St. Stephen's Day nine months beforehand. He'd been out early to his local Tesco to replenish his stock of bread and milk, quickly picking up what he needed before discovering the shelves of chocolate chicks, yellow bunnies in baskets, and Easter eggs on his walk to the checkout.

Martin O'Keefe, his neighbour in the Twin Oaks apartment development, was at the tail of the queue for the registers, a basket of bread, milk and bananas nestling happily between his feet as he perused the shelves.

"Easter already by the looks of it, Martin. It must be Shrove Tuesday tomorrow," Daragh said and laughed.

"For fuck's sake, Daragh, why don't you come and join us in 2025 -- Shrove Tuesday? It's called Pancake Tuesday. Unless, of course, a shrove is a pancake in your dictionary."

Daragh's dark eyes sparked as Martin sniggered. "Shrove Tuesday or, more properly, Máirt Inide, is the day before Céadaoin an Luaithrigh -- that's Ash Wednesday to you, which marks the beginning of Lent in Western Christian churches. Shrove Tuesday is the last day of the post Séasúr na Nollag period and is typically marked with festivities and foods like pancakes or crepes, before the more sombre Lenten season begins."

Martin scratched his nose and snorted, "You must be very popular with the ladies, Daragh. What are you doing today? Cleaning your windows or something?"

"No, I'm off down to The Beachcomber to greet the Buachaillí an Dreoilín, like every year."

"What's that, another of your ancient rituals?"

"They are The Wren Boys -- they'll be Ag Sealgaireacht an Dreoilín down there. That's hunting the Wren to you. You should take the children down to expose them to a bit of culture and legend."

"Legend! If it's not a PlayStation game, they don't want to know. Besides, I don't need them having nightmares about dead wrens being carted from pub to pub by a baying mob."

Daragh looked skywards. "They don't use a real wren anymore, Martin, and they just sing songs and play music -- it's far from a baying mob."

Martin picked up his basket and made to leave. "Happy Christmas, Yule, Saturnalia or whatever it is you're calling it this year, Daragh."

Daragh just smiled. "Nollaig Shona, Martin."

"Yeah, whatever. Will we see you at the party on New Year's Eve?"

Daragh nodded his head and smiled. "I'll bring a bottle of hemlock or a vintage Absinthe -- we could share a couple of Green Fairies or three."

Daragh thought about this exchange as he lay in bed when August yawned and rolled over. The usual restiveness that befell him as the Liminal time approached became apparent in the silent darkness at 3 am on the first Saturday morning of the month.

The dreams had begun again. Dreams of firelight, life and the proximity of hope. He tossed and turned until a little before four, finally surrendering as he rose from his bed and walked to the kitchen, his thoughts muddied by the need for a soothing brew of alder root tea.

He checked his physique in the reflection of the floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the car park outside his apartment, butterflies fluttering momentarily at the unfulfilled sanguinity as it pervaded his being with the regularity of the moon's rise and fall.

He watched the last of his alder infusion slowly come to the boil, rinsing the empty bottle while planning his route to forage for replacement leaves and roots to replenish his supply for the next quarter. The wild currents of the hedgerows would soon be in season, and it would be time to fill his jars with preserves that would see him through the next year.

His hand slowly massaged the muscles of his wide torso, pausing at his chest -- where the definition had become pronounced this past year. He slipped his hand down towards the thick member that hung listlessly between his legs, taking it between his fingers and stroking it in the hope of teasing it to life -- he'd endured the discomfort of his inability to reach his potential for each of his almost twenty years, the pitying looks in the eyes of women who'd offered to alleviate his pent-up desire, their ill-disguised frustration when they failed, and their screams of ecstasy when he used his tongue and fingers to leave them almost comatose instead.

With the arrival of adulthood, his powers would manifest, and he would be free to exorcise the pent-up anxieties and apparent impotence that had caused him too many sleepless nights. The Liminal time was the opportune occasion for the revelation, and he counted it down as it approached each year. According to legend, he'd finally meet his parents as the Liminal curtain opened, and they'd honour him in his rightful place by the time it closed.

He was aware of the lore that abounded. He'd read hundreds of books and articles that alluded to, but never accurately described, the depth and reach of his potential. He'd watched his body mature naturally, concealing it as much as possible as the development increased in pace in the two years since his eighteenth breithlá, and he awaited destiny's intervention as the fates foretold.

Tara Kelly sidled up to his workstation the following Monday morning, a sheaf of papers in her hand. She pulled out a spare chair beside Daragh's desk, sat down, and rolled herself to his side. He glanced at her as he worked.

She leaned in, to whisper in his ear. "Good morning, Daragh. I'm still not over Saturday night. I'm sorry I blacked out. Your tongue was incredible."

He continued typing until he reached the end of his thought, made a quick perusal of the office and noted that Barry Evans was four desks away from them. He looked into her eyes and smiled. "You are too, Tara. You tasted of summer fruits."

"Oh fuck! When can we do it again, I--"

He lifted his hands from his keyboard and placed one on her knee as she squirmed in her seat. "I thought I'd explained about my ... limitations."

She flicked her head and moved her blond hair away from her face. "Yes, but I might be able--"

"Tara. It'll happen when it is decreed, not before. It's not an illness -- it's just the nature of things."

"But--"

He reached into his jacket pocket and handed her a G-string. "You left this behind, by the way -- I washed it for you. If you'd like to do it again, it'd be a pure pleasure for me as long as you have no other expectations."

She nodded her head and mused as she stared at her underwear. "I can't believe you washed my knickers. When? Tonight?"

"Not tonight, I'm busy. Tomorrow?"

"Yes, thanks."

"What's that you're handing out?"

She took a sheet from the pile and handed it to him. "Posters for the Social Club Hallowe'en Party -- it's fancy dress.

"What? Samhain is fucking twelve weeks away yet."

"Samhain?"

"Yes, Oíche Samhna -- Hallowe'en, and it's not fancy dress," he said, reading through it quickly.

"It is! Look." She pointed at the poster where it said, "Half-face Masquerade Masks will be supplied by the committee. No others will be allowed."

"Yes, I can read, Tara, but it also says it's a black and white clone party."

"What's that?"

"It means that everyone wears the same costume. I'm guessing that the females dress in white -- usually a long gown, and the males in something black. There are no other details, so I expect it'll be updated to clarify everything. It doesn't even give the ticket prices or the venue. It's a typical Social Club mess by the looks of it. I wouldn't put these out until it's been clarified."

She looked at him and saw he was serious. He pulled the poster away as she tried to grab it. The look in his eyes and his general demeanour brooked no argument, so she left it with him and made to leave. "I'll return these with your comments. Tomorrow at eight?"

"That's fine," he said.

"Your place or mine?"

"Which do you prefer?"

"Yours, if that's alright. Mine feels different."

He stood and placed his hand on her back. "I'll make dinner," he said. "Shall we say seven thirty for eight o'clock?"

She smiled. "I'll bring the wine."

After an evening foraging for nettles, alder root, and ripe buttercup, he was on his way home when he came upon a large hedgerow laden with sweet blackberries, tart damsons, and purple elderberries. He filled a wicker basket with these and lots of wild plums, hawthorn berries, wild strawberries and gooseberries. He paused at a cluster of wild carrot but decided against it as it looked so similar to hemlock -- an instinct, however, prodded him to remove a few handfuls from the branch to take home with him.

At his kitchen sink, he washed the roadside dust out of his treasure trove, stored it in a darkened pantry that had once been a rarely used storage cupboard, changed out of his clothes into something cooler, and set three jugs of alder root infusion on the floor of the cupboard to mature and mellow. He took the folded poster from his pocket and sat in an easy chair, taking advantage of the view of the car park outside. The evening sun glowed orange as tiredness overcame him and he fell into a light sleep.

He settled into an uncomfortable slumber as a procession of faceless beings in black and white filed past on either side of the throne, made of bracken and hawthorn, that he watched from, his heart beating wildly as a conspiracy of ravens circled once before landing on the frame of his seat. An unexplainable, lingering sensation of an unseen, powerful observer gnawed at his nervous system, distracting him from the ceremony before him. He knew who it was -- it had been foretold from the moment of his birth. It could only have been The Morrigan, and she was sending him a sign.

A pale, slight feminine hand touched his shoulder, and he looked into a smiling face with fair skin and sparkling blue eyes. A tear trickled down her face as she leaned forward and kissed his cheek, her hand nestling in his jet-black hair. Their eyes met, and a shiver of recognition shot through him as he watched her every movement and inflection. He saw her look to her right, as she gazed directly over his head at a tall, dark, bearded male. His tired face was grey and weathered.

He twisted in his seat to see who was behind him, tears suddenly clouding his vision as he recognised his father and mother standing on either side of his seat. He rose to full height and threw himself at their feet, clutching one of each of their feet and clinging on for dear life. His mother bent and took his arm, wordlessly lifting him from a supine position on the forest floor.

"Come, Dair Gaelach. You defer to neither mortal nor Sídhe," she said gently.

A raven on the arm of his seat squawked loudly, prompting the rest of the unkindness to flee. Daragh looked at his father, seeking reassurance and instruction. "We are close to diminishment, a mhic. Your time is nigh, but we will visit you between now and the close of the Liminal Time -- after that you will be the bearer of our standard."

"But--"

"You will call me Marr, and your mother, Cara. You are our only son and will carry on our line. We will visit during twilight and imbue you with tales of your history, your limitations and expectations, your potential and your enemies, who are many."

"But, Fath--"

"Marr," he cut him off.

"Marr", he said, holding his hands out to display his naked body. "I don't have--"

Marr raised his left hand -- silencing him again -- and placed it on his son's head. His right took Cara's right hand as she placed her left on top of her husband's. Marr raised his eyes to the sky and called out to Oberon in a loud but strangled pleading voice. They both bowed their heads low, their chins resting on their chests, eyes closed and lips moving in silent incantation. Daragh heard a deep rumbling sound from above just before a spear of lightning exploded around him, casting him in warm luminescence as it stripped away his consciousness.

He was lying on the floor in the predawn darkness when he woke, his shirt tight around his torso, an unfamiliar strain pulsing in his groin. Struggling to a seated position on the kitchen floor, he felt imprisoned by his clothing and struggled out of them in anxiety and incomprehension. "What the fuck ..." he swore into the night, ripping his shorts away from the raging erection that was causing him severe discomfort, and more than a little worry and puzzlement.

The voice of Cara invaded his thoughts and soothed his consciousness, "You have masculinity and nascent magic, Dair Gaelach -- use both wisely. You will be guided as you navigate your path to the fulfilment and consummation of your inherited potential."

The sound of his stomach grumbling drove him to his trove of foraged fruit, and a bowl of hawthorn berries covered in Greek Yogurt accompanied him back to his bed. He set the bowl on the nightstand and tried to negotiate a way to get into bed without angering the heavy protrusion arcing upward and away from his body.

It helped when he sat under the covers, his knees bent in front of him to hold them away from the tingling and painful member. Not knowing how to alleviate the discomfort, he placed the empty bowl on the floor by the bed, took the shaft of his rampant cock in his hand and squeezed it slightly, rolling on his side as he felt the head almost explode in a million delicious sensations that rocked his body to the core and covered his hand, groin and most of the bedding in a thick and viscous stream of white unctuous fluid.

He lay on his side for a considerable time, dazed with pinpricks of light exploding behind his eyes as he relaxed into the beautiful sensations that pummelled his body and pleasured his soul. The experience was beyond his understanding of the physical phenomenon, but he was too weak to leave the comforting cocoon of his bed to research it. He drifted off to sleep with his still erect cock held tightly in his hand, a clear fluid streaming from the tip as his brain shut down when somnolence pervaded, Cara's words a lullaby in his soul.

Tara Kelly kissed him deeply, her tongue lashing against his. She ground her hips against his hard member, deep animalistic sounds growling in her throat. She was almost breathless as they broke apart, a look of pure desire burning in her eyes as her hand reached to touch him.

Daragh lifted her in his arms, carried her to his room and laid her on his bed. He touched her breast and squeezed it softly, simultaneously gripping the fabric of her dress and ripping it off. She lay before him, her lips full and her breath catching as her eyes widened when he quickly disrobed.

He reached for her luxurious breasts again, her thumbs marvelling at the stiffness of her nipples. His hunger matching hers as his hands explored the softness of her body before resting at the flimsy lace of the wispy black thong that remained in place. He tore it from her, lifting her hips as it almost disintegrated in his hands.

Kneeling between her legs, he placed her hand on his throbbing cock, watching her smile as she looked down and tried, in vain, to close her small hand around the shaft and stroke the tip with her thumb while she gripped it. She tried to sit up, sighing as his finger slipped inside her, forcing her to flop backwards, her hand reaching for his as his fingers filled her.

Her voice was strained as she pleaded. "Fuck me, Daragh," she said, squeezing his cock, leading him to her saturated opening. "Fuck my pussy."

She keened as he removed his fingers and gripped her buttocks, lifted her hips and allowed her to guide him inside to a plaintive groan of arousal as he plunged deeply in one swift thrust of his hips, filling her completely and taking her breath away.

She clung to him, chest heaving as he rode her hard. He sensed the increasing pitch of her cries, lengthening each thrust until she screamed out in orgasm, shaking like a leaf as he continued to his own climax.

He woke suddenly, fully erect and covered in sweat. He searched for Tara, but the vision of her had left as soon as he woke. There was no torn dress or scraps of fractured lace to be found -- just a mess in his bed, and bedding in need of laundering.

His first stop was the bathroom, followed by a complete change of bedding. He manually relieved the pressure in his groin in the shower. He pulled on a white shirt, noticing the slight tightness across his chest as he buttoned it up. The waistband of his suit trousers was looser, but not overly so -- another change, nonetheless.

He walked to the kitchen in stockinged feet, shoes dangling from two fingers and intent on making breakfast. A sudden feeling overcame him, and he raised his arm above his head.

"Don't do that!" a voice commanded from the lounge. He spun to see what was happening, but saw nothing.

Thinking he had lost his mind, he returned to his purpose, dropped his shoes on the ground, and stepped into them before reaching for the kettle. A rustle, like clothing being disturbed, broke his focus, and he looked around the room again. A rakishly handsome man with dark eyes and sandy hair, wearing a grey heather tweed jacket, stood near the kitchen table.

"Lord, I am Vale," the slim man said as he bowed low, "sent by his highness, Marr of Basteron. I am your guide."

Daragh took a step backwards. "What are you?"

"I'm a simple sprite - some would call me a goblin, but they'd be mistaken. Others would say I'm a fairy, but then they'd be dead. I assume many shapes, personas, and forms."

"Are you a Púca?"

Vale laughed. "I see you're not totally in ignorance of history -- I am Vale, at your service and command. Now put that arm down before you do some serious damage."

"Damage?"

"Yes, although you only have limited draíocht, it can cause untold damage in the hands of the inexperienced."

Daragh looked at him, grinning. "Do you fear my efforts at boiling water? The kettle automatically switches itself off, you know."

Vale's smile turned into a smirk. "Have you heard of the Great Fire of London?"

"Of course I have, it was--"

"It was caused by an idiot English faerie casting a glamour to make a shoe fly across a room over a bakery in Pudding Lane. The shoe struck an oil lantern and burned the house down, causing a chain reaction that made hundreds of thousands homeless and destroyed the city for generations."

"Fuck off! It was a bakery fire that caused that -- someone forgot to extinguish it properly before closing up that night."

"You're an intelligent being, Dair Gaelach. Think about what you just said -- is that likely?"

"It's in the annals, Vale. I've been to London. I read the fucking things with my own eyes."

"That faerie died in the blaze - he was one of only a few beings that lost their lives. His name isn't in the annals, but it still lives on today."

"What? Are you serious?"

"Yes, quite serious."

"I know I'm going to regret this, but what was his name?"

"Toast," Vale said, then fell to the floor laughing at the look on Daragh's face.

Daragh took a step towards the kettle, but Vale stopped him and waved a finger. "This'll save you a fortune on electricity," he said as steam suddenly billowed from the spout.

They sat across the table from each other, a steaming mug of Alder and nettle tea before them. Vale grimaced as he sipped the infusion. "Have you never heard of coffee? It's a lot better than this antiquated crap you're using."

"I have coffee if you want it, I thought you'd--"

"Prefer this shit instead?" Vale said, interrupting Daragh's flow, and closing his eyes briefly as two mugs of coffee appeared instantly on the table. "This is our version of instant coffee. Try it -- it's one of the finest organic Arabica blends from Sumatra."

"I have to be at work in ninety minutes, Vale. Will you be alright here on your own? You won't try to make toast with a flying shoe, will you?"

"That's nearly funny, Lord. I'm coming to work with you."

"You can't. I'll be--"

"You won't. Nobody can see me except you and those I wish to reveal myself to. I'll spend my time watching the watchers, digging for information and eavesdropping. We'll speak properly this evening."

"I have company tonight."

Vale closed his eyes, then opened them with a smile. "You're going to fuck Tara Kelly tonight. Aren't you?"

Daragh blanched. "I ... is ..."

"Yes, she's as mortal as they come. You can fuck anyone that pleases you. Just don't kill her -- that'd be awkward."

"I can--"

"It's all good, my Lord. I'll take this night to clear my schedule and give you some privacy. This is going to be a bigger undertaking than I'd envisaged. We'll talk tomorrow. You should call in sick to work."

Vale disappeared from view the moment they stepped inside the office block, but Daragh could sense him in the building as he took the lift to the third floor. His thoughts askew, he took off his left shoe, placed it beside the door and stepped away to the opposite wall of the small elevator car. He closed his eyes and focused on the shoe, but nothing happened. He placed it in the corner and moved to the opposite corner to maximise the distance before trying again, with the same result.

Vale's voice sounded in his ears. "You can keep your eyes open, Lord -- otherwise how will you know it's travelling in the right direction?"

"But how do I make it move?"

"You think it with forceful thought. You are the master -- make it obey you."

"Ok. I'll try it again," he said, leaning slightly forward and inclining his head toward the shoe, which shuffled twice before rising to Daragh's outstretched hand.

"Nice," Vale's voice said. "We'll make a prince of you yet."

"What am I now?"

"You're the Crown Prince of Coillanair, the Guardian of Midé and Protector of Uisneach, at least you will be when you marry."

"Who's doing it now?"

"It's not a job, my Lord. One is born into it. Marr was the King of Coillanair, and he is your birth father. You're his direct descendant and assumed his mantle when he diminished."

"So there's no Crown Prince now?"

"There's a usurper, a cunt with a black heart and blacker morals. He'll never be king."

"Why not?"

"Because he's not you, but enough of this for now -- all will be revealed tomorrow."

Daragh bumped into Tara as he left a client meeting in the conference room at noon. "Daragh? What's ..." she asked, touching his upper arm.

"I had a weird night."

"What happened to your arms? They're bigger, and you seem taller too -- you even look different ... your hair. Fuck. What happened to you?"

"I can't explain here, Tara. My body went through some changes."

"Changes? What changes?"

"Everything."

She looked down at his groin quickly, lifting her head in puzzlement. He nodded as he watched the cogs turn in her mind.

"Is there any word on the Samhain thing?" he asked.

Her head jerked up. "What?"

"Samhain, Hallowe'en? The Twilight Clone party ... with the masks?"

"Oh! No, I gave the posters back and passed along your comments. They said you were right. What's wrong with your lips?"

"My lips?"

"Yes, they look ... bigger, thicker."

"I think everything got bigger overnight. I feel good -- very good, in fact. Maybe it's something developmental."

"Everything? What's everything?

"Yes, everything -- I even had to wear wider shoes this morning to accommodate my feet."

He watched her closely as she glanced downwards again, and he smiled when he sensed her thoughts as she noticed the movement in his trousers.

She coughed lightly and said, "Are we all set for tonight?"

"I think so."

"Why are you smiling?"

"It's not a crime to smile. I'm thinking of ordering some Chinese food -- what do you think?"

"Great! Get a Spice Bag in the order."

"I will. See you at seven thirty?"

She nodded and touched his arm again, unable to grip his muscle properly with her small hand. She walked away, and he leaned against the wall.

He heard Vale's voice. "That was close -- she's wondering if your cock is bigger too."

"I know -- I heard her thoughts. Will that happen with everyone?"

"No, only with mortals, and only where they concern you."

"Will I have to change my wardrobe?

"No, we just need to make your clothes a size or two larger. I'll show you the spell later."

"Ok. Where are you now?"

"I'm in the CEO's office. She's a fine-looking woman, my Lord. She would be well worth a spin."

"That's Sophie. She's married, Vale, so she's off limits."

Vale cackled. "Nobody is off limits to the Crown Prince of the Sídhe."

"You mean of the Coillanair Sídhe, don't you?"

"Yes, and the Protector of Uisneach, which makes you the leader of the Coillanair Sídhe and righteous King of the Munster Fae."

Daragh laughed. "Do I have a following?"

"We all await your ascension, my Lord."

They were driving home from work when Daragh felt uncomfortable. He glanced at Vale, who shuffled in his seat.

"You don't like cars, do you, Vale?" he said.

"No, my Lord -- infernal things."

Daragh shook his head. "It's better than walking, or waiting for a bus."

"That's true, but it's even better to conjure or shift planes. You'll discover all this."

"How?"

"You'll have a mentor for a few weeks."

"Who's the mentor?"

"There are several, and we need to choose the one who is most compatible with you."

When they arrived at the apartment, Vale bowed low. "I'll be away, my Lord. If you need me, say my name. If not, I'll wake you tomorrow."

When Tara buzzed the intercom, she was fifteen minutes late. The food had been delivered, and Daragh had figured out how to keep it warm in the trays without resorting to a warm oven. He opened the apartment door when he heard her knock.

"You look nice. What kept you?" he asked.

She waved a bag in the air. "Sorry about that -- the Social Club meeting ran over time because of this."

"What's that?"

"I'll show you after we eat. I'm starving."

After dinner, Tara picked up the bag she'd brought. He stayed seated, admiring her figure and waiting expectantly. "What's in it?" he asked.

She emptied the contents onto the sofa and lifted a large silk sheet. She rearranged it into the familiar shape of a gown and held it to her shoulders. "What do you think?" she said, beaming.

"Is this the gown for the party?"

"Yes," she said, reaching behind to pick up a white mask. "This is the mask they're using. Everyone has to wear one of these -- they come in black too."

"Is there a hood on the gown?"

"No, it's quite flimsy and leaves the shoulders bare. I don't think I even could wear a bra with it."

"Where did you get it?"

"The secretary of the committee got this one made and another in black. Her sister organised it at her work. It's €15 for the gown and ten for the mask."

"That's cheap."

"It's not real silk, Daragh. What do you think?"

"It looks like it might work, but it's hard to tell without seeing it on you."

"I can try it on if you like."

"Would I not need one too -- for the effect?"

She grinned at him and licked her lips. "It'd certainly be interesting -- will I try it on?"

"Be my guest," he said and showed her to his room.

She returned about ten minutes later, holding a towel in front of her to shield her body from his eyes. "It's quite revealing," she said, "it's not meant to be worn with a bra."

He smiled. "I don't think I'd wear a bra under that myself. There seems to be a lot of skin on view."

She spun around to show him the back. "Just my shoulders," she said.

"It's very low at the back too -- not that I'm complaining, mind."

She dropped the towel as she faced away from him, her hand flat against her backside as she slid it down over her left buttock.

"I had to go commando too -- the VPL was too much, what do you think?"

"It fits you like a glove, Tara. You look beautiful."

She turned to face him, and shock crossed her face. "You tidied up?"

"What?"

"The dinner dishes and packaging ... you tidied up and cleaned everything down while I was changing."

"It's magic," he said, taking a step towards her and reaching around her neck. "Here, this gold pendant isn't doing you much good. Silver would be a lot better."

"There's no jewellery allowed at the party."

"Why not?"

"It's to preserve anonymity, I suppose."

He opened the flimsy clasp and coiled it in his hand, took a step away and laid it on the table. The gown hid nothing, but suggested everything. He straightened a twist in one of the shoulder straps and brushed one of her aroused nipples with the back of his fingers. She hissed and touched his hand, her lips opening as his leaned towards her,

She led him to his bedroom, pausing by the bed to kiss him again, deeper this time as she almost inhaled him. His hand arced over her head as she watched, open-mouthed, gasping when her gown collapsed to the floor. Confusion disturbed her clear blue eyes as he pulled his shirt over his head, revealing his rolling torso to her ravenous eyes.

He smiled as she reached for the clasp of his trousers, shocked at the bulge that she hadn't noticed previously. She glanced down then back up. "What ha--"

He touched her face and held it while he kissed her. "I owe you this," he whispered as he pushed the black briefs down.

She reached for the throbbing erection, then sat on the bed and admired the structure. A tremor ran through her as she tested the length, girth and integrity of it, opening her mouth and guiding the tip to her lips before greedily taking most of it inside.

She worshipped it with her tongue, her jaw beginning to ache as she struggled to maintain her rhythm. Her free hand cupped his balls and squeezed them as his knees weakened, encouraging a growled, "Fuck!" before he pulled out and pushed her down on the bed.

He pulled her knees apart, and his tongue immediately lashed at her glistening pink flesh, easing it slightly before bringing her to a crashing orgasm that made her scream in ecstasy.

"I want you inside me," she wheezed as she pulled his head by the hair, her lips attacking his when his shining lips reached hers.

She took his shaft and led it to her opening, squirming as the thick head slowly entered her and took her breath away. He was soon deep inside her, pausing to enjoy the warmth and security of her pussy as it pulsed around his shaft. He felt her pulling him tighter as she clung to him voraciously, another orgasm building when he began to move inside her.

With long strokes, she came loudly, crying out in the night as his tempo increased. He felt something begin to build in the pit of his stomach and held her tight as he sought the release that suddenly felt so close. She buried her face in his shoulder as he roared and pumped several potent jets of come inside her, the final one sending her into loud spasms of delirium.

He opened his eyes the next morning to see her asleep beside him in his bed. Her breath whistled through her teeth, like a light breeze through the bracken. He thought of coffee, and it materialised on his bedside table, the brew's addictive aroma a balm to his soul.

Her eyes fluttered open, and she snuggled against him. "Good morning," she crooned.

"Good morning," he replied. "Coffee?"

"You're drinking coffee now too?"

"Just this specialised blend. I was introduced to it yesterday."

She took a sip and a dreamy look appeared on her face. "This is the best coffee I've ever tasted. Where did you get it?"

"From a gob ... friend."

She giggled. "A gobfriend?"

He swore inwardly. "A friend, he's a bit of a gobshite, but he knows coffee."

"Where can I get some? I need this in my life!"

"He ... eh ... I'll ask him when he's back in town. He's very secretive."

She snuggled into him as she finished the drink and lifted her wrist to check the time, forgetting that her watch was somewhere on the floor. "What time is it, Daragh?"

He looked through the window at the rising sun. "About 5:40."

"I have a bitch of a day ahead of me. This Hallowe'en thing will be the death of me."

"You'll be grand. Once you get the details straight, it'll almost run itself from there."

"The next hurdle will be the price of the tickets -- that's always a contentious issue, and whether spouses and significant others are allowed. What's on your schedule today? Are you still working on that Barrymore finance offer?"

"Yes, but I'm taking the day off. I have a few things I need to attend to."

She nodded her head slowly as she considered his words. She reached for his hand. "You really surprised me last night."

"How?"

"Your cock was alive -- it was amazing."

"Yeah, I could feel something happening all day yesterday. I woke up like that and didn't know whether it was some kind of infection or not. Was it okay for you?"

"You have to know that it was."

He thought about that for a while, his arm around her as her hand touched his stomach. "Do you want to do it again?"

"Let me suck you off -- my pussy is still a bit tender -- you're quite big down there, you know."

"How would I know?"

"I fucking know. Okay?"

He pulled the cover down and showed her his awakening appendage. "Look what you caused now," he said as she took it in her hand and began kissing the tip.

She left after a shower and a nice orgasm from his tongue at eight o'clock. He smiled when he found her underwear tangled in the bedclothes, straightened them out, held them up to the light, and marvelled at the softness of the fabric.

"That's what is known as a pair of Brazilian knickers, Lord. Red would suit you better than pink," Vale said from the bedroom door.

"I don't know," he replied, turning the lace around through his fingers.

"So how did your first fuck go? She certainly seemed to enjoy it."

"How ... can you monitor me remotely?"

"No, I came back to check something and heard her. How many times did you--"

"That's none of your business, Vale. Three?"

Vale laughed and shook his head. "Why are you making the bed by hand? You can use the draíocht to do everything."

"I made coffee with it this morning."

"The bed?"

"The fucking draíocht."

"I taught you well. You need a shower though, there's not enough magic in the world to mask the smell of fucking."

After his shower, Daragh joined Vale in the lounge, a plate of freshly baked pastries and a pot of coffee on the table. He watched an unseen hand fill his mug with coffee and tried not to look bemused. Vale placed his mug on the table with a soft tap and waited for Daragh to finish playing with the spoon in his. He tapped the bowl of the spoon against the mug's wall and laid it flat on the table.

"Speak, Vale."

Vale tapped a finger on the table. "Where to begin--"

"Try from the beginning."

"Yes, Lord. Well, firstly, your name is not Daragh O'Crochán - it's Coilleach Síogra."

Daragh was stunned. "You were a Changeling child, swapped for the ailing son of Dermot and Caoimhe O'Crochán when you were five years old."

"What was his name?"

"Daragh, the same as you -- the O'Crocháns never knew you weren't their own. Daragh passed from us three weeks after the change, despite receiving the very best medical care that was available at the time."

"You say I was five?"

"Yes, which makes you twenty-eight now, not the twenty-three you think you are. When Caoimhe passed away, you inherited the homestead and the estate, which wasn't very much, and you were sent to safety in Dublin."

Daragh laughed. "Someone thought Dublin was safe? I was seventeen when she died, Vale."

"You were actually twenty-three, Lord, but that's just a pixie's fart -- besides, it was important to maintain the facade to keep you in school until you were past twenty."

"Why?"

"So you could finish your education in a place that you could be watched over."

"By who?"

"Us, of course. You were in grave danger."

"How?"

"Marr was beginning to suffer from the diminishing. His time of strong influence was fading. He began to shrink in size, power, and relevance, and is now fading into the background of the mortal world before he passes on."

"But isn't he immortal?"

"We all are, but it doesn't mean we can't die from certain things. We are susceptible to cold iron, for example."

"Cold iron?"

"Yes, Lord, things like ancient weapons -- swords, spears and the like. Many humans pin old horseshoes to their doors to ward off fairy attacks and spells. You have a strange look on your face."

"My kitchen is full of knives, and it hasn't killed me yet."

"Most modern metals are alloys and not traditional pure cast iron, so you rarely come up against it. You'll know when you do."

"How?"

"It'll weaken you and will negate your draíocht."

Daragh stood up and walked around the table, deep in thought.

"It's a lot to take in, Lord, what is--"

He waved his hand to silence him. "How do our armies fight without weapons? Wouldn't carrying a sword or shield weaken them?"

"That's the main cause of the paranoia we hold against gold, precious metals and gemstones."

"Of course, we don't make weapons from forged or cast iron, do we?"

"No, and we rely heavily on enchantments and spells, unless there are iron buffers around that render them ineffective."

"Okay, continue the story."

"Yes, Lord, you're to be protected because certain forces seek power. They strike fear into the population, propagate concerns about livelihood, family and life until they feel powerful enough to move against the king. You were sent away to be shielded from this."

"Does this power monger have a name?"

"Yes, Lord, Derren O'Boyle -- a neanderthal from the north of Connaught. He's gathering an army of delusional followers to hound Marr and Cara into exile. When this is done, he'll come after you."

"Is he a self-styled Crown Prince or does he have lineage?"

"He's a usurper. An interloper with no royal blood. It is told that he hasn't even consummated his marriage and is therefore discounted for high office -- that's why he needs you out of the way. In case he never finds you and you take the crown before him."

"And how do I take the crown?"

"The crown is yours by birthright, Lord--"

"Should I not be addressed as Coilleach Síogra now?"

"That would be unwise at this time, my Lord. You should remain Daragh until O'Boyle dies."

"Isn't he immortal?"

"No, he's just another greedy fucking upstart mortal looking for a pot of gold."

"You say he's married," Daragh said.

"Yes, to a woman called Sofia. Destiny dictates that the next true king will marry a fae princess or high noblewoman named Siofra. We all think that O'Boyle confused the names Sofia and Siofra. That's one reason why they can't consummate the union."

"Because of a wrong name?"

"Partly, but also because she is fae and he is mortal -- they aren't compatible."

"What about me with Tara Kelly?"

"Did you not listen to a word I've said?"

"I did! What did I miss?"

"You can have any woman -- or man, if that's your thing, because you are a pureblood. But your queen must be pureblood too."

"I see, but I want to put it on record that a man is not my thing."

"I should fucking hope not, judging by the size of that weapon in your trousers."

Daragh sniffed. "It didn't seem to bother Tara too much."

Vale began to laugh again. "No, or maybe that's why she was walking like John Wayne when she left this morning. I was so proud."

"This is a lot to take in, Vale. Do I have an army?"

"Yes, quite a sizable one."

"Are they Aos Sí or Daoine Sídhe?"

"Mostly both, but there are far too many to mention."

"Púca?"

"Yes, and Banshees, Sluagh -- the malevolent little bastards, Leprechauns and the like."

"You don't like being called a fairy, do you?"

"No, people have died because of that. It's a fucking insult."

Daragh rubbed his face with both hands as he tried to clear his mind. He looked at Vale then, his eyes questioning. "Where is this army?"

Vale thought for a moment before answering. "Your army is legion, Lord. It's not a traditional force like a human army. They reside underground -- maintaining anonymity as much as possible. They are armed, but a bit detached from each other."

"Detached?"

"Scattered would probably be a better term, but remember -- they haven't been led diligently in almost five years, while O'Boyle travels the country recruiting men."

Daragh nodded his head. "I understand. So what's our plan?"

"That's your call, Lord. I can only give you the information and advise you as best I can. You make the ultimate decisions."

"I need to visit some of these groups, don't I?"

Vale nodded slowly. "Yes, it would be a good idea, but with considered thought. We don't want to reveal your identity to too many at this stage."

"Where's the best place to start?"

"Uisneach, your legend is there."

"The Hill of Uisneach?"

"No -- we must be careful. The Hill is a sacred site, and the veil to the Otherworld is too thin there. We'll visit Killare in County Westmeath. It's close to Uisneach and the sacred centre of Éireann -- it's also home."

Daragh stood and walked to the window, leaving Vale alone at the table. "How bad is this likely to get, Vale?" he asked, distractedly brushing lint off the curtain that hung in front of the glass.

Vale followed him. "Without doubt it'll be a war, my Lord. If O'Boyle isn't stopped, he'll annihilate those who don't come to heel."

"We need some more intelligence. How much time do we have?"

"When Marr diminishes fully, O'Boyle will make his move -- if he doesn't find you first."

"Why don't we just eliminate him?"

"We've tried a few times, but he's protected by an enchantment that our draíocht can't overcome."

Daragh looked at him. "I thought--"

"We think it's something that he assumed from his wife. While she's alive or they're married, he's bulletproof."

"Maybe that's where our focus should be."

"The wife? Sofia?"

"Yes, isn't she a Bean Sí?"

Vale nodded his head.

"That's where we begin, Vale. We must first look for parallels in history."

"That might not be wise, my Lord. Nothing is written -- the archive is held in the hearts of the elders--"

"And the ancient lore."

Vale exhaled impatiently, but calmed at Daragh's vexed look. "The legend of Áine, Banríon na Sídhe, springs to mind."

Vale pulled his chair aside and sat down. "Go on."

"Do you know the lore?"

He shook his head slowly. "Remind me."

"Áine. The ancient goddess of sunlight, love, fertility, and sovereignty? She had ties to the Tuatha Dé Danann?"

Vale snapped his fingers. "From Cnoc Áine in Luimneach, and later Banríon na Sídhe í Mumhan. She ruled Munster and then fucked off with a mortal."

Daragh laughed. "I doubt the history books would express it in quite the same way, but, essentially, you're correct."

"Wasn't there something strange about that?" Vale mused out loud. "Something to do with her cloak of invisibility falling off?"

"Yes, those huge bronze clasps were notoriously fragile in those days."

"Were they? They're made from bronze. I thought they were unbreakable."

"No, I think they were just rubbish. I mean, only last year someone found a bronze arrowhead from the late Neolithic period up in County Down."

Vale laughed. "Up in Down?"

"And all around, yes," Daragh said impatiently, "but it had a scratch on it, so it mustn't be all that long-lasting."

"Yea ... what? It's a bronze fucking arrowhead."

"Sarcasm," Daragh said. "I doubt our Áine was as pure as she's made out to be. According to local folklore, the Earl of Desmond was walking by the shores of Lough Gur when he spotted her combing her hair by the water. He managed to steal her cloak of invisibility -- which stripped her of her otherworldly escape and bound her to the mortal realm.

Trapped by his deceit, Áine agreed to marry the Earl and live as his wife. However, she imposed a strict fairy taboo: he must never show surprise or astonishment at anything their children might do. All was well until they had a son, Gerald, who inherited his mother's powers of draoícht.

At a castle feast, Gerald performed an astonishing magical feat, leaping clean over the dinner table and shrinking himself to jump in and out of a small whiskey bottle. Paralysed by disbelief, the Earl openly expressed his amazement, instantly breaking the fairy compact.

Because he had violated the taboo, Áine instantly reclaimed her garment and her status before vanishing back into the depths of Lough Gur and the peace of Cnoc Áine, abandoning her mortal family forever."

"So you're saying that she flipped out a nipple to tease the Earl? Is that not a bit of an extreme extrapolation of the legend?"

"Possibly, but there are many versions of the story in existence, and it's just as valid as others I've heard."

Vale tapped the lid of the coffee pot and poured a fresh brew into his mug. "Okay, that's a lovely bedtime fairytale, Lord, but how does it fit into the plan? Where are the historical parallels?"

Daragh sat facing him, hunched over the table. "Okay, I'm making this up as I go along, so shut the fuck up until I finish."

Vale nodded his head.

"Before I begin, I assume that your way would cause untold bloodshed and centuries of acrimony among the Sídhe."

Vale nodded his head.

"I'd prefer to isolate the source and chop the head off the snake -- in this case, the hated Derren O'Boyle. Agreed?"

"Yes, Lord."

"Assuming that the rumours of the non-consummation of his marriage to Sofia are correct, and that she is a Bean Sídhe, the obvious solution is to force a breach of the taboos protecting the union and separate them."

"How?"

"A simple fuck should do it, especially if he was forced to watch."

"Who'd do the fucking?"

"As long as she is one of us, what matter is it? Once it's done, we can either slice Derren's throat open or hit him with a poc sídhe. Otherwise we'd need to find out what taboos are in place to force the separation legally."

"Legally?"

"In line with the Laws of the Sídhe."

"But we need to find this Sofia person first, Lord."

"I'll leave that with you, but we have a little time yet. I suggest we first find out about the taboos that govern their union. That's where their first weakness lies."

"Thanks a lot."

The next morning, Daragh conducted an experiment. Leaving his car outside his apartment, he left home at exactly 8:00 and arrived at his desk thirty seconds later. He laughed with pleasure at his cleverness at being alone in the building, so he tried something else. He closed his eyes briefly, then opened them to find his computer screen awake, a stream of text appearing as he watched with undisguised glee.

The blinking cursor stopped suddenly when, to his annoyance, one of his colleagues pushed the door open. He minimised the screen and walked into the office kitchen to speak with Vale. "Are you awake?" he asked.

"I don't sleep."

"It's no wonder you're such a contrary fucker. I have a question for you."

"Okay."

"I was watching my computer typing away happily until someone came into the office, then it just stopped suddenly."

"Yeah, that's supposed to happen, my Lord. If you can just kill the screen somehow, it'll start again, but you might need to open another screen to make it look like you're working on something else. Have you tried watching porn?"

Daragh laughed. "Not yet. Any luck with finding Sofia?"

"I have a few feelers out, but I think I might be able to get into the archive tonight. I'll let you know if anything comes of it. She's not registered under the O'Boyle name, and I haven't found her family name yet, but I will. Do you know how many fucking Sofias are in the register?"

"Nine million?"

"I forgot who I was talking to -- yes, nine fucking million and eighty-eight."

"I wonder if she goes by Sophie instead. I mean, we're only going on gossip really, aren't we?"

"Let's stick with Sofia for now, Lord. I'll head over to Edinburgh tomorrow if I can't find anything."

"Can you transport internationally?"

"Yes."

"Can I?"

"Of course. Do you want to come?"

"Is that a trick question?"

Vale laughed hard and spluttered. "No, not this time."

"I'll go with you when you're going somewhere warm. While I think of it, what do we use for money?"

"Oh, that's easy. Imagine you're in a shop and you're spending €50."

"Okay."

"You can transubstantiate a €50 note onto a blank sheet of paper."

"That sounds dodgy -- won't it be picked up as a fake?"

"No, it's identical in every way."

"What if the person at the register marks it, won't it be picked up at the bank?"

"No, it disappears after an hour."

"What? Do we not have our own money?"

"We have mountains of gold, ancient coins and gems in the horde, Lord, but it's bad luck to spend it. It's best not to tempt providence."

"I see. Okay, I'll try this computer thing, happy hunting."

When he returned to his desk, a smiling Helen O'Gorman joined him as he pulled his chair from under the desk.

"Good morning, Daragh, you're in early," she said.

"Oh hi, Helen, so are you."

"Did you join a gym? You look different."

"No, I'm using a new shampoo, and I need a haircut."

She smiled. "We're all going to Angels and Demons after work on Friday -- are you coming?"

"What's the occasion?"

"The boss is in town, and it was her idea. She called it team bonding."

"What's she like? I've never met her."

"Me neither. She's in town for the week, and her PA announced this yesterday."

"Her PA?"

"Yes, her Personal Assi--"

"I know what a PA is, Helen. Is that the blonde girl with the tight skirt and the English accent?"

"Yes, Niev."

"Niamh? Weird name for an English woman."

"She's actually Irish, but her family moved to Manchester when she was four. She spells her name N. I. E. V."

"Why?"

"That's how they spell it over there, so she goes along to get along."

He made a face and turned to look at this screen. Helen touched his shoulder. "So are you in for Friday or not?" she asked.

"I'll let you know."

When she left, Daragh moved the computer mouse to reawaken the screen. The menu bar showed he was looking at page one of seventy. He scrolled down through the document until he stopped at the last page. "Vale?" he heard himself say silently.

"Yes, Lord, do you need me?"

"Yes, I checked this computer, and you were right -- it finished the job while the screen was muted."

"Yes, Lord."

"I gave it no instructions, so how did it know what to write?"

Vale laughed. "Don't worry, it can only transcribe what you ordered it to."

"But I didn't order it to do anything. I just looked at it when I came in and off it went."

"You must have had a thought about something. Are you working on something important or challenging?"

"It's a work project, a proposal from a developer about a potential investment opportunity."

"What did you ask it to do?"

"Nothing specific -- it was on my mind when I came in this morning. There were some points that I needed to address before I sent it to my line manager."

"I wonder if it took those points and processed them. You know when you're struggling with something. How you sometimes don't quite see what's in front of you? How many pages are there in the file?"

"Seventy."

Vale whistled. "Have you read through it?"

"Not yet. I wanted to understand what the fuck is going on first. Sorry for disturbing you - I'll read through it and get back to you. Thanks, Vale."

Vale laughed again. "I'm here to serve, my Lord, but I'm just as curious as you. Happy reading."

Daragh shifted in his seat and decided to save the document. He placed his hand on the mouse and clicked on the file, but it had already been saved. He scratched his head and sat up straight, his eyes riveted to the text as he glanced briefly at the time icon in the corner of the screen. It read 08:41 and he was still alone in the office, the workday not officially started.

Twenty minutes later, he stood outside the front entrance as the rush of people trying to look as though they weren't late for work reached a crescendo of human traffic. He felt a hand on his elbow and heard Tara's voice break through his thoughts.

"Feeling better today?" she asked. "I didn't see your car. Did you get the bus in to work?"

"What? Sorry. Hi, Tara, what did you say?"

She laughed. "You're away with the fairies today."

His back straightened. "Sorry?"

"Distracted, you seem distracted. Are you feeling okay?"

"Yes, yes, I needed to clear my head, that's all. This Barrymore file is a minefield."

"Rather you than me." She laughed. "Why do you always seem to get the awkward ones?"

He nodded briefly and walked beside her into the building. "Are you just getting in now?" she asked.

"No, I've been here since eight."

She laughed. "You'll be kept! Where's your car?"

"I left it at home. Did you hear about this team bonding thing on Friday?"

"Yes, who told you about it?"

"Helen O'Gorman -- she was in early too."

"She works from eight to four. Are you going?"

"On Friday? I don't know. It's at a place called Angels and Demons. Who are the Demons?"

She laughed. "Not Helen O'Gorman for one. I've never been there -- isn't it a nightclub or something?"

"I'm fucked if I know. It's not really my scene."

"I didn't think so."

He looked at her with fake disgust as a rather severe-looking woman joined them at the lift doors. Daragh checked the indicator panel above the door as Tara nodded in recognition. "Good morning, Niev. Lovely morning."

"Good morning ... Tara, isn't it?"

"Yes, Tara Kelly, nice to finally meet you. This is Daragh O'Crochán -- he's in Compliance."

She giggled. "He's also late ... like us all. Nice to meet you, Daragh."

Tara smiled as they shook hands. "No, you could set your watch by him. He's been here over an hour."

"Ladies, I'm standing here," Daragh said, and they all laughed as they stepped into the lift.

"Will you both be with us on Friday night? We're really looking forward to getting to know everyone."

"We?" Tara asked.

"Sophie and I. Have you met her yet?"

"No."

"You'll love her. She's the life and soul of the party."

"I might have to pass, Niev -- we have a Social Club meeting on Friday about the Hallowe'en party."

"I saw that pinned on the board. That'll be fun -- I'll have to get to that."

"I can assure you that it's not much fun at this stage."

"I'm sure, but if you need any help, just give me a tinkle."

Tara exited the lift at the second floor, citing a preliminary meeting with a client about a possible project application. Niev stepped to the control panel and turned her head towards Daragh. "What floor, Daragh?"

Daragh, still thinking about his computer, didn't hear what she said.

"Daragh?" He almost leapt at the sound of her sharp voice.

"Sorry, I was miles away. What did you say, Niev?"

She grinned as her finger played with the buttons. "Which button would you like me to push?"

"Oh, four, please."

"You're not from Dublin, are you?" she asked as she turned away from the illuminated panel.

"No, but neither are you."

"That's true."

"It doesn't necessarily make us bad people," he said, grinning.

"Do you like Dublin?"

"Yes, it's an education, do you?"

"I love it. I just wish I could be here more often."

"Where do you live in England?"

"London. I have a flat close to HQ."

He nodded his head politely. "Your job must be demanding, waiting hand and foot on the boss. Do you have to be available at all times?"

"I'm always on call, yes. But she doesn't abuse it. It's interesting work, and I get to travel quite a bit. Do you get to travel much?"

"Just on holiday. I was in Italy this year."

She laughed. "I'd have thought that someone like you would be trawling the clubs in Ibiza or somewhere like that."

"Someone like me?"

She looked away, her eyes dimming. "A handsome young man, free and single with the world at his feet."

He chuckled. "No, I'm not one for clubs -- I'm more into history, really. I went to Pompeii to see The Amoretti in The Room of the Cupids at the house of the Vetti, and the paintings of the Dionysian nymphs and winged demons at The Villa of the Mysteries."

Her eyes widened. "I'm surprised. I'd never have taken you for a lover of art."

"It takes all sorts, I suppose. Give me a week researching art and history and keep your noisy vacuous clubs any day of the week."

A look of concern crossed her face. "You will be coming on Friday night, won't you?"

"Probably not, Niev."

"But everyone will be there -- you have to come."

He chuckled again. "I'll think about it, but no promises. Unless it's in my contract, of course?"

He exited the lift and hurried back to his workstation, keen to finish the proofreading on his screen. He read it twice, his disbelieving eyes picking up everything the enchantment had highlighted, improving his conceptualisation and clarifying what had confused or irritated him.

He took a deep breath and blew it out through his cheeks, spun his chair to the left and shouted across to his section manager. "Barry, I finished the compliance report on the Barrymore file -- will I send it to you?"

Barry looked up and waved a hand. "Me life on you, Daragh, that's fantastic. Yes, send it with all haste, please."

Daragh flipped it over to him electronically, closed the document out and walked over to the kitchen. He watched his mug fill with coffee, wondering what he'd do for the rest of the week now that his main task was complete. He leaned against the doorframe and looked out across the office, smiling as he watched his workmates coming to grips with another day of asinine toil.

On Thursday morning of that week, Daragh was alone in one of the smaller meeting rooms. He'd escaped to the sanctuary of the quiet space to make initial notes on a new file, and was forging a determined path through the work.

Fully engrossed in his work, he jumped when Vale said, "Cad é an scéal, Lord?"

"I'll tell you what the story is ... arsehole. I'll turn you into fucking Tinkerbell if you do that again. By the way, Tiarna is the Irish word for Lord."

Vale laughed. "I think I'd look quite fetching in pink. Are we going to be clubbing this weekend? I long to live a life of decadence."

"I haven't decided."

"There's a winsome little cailín sitting behind a desk in the reception lobby. She might appreciate some Royal cock."

"Why don't you go down there and stick a tail on her then?"

"She's not my type."

"Does that mean she has a functioning brain?"

Vale clutched his chest and faked being stabbed. "You certainly know how to wound someone. Do you fancy a coffee?"

"Always, my addiction is becoming all-consuming. Do I assume by your presence that you ran into a cul-de-sac in the hunt for Sofia?"

Vale nodded and lifted his cup from the table as Daragh stirred his own coffee. "There's an outside chance that we may find her in the Bulgarian registry."

"Bulgarian?"

"Yes, is Sofia not a Bulgarian name?"

"It might be."

"I wouldn't waste my time -- she's hardly Bulgarian, Vale. Any luck in other directions?"

"Not yet, although a young nymph from Connemara did offer a perspective that might be worth exploring." Daragh leaned back in his seat and sipped his coffee. "Go on."

"She's asked why they married, and speculated that it's either a red herring or an arrangement rather than an exchange of vows. She argues that no woman would enter a sexless marriage knowingly unless there were another reason that's not immediately obvious."

"It's a valid point," Daragh mused. "But a red herring? From what you tell me, I doubt O'Boyle is clever enough to consider that. On the other hand, this Sofia if she exists, could be the driver of this bus. Personally, it's all too confused for my liking, and we're just going around in circles."

"So what do we do, Lord?"

"We wait, but continue to investigate. If this is real, then something will break soon, of that there is no doubt."

The door handle disturbed them when it rattled as someone tried to enter the room. Vale lifted the enchantment that kept it locked while they spoke. When Niev walked in, she found Daragh huddled over a file, his fingers wrapped around a pencil. Daragh glanced at Vale, who promptly disappeared.

"So this is where you're hiding," she said.

"Yes, I needed a quiet space to go through this. What can I do for you?"

"Your work on the Barrymore account is getting some very positive reviews. Alan Carmichael wants to meet you in HQ on Wednesday next week."

"The Chairman?"

"None other."

"In the London HQ?"

"Yes," she said and slid an envelope across the table. "Your flight tickets and hotel confirmation are in that envelope."

"I can't go next week. I'm on holiday."

"Cancel it!"

"No."

She walked around to his side of the table and stood close to his chair. Daragh looked into her eyes, and she lost track of everything she'd planned to say. She shook her head stiffly, picked up the envelope and marched out of the room.

"Vale. Where did you go?" he said to the empty room.

"Nowhere," Vale's voice came from somewhere behind him. "That was interesting."

"Can you check this Alan Carmichael chap out? See what his game is in case they're on to us."

"It's definitely a departure, but why?"

"Maybe we're overly paranoid, but it's no harm to check stuff out."

"I'm on it, Lord," Vale said, and the room went quiet. Daragh was in the lift with two others when Vale next appeared beside him.

"Who are these two?" he said.

Daragh shook his head, relieved that his fellow passengers didn't appear to have noticed Vale or heard anything.

"For fuck's sake, Lord, they can't see or hear me, and they can't hear you either. Just say it in your head."

Daragh waited until the lift stopped at the ground floor and stepped out to see Vale jump on the back of a tall chap and ride him like a horse -- laughing manically as he did so. "Ok, I forgot about that. I'm only two days into this, you cunt. Did you discover anything?"

"I'll tell you in the car."

Daragh laughed a disparaging laugh. "I didn't use the car. I'll race you home."

"The winner makes the dinner."

When they landed in the kitchen, Vale had beaten him, and the dining table was full.

Daragh doubled over in laughter. "Darling, I'm home!"

"Don't say it like that. There'll be no sex for you tonight, you bastard. I saw how you were looking at that Niev woman's tits."

"She has nice tits, and an incredible arse."

"They're a bit small for me," Vale sniffed, and they laughed again.

Daragh waved a finger, changed his clothes, sat at the table, and speared a slab of sliced roast beef.

"I didn't realise how hungry I was," he said, filling his mouth with food. "It's really good, though."

Vale nodded his agreement, almost grunting as he ate with his mouth full.

"I followed Niev up to Sophie's office suite. Sophie just laughed when she told her about what you said about Carmichael's summons, but she was fuming behind it all."

"Oh? How do you know that?"

"Her whole demeanour shifted. Her lips were smiling, but her eyes were fucking blazing. You'll be summoned to her office tomorrow."

Daragh tapped the edge of his knife on the table. "Maybe I'll work from home instead, just to fuck with her. I'll be off work next week, so that'll calm her fucking jets."

"What about the team bonding tomorrow night?"

He shook his head. "It's not my scene. I was thinking that, now I have unlimited free travel, I might nip over to Glastonbury."

"For what? There's nothing there except a field when the festival isn't on."

"Avalon."

"Ooh, fuckable English faeries. That's a good idea. Do you want company?"

"No. You're going to London."

"Yes, Lord, but I was serious about the Niev one. She wants to fuck you."

Daragh grinned. "I might just let her, but what about Sophie? Would she be worth a spin too?"

Vale considered his answer. "She's definitely a stunning woman. By any measure, she's eminently fuckable -- there's something different about her though."

"Good different or bad?"

"It depends. She could be a lesbian -- I didn't see any rings on her fingers."

"That doesn't make her a lesbian, Vale."

"True. But did you not suggest that she was married?"

"Did I? Maybe it was the impression I got. It doesn't matter."

"Your mobile is ringing, Lord. Do you want me to fetch it for you?"

"I got it, thanks," Daragh said and lifted a finger off the table.

They watched the phone floating slowly across the apartment. "If you make your finger movements a little less obvious, it flies faster," Vale said.

Daragh looked at him and caught the phone as it landed. "Work," he said and connected the call.

"Daragh here," he said quietly.

"Daragh, it's Niev. Are you in a position to talk?"

"What position would that be, Niev? Is it similar to the Cowgirl position?

There was a pause on the other end of the line before a loud laugh. "Ok, you can have that one for free."

"Do I have to pay for the rest?"

"No, but I reserve the right of reply."

"That'll be interesting."

"I read your compliance report and, apart from a few spelling mistakes--"

"A few spelling mistakes? Are you fucking serious? You can't even spell your own name properly."

"What?"

"You heard me."

"There's a genuinely good reason for that, I'll have you know."

"Yes, it's called pandering. You need to grow a pair, Niamh. Now did you just call to remark on my spelling?"

"No, I shouldn't have mentioned it. I'm sorry -- I was going for humour."

He said nothing, compelling her to fill the empty silence. "I think you should know that I read it thoroughly."

"And?"

"It's remarkably detailed and insightful. Please consider the meeting with Alan -- he's not one to waste his time on fripperies."

"Niev, I'm just an ordinary five-eighths around here. I have about six people above me -- should he not spend his valuable time speaking to them instead of wasting it with me?"

She laughed. "Your instincts belie your age, Daragh. The work on this file is not that of someone in their twenties. I was astounded that you'd even make an observation about the level of potential buy-in to the project, and if I were impressed, then so would he. I see nothing but good things coming out of this for you. Don't fuck it up now."

He thought about his reply, tapping his finger on the rim of his cup to fill it again. "Okay, I'll go to see him, but I want to be paid appropriately for it."

"Good call. Now what about tomorrow night?"

"Tomorrow night?"

"The team bonding?"

"Oh right. I'll think about it."

"Good. We'll speak tomorrow. Goodnight, Daragh."

He hung up the phone.

"So we're going to London," Vale said.

"What about tomorrow night?"

"It can't hurt, and we might get lucky."

A light drizzle was falling when they arrived outside the Angels and Demons Club at 9:30 pm. The club was situated in an annexe of the Regency Hotel in Whitehall, on the outskirts of Dublin.

"This doesn't bode well," Daragh said, the loud thumping music muffled by walls that fought to keep it from escaping.

Vale agreed, "It looks like a bit of a dump, Lord, I'll grant you that. The music sounds promising though."

Daragh just looked at him. "Do we magic our way in?"

"Have you perfected your landing yet? We don't want to land on a bunch of half-pissed dancers, do we?"

"I'm not doing too bad. I only missed my floor at the office today by one."

"You're lucky you don't work on the top floor then, aren't you?" Vale said, stifling a laugh as Daragh gave him the finger. He paid at the door, allowed himself to be frisked, and wandered down a corridor under a canopy of yellow and blue flashing lights.

Niev Bailey booked a taxi and sat in the back, watching pinpricks of rain stick to the window as it carried her toward Whitehall. She tuned out the crackle of radios to distract her mind from Sophie's tantrum. "I want that bastard lying face down on my floor," she'd screamed, having been informed of Daragh's non-acceptance of the trip to London.

"That's not going to happen, Boss," Niev had advised. "He'd have our arses in front of HR in a nanosecond."

"Fucking HR. I should close that cesspool down."

"You can't do that either. Let me pour you a drink."

Sophie seemed to deflate a little. "Okay, get the little bastard up here in the morning, and I'll put him through the wringer."

"Let me talk to him. I'll try to convince him to change his mind -- let me try that first. If I succeed, you can torture him when he returns."

"I'll call him this evening."

"Are you going to fuck him?"

Niev felt the hair on the back of her neck stand up. "Is that allowed?" she grinned.

"Fuck off out of here," Sophie commanded, picking up her phone.

"Will I see you at the club?"

"You've got to be joking, Niev. The last thing I need is to be surrounded by that psychotic babble for three hours."

That was the day before, and Sophie hadn't appeared in the office that morning. Niev had hoped to calm the waters with the news of Daragh's acquiescence, but had to replace the announcement with a simple text that hadn't warranted a reply.

She tapped her knee in time with 'The Fate of Ophelia' playing on the radio, with the palm of her hand, her bare legs soft and smooth after a long bath and a deliciously smooth shave. She tried once again to recall the missing ten minutes in the room where she'd found him working.

She'd been fuming at his dismissal of her suggestion to cancel his holiday in favour of the trip to HQ. She'd known from the roguish glint in his eye that the odds of him telling the truth were non-existent. Her attempt to make him comply was met with a quiet but forceful, 'No.' It almost made her choke back her words, an unfamiliar uncertainty undermining her confidence and destroying any projection of authority she possessed -- one quiet word and ice-cold eyes that brooked no argument.

She'd decided on a final move to regain the upper hand. She stepped around the table, intent on putting him firmly in his place. She recalled the look in his eyes as they bored into hers, felt the invasion of her soul, then nothing. She couldn't remember whether she'd stood there for a minute or an hour. She had no recollection of walking away, just the sound of the door closing behind her as she stepped into the corridor outside the room.

To appease Sophie, she'd decided on one final call to change his mind. Her stomach knotted as she dialled his number, unsure how he'd take it. She was totally off balance as she waited for it to connect and was about to hang up when he finally answered -- the initial conversation good-humoured and almost, she felt, flirtatious.

For some reason, whether nerves or fear, she'd begun to almost babble, but she'd adequately calmed the waters and eventually persuaded him to see her point of view. He had worked from home that day, so she didn't have the chance to arrange an accidental meeting, but a text exchange got him to agree to attend the nightclub, which triggered a fresh round of butterflies and culminated in her leaving work at lunchtime to prepare.

The propensity of Irish girls to dress for a night out or social occasion in such a revealing fashion never ceased to amaze her. Her style choices were more conservative -- business like, yet optimistically hopeful. A brief stop at her hotel to assess her wardrobe underlined how little she'd travelled to Dublin with -- a couple of business suits, one with pants and the other with two pencil skirts. Formal blouses and shoes for the office, and a pair of jeans for dodging around on her time off.

She'd passed a wedding party as she walked through the lobby on her way to the lift, and was surprised at the outfits worn by the wedding guests, especially the females. It was a virtual panorama of tits, legs and an overabundance of skin. Micro minis, low-cut tops, and impossibly high heels were the order of the day, and thongs seemed to be the trendy choice of underwear, as hardly any of them appeared to wear bras.

Niev stripped naked in her room, casting her work attire on the bed to examine her disappointingly small breasts and the bumps and hollows of her slim body. She held the last two pairs of clean knickers against her hips and realised she had neglected her wardrobe drastically. She wasn't in the mood to compete with the younger girls, but she did intend to make some a statement of some kind. Her clothing allowance was almost untouched, so she went shopping, returning at five fifteen carrying a pink party dress with a scooped neckline that reached mid-thigh, black patent Jimmy Choo's and three complete sets of lingerie, only one of which -- a luminous pink and sheer white La Perla confection -- featured a thong. All she needed then was the courage to wear any of it.

She tried in vain to pull the hem of her dress lower as it rode up higher while she sat in the cab. She'd chosen La Perla lingerie, and she enjoyed the feel of the soft material against her skin, occasionally touching her finger to the smooth gusset between her legs as she sat in the cab. With the scant protection of a short jacket, she folded herself out of the cab, arriving a little more than fashionably late and tottering on unsteady heels to the club entrance. Slipped the jacket off and strolled, as confidently as she could, into the venue, feeling naked and exposed in her party attire.

She spotted him at the end of the corridor. He stood at the door like someone planning an invasion, searching for weak points or safe harbour. She knew that he didn't really want to be there, and his disquiet was obvious to her. She checked her jacket at the coat check halfway along the hallway, gave the hem of her dress a final downward tug, and strode confidently to his side, a wide smile and witty aside ready to greet him.

"You came," she said, reaching for a formal hug when he turned to see her.

"Hi, Niev," he said awkwardly, his eyes inspecting her as his awkward embrace briefly enveloped her. "You look ... lovely. Are you an angel or a demon?"

"Is it too much? I was going for Irish female chic."

He laughed a relieved laugh. "I think you got it just about perfect. I just went for comfort."

"You look great, Daragh. I doubt anyone else here is wearing an Armani suit."

His eyes flicked away for a beat, and he smiled. "Can I get you a drink? There's a lot of fancy cocktails available from what I can see."

"I might have one later. To be honest with you, I'm not really a drinker -- two vodkas and I'm anyone's."

"Let me get you a double then," he said with a glint in his eye, making her laugh and slap his forearm.

"I'll take you up on a Diet Coke later," she said, "and maybe a dance, but I'd better mingle for a while. Some of us are still working."

He smiled and moved aside, gently ushering her inside with a touch of his hand on her lower back. She averted her eyes as the surge between her legs at his touch almost overwhelmed her. He watched her walking away.

"If that dress was any smaller, it could be sold as a hand towel," Vale said in his ear.

Daragh nodded in agreement. "She certainly looks the part."

"Who's that she's talking to? Is she the girl from reception?"

"It's hard to tell -- it certainly looks like her. Are they comparing dresses?"

"They look identical to me -- it's like a convention in skin city. How do they not all catch pneumonia dressed like that?"

"They suffer for fashion or whatever the current trend is. Can you make a move here, Vale?"

"Yes, do you think I should?"

"There's nothing to stop you. If anyone asks, just tell them you're with me. Who's the lucky lady? Niev or the receptionist?"

"Her name is Natalia."

"How do you know?"

"Are you fucking serious? Believe it or not, she's from Bulgaria."

Daragh laughed. "She would be -- it looks like she's on her own now."

"Time to swoop in then, are you sure you don't mind?"

"Not at all, just don't get her pregnant."

Vale laughed and strode over to talk to Natalia. He led her to the dance floor, and Daragh watched him move his forefinger in a small circle. The music changed to a slow song, and they danced in a close embrace. "You little cunt," Daragh said to himself and laughed.

"It's loud in here," Niev said, handing him a drink he didn't recognise.

"What's this?"

She held a matching one up for him to see. "It's a Pornstar Martini."

"Is it alcoholic?"

She laughed. "It fucking better be."

He sniffed it. "What's in it?"

"I think it's vodka, liquor and passion fruit purée. It's quite nice -- I forewent the shot glass of Prosecco."

He held the glass up to the light and eliminated the alcohol with a movement of his finger, leaving just a non-alcoholic orange liquid with a creamy foam on top. "Sláinte, Niev," he said, and took a sip while she downed hers quickly.

"Well? What's the verdict on the Pornstar, Niev?" he asked.

"You love your strong drinks over here, don't you? This has gone straight to my head. How about that dance?"

"I will if you'll forgive my two left feet."

She giggled as she placed her empty glass on the back of a seat. "I have to dance in these orthopaedic fucking shoes, so we'll match."

He changed the music to a slow set and held her close as they danced, one hand on her back, and the other resting lightly on the curve of her backside and lower back. Her face nuzzled into the crook of his shoulder as her arms pulled her to him.

"Natalie is having fun," she said softly.

"Hmm," he crooned, seeing Vale with his tongue almost down her throat. "She's allowed."

"Is he with you?"

"Vale? Yes, he's visiting from the country."

"Is that his name ... Vale?"

"Yes, it's short for Vale."

"You're funny," she said, her grin softening her face. "He seems to be a good kisser."

"You'll have to excuse me if you think I'm going to try it out for you."

She laughed. "You're funny."

"You said that already."

"I can say things twice. It's a free country."

They danced on in silence, the need for words fading as their bodies drew closer. She felt his hardness against her abdomen, and her lips grazed his skin when his hand moved lower down her back. He felt her breath and her lips on his skin, heard her stifled moan at the touch of his hand to her bum. "We shouldn't do that in front of the children," she whispered in his ear.

He smiled and bent to kiss her, sweet and light. She looked into his eyes, returned his kiss and held him close when the music ended. His lips moved, but she heard no words as she was drawn into his eyes. She did, however, feel her head nodding, prompted by something inside, a feeling or suggestion, unheard and unbidden, indefinable but unambiguous.

"Yes," she breathed, and they were suddenly in a cab, her jacket around her shoulders as she shivered in the cold night air, her arms wrapped around him as they kissed deeply, heat building inside her.

She recalled the dimness of her hotel room, sitting naked on the bed, her nipples tingling where his lips had been. He stood before her, his erection twitching from side to side as she took it into her mouth. As she sucked, she saw her thong torn into ribbons and her bra thrown beside it on the floor. She heard him groan and her mouth fill with his warm saline come as his cock twitched violently while he bent over her, his knees weak, his body spasming with each touch of her tongue.

Breathless, he moved her head and saw her tongue take a final touch to his semi-hard cock. She smiled and said, "I didn't think I could manage that."

"It was amazing, Niev. Lie back and let me pleasure you."

"Oh fuck," she said, sliding her bum across the bed and resting on her elbows as he crawled between her legs and spread them wide apart.

She whimpered as he bent his head to her groin, watching as his tongue snaked out and touched her clit -- a brief but seismic touch that sent her spiralling as her head hit the pillow. "Make my pussy yours," she moaned as his tongue worked slowly around her glistening pink lips, dipping inside her periodically and forcing her hips to rise and fall in anticipation.

He reached for her breasts, squeezing them in time to the rhythm of his tongue circling her clit. He heard her gasp as he slipped it deep inside her, a delicious trickle of fluid flowing across his chin as he tongue fucked her slowly and methodically. She groaned and grabbed his hair, holding him in place as she felt herself explode around him, drenching the sheets as she bucked wildly and cried out in agonised climax.

They lay together on the bed, recovery coming slowly as their heartbeats normalised. She smiled as he handed her a glass of water she hadn't realised was beside the bed. "Thank you, that's ice cold."

He sipped on his own as she crawled across him to replace her glass on the locker, her tender nipples tingling as they touched his chest. Her hand found his revived erection, grasping the shaft as she looked into his eyes, shining in the dimness.

"I don't think my pussy can take this much cock," she said distractedly.

"Why not?"

"Well ... look at how thick it is for a start, never mind the length."

"I won't force you, Niev. This has been perfect so far."

"It's beautiful though. What do you think?"

"I really want to fuck you, and Tara Kelly had no trouble with it."

"Tara ... are you serious? Demure little Tara Kelly took this cock?"

He nodded quietly.

"In her tight little virgin pussy?"

"I doubt she was a virgin."

She slid her body along his and tentatively straddled him. "Can I try it this way first?" she asked.

"Yes," he said, his voice cracking as she guided the head to her opening. "Fuck, that's tight, Niev."

She grunted when the first two inches slipped in too quickly as she underestimated the first thrust. Her face looked down on him, her tongue between her teeth as she closed her eyes and took another inch or two. "His fucking long is this thing?"

"I don't know, I'd say you're halfway. Take your time."

"I think I'm going to come!" she almost wheezed.

"Again?"

She just nodded, her face a grimacing mask as she slipped down another inch or so. She lifted off a bit and slammed back down, taking him to her limit. "Fuck that's good," she sighed and began to moan as she felt her body begin the climb, encouraging her to thrust harder. "Can you come in my pussy?"

"Come on my cock first."

She groaned as her hip movements increased, taking her over the top and leaving her spent and lying breathless on his chest, his cock still deep inside her. The next thing she recalled was waking the next morning, thinking she'd dreamt the night before. A touch of her finger to her tender pussy told her it hadn't been a dream, and the covering of dried come on her stomach, face, and tits gave her a fuzzy warm feeling that made her curl up and drift back into a deep sleep, her fingers nestling in the flow between her legs.

"Vale, can you come?"

Vale appeared beside Daragh as he looked down on Niev's naked form lying on the bed. "What the fuck?"

"I know, we got carried away."

Vale picked up her wrist with two fingers. "Her pulse is normal, Lord. I think she's just unconscious or in a deep sleep. What did you do?"

"Isn't it obvious?"

"Right, she's fine, Lord, just cover her up and leave. I'll put her under a sleeping enchantment for a few hours. When she wakes, she won't remember too much except for..."

"Except for what, Vale?"

"Well, she's covered in spunk, and she's going to have a pretty sore pussy in the morning."

"She screamed for me to do that."

"How many times do you do it?"

"Do what?"

"Paint her with spunk."

"Once -- we're not animals, you know."

Vale laughed. "I'm going to levitate her -- you straighten the bedding out as best you can and make her comfortable."

Daragh stripped the bed completely and dressed it again in the same sheets and duvet. Vale watched him as he held Niev aloft above the bed. "How many times did you fuck her?" he asked.

"Once or twice -- she was fucking fantastic. How did it go with Natalie?"

"It wasn't bad at all once we found a room."

"Did you not take her home?"

"No, she lives with her parents. I found a couple of spare rooms at the hotel and spirited her in -- she's still there."

"Ok that's done. Lower Niev down easily and don't hurt her."

When she was back on the bed and looking peaceful, Daragh covered her and made to leave. Vale touched his shoulder. "Is it okay if I get back, Lord?"

"To Natalie?"

"Yes."

"Yeah, that's grand. Thanks for helping out with this."

Daragh and Vale materialised in the car park outside Terminal 2 at Dublin Airport at 7:00 am the following Wednesday. "How long will it take you to get over to London, Vale?" Daragh asked.

"It's instant."

"Fuck, I have a two-hour wait followed by a forty-five minute flight."

"You might be able to push that along, you know."

"How?"

"You can squeeze the time in the terminal forward incrementally - say, five minutes every ten minutes so nobody notices, and you'll be able to will the plane to fly faster with an enchantment."

"Seriously?"

Vale laughed. "No, you're fucked. Who's meeting you at the other end?"

"You are."

"Aren't you travelling with Niev?"

"I haven't seen her since Friday night. I think she might be over there already. I don't think she was at the office this week."

"Well, why not just forget the flight and make our own way over? We'll be there in ten seconds."

"We might have time to visit the British Museum."

"For fuck's sake, let's go."

"We're staying at The Bloomsbury Hotel in Great Russell Street. It's just around the corner."

"Are the offices close by?"

"Allegedly, they're using a temporary office space because of the presence of asbestos in their own building. That's in Russell Square according to my information, and the Museum is a short walk from both.'

They walked to a corner hidden by a large sign and disappeared, reappearing on the cold dark footpath outside the British Museum.

"What now, Lord?" Vale asked,

Daragh laughed. "It opens at ten."

"This is fucked up, Lord. We could've stayed in bed until ten, made breakfast, fucked a couple of women, wined and dined them beforehand and still been thirty minutes early for your fucking meeting."

"Wined and dined two women at ten o'clock in the morning?"

"There's a Starbucks across the road, let's go in there."

"Nah. I'll pass, thanks, I prefer our own."

"I do too, but we need the cups."

"Can you not magic up a couple of mugs?"

"In public? Out in the middle of the street in fucking London?

"Ok, let's go home until this place opens. I'm getting hungry now."

After a relaxed breakfast and a revised plan, they decided to abandon the idea of visiting the museum. Daragh thought through the plan again.

"Ok, this all works. We leave here at 11:45, materialise outside the Podium Building at 11:46, take the meeting with Chamberlain, then come straight home."

Vale nodded. "That sounds perfect."

"What if Niev is there and wants to do something?"

"Like what?"

"Anything -- a follow-up, an analysis--"

"A fuck," Vale interjected.

"Not necessarily but yes, a fuck."

"You still have the hotel room, don't you? I think we're covered."

Daragh patted Vale's hand. "Don't worry, Vale, I'll get used to this soon enough."

Vale nodded. "Just get there a bit quicker."

Daragh was led into the boardroom at noon precisely. Alan Chamberlain stood to his full height, straightened the jacket of his pinstriped suit and stepped out to greet him with an outstretched hand.

"Daragh, thank you for coming over. How was your flight? Any delays?"

Daragh took his hand and squeezed it lightly. "It seemed like the blink of an eye, Sir."

"Good. Call me Alan, please. Take a seat -- can I offer you a coffee or tea? It's a little early for anything stronger, I think, although you may have a different interpretation back in Ireland," he said with a condescending chuckle as Daragh bristled.

"I'm fine, Alan, thanks. Can we get to why I'm here?"

Chamberlain touched the fringe of his coiffed grey hair, a barely detectable hint of irritation in his cold blue eyes.

"We'll be joined shortly by Sophie Alaine and her girl Friday -- they were delayed at a meeting in the City. In the meantime, I'd like to go through this compliance proposal you came up with."

Daragh's gaze didn't waver. Chamberlain cleared his throat and slid a copy of the proposal across the table. Daragh left it untouched.

"If you'd like to open it at page eleven," he said.

"I don't need to. What's the problem with it?"

"Oh, there's no problem. I just wanted to ask you about your process and how you arrived at the conclusion that Barrymore Investments require, as you put it, 'to be handled with kid gloves,'."

"They lack an adequate level of experience at board level. The Chairperson is overly malleable, three of the board members are clearly in his thrall and the only member with any experience in development, the delivery of a project and the ultimate capitalisation of it, is not listened to, respected or is regularly outvoted by the other four."

Chamberlain cleared his throat again. "So your solution is to replace the Board chair?"

"We can't -- he's a legacy appointment. He inherited it from his father -- but you're aware of that already... aren't you, Alan?"

Chamberlain coughed and turned away as Daragh continued. "What's been confusing me about it is why you're trying to force this project through compliance by attempting to fly it under the wire."

"I find that assumption to be--"

"What... insightful?" Daragh cut him off as the door opened and Sophie walked in, Niev a couple of paces behind her. They noticed that Chamberlain looked as if someone had spooked him, his entire demeanour that of someone unsure of his ground.

"What's going on here, Alan?" she said, then sat in a chair she'd pulled out at the end of the table.

"This fucking Paddy--" Sophie cut him off sharply.

"Alan, don't go there -- that's almost racist," she said, turning to Daragh with an outstretched hand. "Daragh, it's lovely to meet you finally. Thank you for coming over at short notice. Is everything okay with your hotel?"

"Nice to meet you too," he said, shaking her hand. "We haven't checked into the hotel yet."

"We?"

"Did I say we? Sorry, it's either the latent racism or jet lag."

Vale communicated with him inside his head. "Be careful, Lord. Watch your words."

"I will. Now be quiet and let me concentrate."

"Look, I misspoke, Sophie, but this upstart is--"

"That's enough, Alan," she said, turning to Daragh with a patient grin. "What's going on, Daragh? Please be frank."

"It's simple enough, Sophie -- may I call you Sophie?"

She waved a hand at him.

"This file raised many flags. It didn't read correctly to me at first glance, and that shouldn't have been the case, so I went back to first principles and began again from a different vantage point."

"What was the impetus for this?"

"I considered it a little odd that a file like this would be handed to someone like me with zero experience, who had literally just sat in the chair at the compliance desk, less than two weeks after being moved there. That, for me, was the first flag. The second was the broker who presented the project to us -- a Mr. Graham Whitaker from St Helier in Jersey. The ask was £100 million for a project that purported to reach a potential billion pounds in nett sales."

"That was none--" Chamberlain tried to interrupt.

Daragh looked at him with cold eyes and watched as the man visibly shrank in his seat. "If I may continue," he said, "I felt it odd, to say the least, that this file was sent to our offices in Dublin. We process projects for clients based in the Eurozone, but this was a funding document seeking a Sterling investment. Apart from the obvious currency differentials, since Brexit we can't handle those transactions -- they must be processed in the UK."

Sophie nodded in agreement, throwing an odd glance in Chamberlain's direction as she did so. "So you based everything on those issues?" she asked.

"No. I recommended that the position of Bryce Williams as Chairman of Barrymore Investments be considered -- after only a few hours of research into his background. Alan here jumped straight to this point when I sat down to meet him, which convinced me that my research was accurate. Bryce Williams is the brother of Gwendolyn Williams, who is also known as Gwendolyn Chamberlain -- Alan Chamberlain's wife. So it's a safe assumption that there is quite a glaring conflict of interest here, along with the potential for fraud and/or embezzlement of funds that could impact our reputation in the future when this Trojan Horse of a project collapsed in on itself."

"That's a lot of investigation."

"It is, but the kicker for me was when Niev got involved by calling me at home to tell me how fucking impressed she was with my work on the file. She persuaded me to travel over here for this meeting -- she even followed me to the bonding event at Angels and Demons, tried to get me drunk and then--"

"Stop, Daragh," Niev shouted across the table.

"That's enough, Niev," Sophie said. "I know how you operate."

"I was the one who got fucked, Sophie!"

"Yeah, well, it looks like I was almost fucked too. You're fired. Get out of here now before I call the police."

"Sophie, I--" Chamberlain began.

"Alan, I'm going to call a board meeting for Friday morning. I'll be seeking your dismissal, but I'll accept your resignation now if you prefer to handle it that way."

Chamberlain looked at his hands resting in his lap. "You'll have it before lunch."

They watched him pack his bag and waited until he'd left the room before breathing again. Sophie leaned on the table, her eyes firmly fixed on Daragh as he sat impassively in his seat and tried to read her mind.

"Daragh," she began, but he cut her off.

"Let me save you the trouble, Sophie, but before I leave, I'd like to put it on record that I have no regrets about this.

Her mouth opened, and her eyes widened. The edges of her sparkling white teeth were a perfect counterpoint to the healthy glow of her lightly tanned skin, her face perfectly framed by softly teased dark hair. Her huge blue eyes -- wide open, yet totally unreadable - bore directly into his, searching for something that he wasn't sharing.

He stood slowly and drew himself to his full height, buttoning his jacket as he moved. He took a short step away from his seat and slid his right hand into his trouser pocket. She blinked and shifted her gaze, took a brief perusal of him with a sweep of her eyes, then re-engaged. He caught her indecision, saw behind her veil before she closed it again. He smiled as the pupils in her deep-blue irises flashed open and a light blush warmed her skin.

"Are you going to fire me too?" he said.

"No, I'm going to promote you."

"You're assuming I want to work for you?"

She laughed. "You bastard! Are you angling for a pay rise?"

He shrugged. "I don't need your money, Sophie - money doesn't motivate me."

She touched a finger to the corner of her mouth. "What are you doing now?"

"I'm going home."

"You don't have to - you're off work this week. You're booked into the Bloomsbury tonight. Why not take advantage of it? It's better than hanging around Heathrow hoping to pick up a spare seat. Come, walk me out."

He stood aside to let her pass and followed her to the lift. As they waited, he sensed her heart beating quickly and a flush on her skin that hadn't been there earlier. He placed a hand on the centre of her back and caught a low, breathy murmur.

"I guess firing people isn't as easy as it sometimes appears," he said, and she looked down at her feet.

"You do what needs to be done, but no, it's not a nice feeling."

"You handled it well."

"You did too."

The lift arrived, and they stepped inside - the small cubicle almost claustrophobic as they stood close together.

"You're not going home. I'm taking you to dinner tonight," she said.

"Thanks, but I'm going to head out to the airport."

"I'm not asking. You're still on the clock, aren't you?"

He laughed, "Yes, I suppose I am."

"Have you brought a change of clothes with you?"

"No, I hadn't planned on staying."

"Have you even checked into your hotel?"

"No, we can't do that until two o'clock."

"We? You keep saying we."

"We, as in the cohort of people who'd be checking in," he scrambled, admonishing himself silently.

They stepped out of the lift on the ground floor and walked outside. "I'll pick you up outside the Bloomsbury at seven - wear something less formal."

Vale joined him as he walked away from the building. "She's intrigued by you, Lord."

"You think?"

He laughed. "Yeah, she probably thinks you're a split personality. We this and we that ... you need to get control of that."

"I know, it just slipped out. I was distracted."

"We have to get you some clothes. Do you fancy doing a bit of shopping until we can check into the hotel?"

"Yeah, I suppose I should. Where do you suggest?"

"Harrods."

"Fuck off! I was thinking somewhere cheaper, like John Lewis or something."

"What? Cheaper? We're not fucking paying for it!" Vale said.

He grabbed his arm, and they immediately landed in a fitting room in the men's department of Harrods. Daragh scratched his head. "What now?"

"What do you plan on wearing?"

"You heard what she said. A shirt, trousers and a jacket, I suppose."

"Shoes?"

"Probably," he said, looking down, "these look a little weary."

"You can revive them with an enchantment."

"Nah, I fancy a new pair of nice loafers."

Vale laughed. "Ok, so all you have to do is visualise how you want to look. When you're happy, close your eyes and click your fingers."

"What then?"

"Just do it."

He shrugged his shoulders and thought for a moment before closing his eyes. Vale heard the soft sound of dry fingers clicking and watched as Daragh's new clothes suddenly adorned his body.

"Nice," he said, "she'll be dragging you back to her lair tonight."

Daragh laughed and perused himself in the mirror behind them. "These clothes are so fucking comfortable, Vale. They must be fucking expensive."

Vale turned him around, grabbed the jacket collar, and checked the label. "Canali," he said.

"Ok. But how do we get them out of here without getting arrested?"

"What? There's nowhere on the planet that can hold us, Lord. We leave the same way we came. For fuck's sake, get with the program."

"Sorry, I'm still getting used to all this."

"I know, but can you get there a bit quicker?"

"What next?"

"We get you checked into the hotel."

"It's too early yet."

"Are you fucking serious? We aren't defined by rules, Lord. We'll check ourselves in - now let's go."

Daragh found himself in a suite overlooking the city. Vale was busy clearing a table of books and tourist brochures.

"What are you doing?" Daragh asked.

"Lunch, what do you fancy?"

"I'll piss this prick off," he thought. "How about a Special Fried Rice from The Emperor in Donnycarney."

"Do you want Salt and Pepper Chicken wings too?"

"Yes.

It appeared on the table, fully plated on hotel crockery, under a wave of Vale's hand. "How the fuck?"

"I told you. Nothing is impossible."

"But that's from Dublin. The fucking place doesn't even open 'til five."

"Just eat it, for fuck's sake, then get your head down for an hour or two."

"Are we okay in this room?"

Vale nodded, pulling a small envelope from his pocket while holding a chicken wing in his mouth. "This wasn't booked, so I checked us in. Here's the key, although you don't need one."

"Thanks, Vale. I owe you."

"I serve at your pleasure, Lord. So what's your plan for tonight?"

"I don't have one except to hear what she has to say, enjoy the company of a beautiful woman and see what fate decrees from there."

"Yeah, you're going to fuck her, aren't you?"

"I wouldn't mind."

Daragh was outside the hotel at 6:55. A white BMW eased to an elegant stop at his feet. He saw her behind the wheel as the driver's window opened. "You're driving yourself?"

"Of course, I'm not totally incompetent, you know. Get in!"

When the door clicked shut behind him, she pulled out and away from the hotel. "Where are we going?"

"Somewhere nice, I think you'll enjoy it. Nice threads, by the way -- Canali?"

"Yeah, I think so."

She laughed. "I think we're paying you too much."

"Not as much as Alan Chamberlain, I'd wager."

"Do you think he's--"

"Of course he is, Sophie. Surely you don't think this is his first time trying something like that. He's corrupt, I knew it the moment I looked into his weasel fucking eyes."

"Well, he's gone now."

"You're not going to leave it there, are you?"

"What?"

"You have to go through anything he's touched during his time at the firm. Or are you in fear of the depth of it?"

She laughed. "How old are you again?"

"I'll be twenty-eight at Hallowe'en, not much younger than you, I guess, and what's that got to do with it?"

"I'll be thirty the day after you, and it has nothing to do with it. I find you to be quite perceptive, that's all."

"For my age?"

She laughed again. "Yes and no."

It took nearly thirty minutes to reach their destination, a restaurant called The Canal at the end of Harrow Road in what looked like an industrial area undergoing gentrification. "It's called after the canal that runs past the end of the street," she said as she parked near a wall overlooking the Grand Union Canal.

"And I'm wearing Canali clothing -- it's almost a prophecy realised."

They got out of the car, and he walked around to join her as she straightened up. She struggled to control the loose blouse she wore, holding it together just below her breasts to preserve her modesty.

"That's a daring choice of blouse, Sophie," he remarked.

"A little," she agreed, "but it's almost nunlike in comparison to what the young trendy blondes wear on the weekends."

"I know what you mean. It's the same back home."

She grinned at him as she smoothed out her skirt. "Does this offend you too?"

"I'm not offended. I think you look fantastic, and you certainly have the legs for that skirt."

She took his arm, and they walked into the restaurant to be seated near a large industrial window overlooking her car.

Sophie rubbed her hands together. "I think I'll have a cocktail. How about you? The Raspberry Gimlet here is to absolutely die for."

Daragh pored over the menu and came down in favour of a Square Root Lemonade. She looked at him curiously. "Lemonade?"

"Yes, please."

She watched him closely as he struggled with the menu, sipping distractedly at the drink he'd ordered as he did so.

"The best way to do this, I find, is to choose two plates of food from the menu."

He looked around at the neighbouring tables and saw that she was correct.

"So there's no Main or Starter course?"

"No, it's a small plates menu, but you'll love it."

He nodded and said, "Okay, a Linguine and Rolled Lamb Belly."

"I'll have the Chicken Schnitzel and the Brill," she told the server, "and some chips and steamed greens for the table."

"Would you like more drinks?"

She held up her cocktail glass and rolled it between her fingers. "Another one of these, please. Daragh?"

"Just a bottle of water for me, if it's not out of the canal, of course," he finished with a smile. "You never know these days."

"Do you not drink?" Sophie asked, a playful glint forming in her eye.

He held up his lemonade. "What's this -- Scotch Mist?"

She almost choked on her drink. "Alcohol -- do you not drink alcohol?"

"Not usually. I'm not really a fan of it."

They were quiet as the server returned with their drinks, Sophie lighting on hers like a desperate woman in a desert.

"Don't forget you're driving," he said, but she didn't listen.

"So -- who is Daragh O'Crochán?" she asked.

"The son of Mr. and Mrs. O'Crochán."

She giggled again.

"Sophie Alaine," he said, testing the words, trying them on for size as she watched him over her glass with a playful stare. "French?"

"What?"

"Alaine, is that not a French name?"

"Root rot!"

Daragh's ears pricked up at the fairy swear word.

"Vale?"

"I heard it. Tread slowly, Lord. Let her talk."

"It's not French -- I'm as Irish as you. My name is actually ní hÚaláin, the ignorami over here bastardised it to Alaine, so I use it for an easier life."

"Niev had the same problem. I think the Sophie part led me down the French road initially."

"Is Sophie a French name?"

"I think Sophie is a shortened version of the Greek name, Sofia. I know some who think it's Bulgarian because of the city of the same name there."

"They call me Sophie over here because they can't pronounce Siofra, my proper name."

"Did she say what I thought she said, Lord?"

"Yes."

"Fuck, or should I say Sparkledust?"

"Siofra ní hÚaláin -- Louth or Meath?"

"Close, but Westmeath. Just outside Mullingar."

"And your husband?"

"What?"

"I was under the impression you were married, even though you don't wear a ring."

"I don't ..." She stopped when their food was brought to the table. "It's complicated."

"Don't let her off the hook, Lord."

"I won't - just let me handle this, Vale."

"Ask her who she's married to at least."

They busied themselves with eating. Sophie was obviously the worse for wear after three cocktails, and her speech was beginning to slur. She held a forkful of something up to his mouth. "Try this, Daragh."

"What is it?"

"Chicken Schnitzel."

He opened his mouth and accepted the food, agreeing that it was great.

"So do I call you Sophie or Siofra?"

She beamed a smile at him. "There's nothing that pleases me more than someone using Siofra, so please call me that. In work, however, it has to be Sophie."

"And is there a Mr. Úaláin?"

"Oh this is bliss! You know not to use the 'ní' part of my name. No, my partner is called MacBhaoill -- Derren MacBhaoill."

"Is that Boyle or MacBoyle in English? I always get confused by that usage."

"Boyle, but they call him O'Boyle. You may have heard of him -- he's into livestock."

"Vale?"

"I heard her."

He shook his head. "It's not familiar. Does he live here too or back home?"

"We have a place on Carlingford Lough."

"So he stays at home and cleans up after you?" Daragh laughed.

She giggled. "If only. He's off in Spain this week at meetings in Cantabria. Lord knows when he'll be back."

"Do you not stay in touch with each other? It must be difficult to maintain a relationship with you here or in Dublin and him God knows where."

"I'm on this. We helped The Andaja in their battles with Ojáncanu. An emissary will be sent to Torrelevega and Santander immediately."

"For what purpose?"

"To kill the cunt."

"Don't do anything until I say so, Vale. Just send the emissary, find O'Boyle, and wait for further instructions."

"Yes, Lord."

"It's too much to call it a relationship. It's more of an arrangement, really."

"How so?"

"It's a long story," she said, her eyes drifting off to a place populated by unrealised dreams.

"Do you have children?"

"You bastard."

"Shut the fuck up, Vale. I know what I'm doing."

She shed a tear and looked down at the table for her drink, and cut through a piece of fish with her knife before raising her head. "No, we can't ..."

Daragh placed his knife down, reached across the table and covered her hand with his. "I'm sorry, Siofra, I don't mean to pry."

She shook her head. "It's fine, there's nothing physically wrong with either of us - we just ... can't make babies."

"Have you tried IVF or surrogacy?"

"No, we can't - it's ..." She broke down into deep, wracking sobs. "I can't ... we're not ..."

She ran from the restaurant, her purse abandoned on the table behind her. Daragh threw three £50 notes on the table, grabbed her bag, and hurried after her, catching up with her just as she reached the canal bank. She clung to him as he tried to soothe her, but she was inconsolable and pushed him away.

"Siofra ..." he said. "Talk to me. It can't be all that bad."

"We're not compatible, Daragh. Derren and I are not compatible."

"What does that mean, Siofra?"

He reached for her again, and she threw herself into his arms, her chest heaving as she tried to catch her breath. "I fucked everything up. My father told me to keep away from him before he died, but I didn't listen."

"Her father was Mordha O'Húaláin, Lord. He was the Duke of Lynn, a purebred nobleman."

"Should I mention him?"

"It can't hurt."

"Mordha?"

She lifted her head at the mention of his name, her eyes wide in shock as her tear-stained face betrayed the turmoil of her thoughts. "How do--"

"That's not relevant now," he said, wiping her tears with his fingers. "Tell me what you wish to tell me."

"My partner can't consummate our union," she said, her chin dropping to her chest.

"Do you know why?"

She sobbed and shook her head violently from side to side. "My father paid my dowry with the inclusion of a taboo that is enforced on Hallowe'en this year, yet my husb ... partner is off gallivanting in the north of Spain. I'm still a virgin, Daragh. I'm nearly thirty, my life is fucked, and I'm still a fucking virgin."

"Come on, let's get in the car - we can talk there."

"O'Boyle is in Santander for a meeting with The Andaja, Lord. What do you want me to tell them?"

"Lock him up for now - we need time."

"Lord, we can end this now."

"LOCK HIM UP, VALE!"

Daragh took her keys and guided her into the passenger seat before walking the long way around to the driver's door. Deep in thought, he summoned Vale.

"This situation with O'Boyle smells to high heaven, Vale."

"Why?"

"Her father paid a dowry -- so there must have been some kind of agreement between them. Maybe your friends in The Andaja can wheedle it out of him."

"It might take some time."

"We have time."

He jumped into the driver's seat. "Right, let's get you home," he said, starting the car. "Where to?"

"I'm at The Dorchester."

"What? The fucking Dorchester?" he said, trying not to laugh at the ridiculousness of the situation as she stared at him for a brief moment before collapsing into reams of laughter that took them several minutes to recover from.

"I'm sorry," he said eventually, "it's not funny."

"It's a little funny, really -- comical, maybe, more than funny."

He touched her hand. "At least it quelled your tears," he said as she stared into his eyes.

As they drove through the city, an awkward silence descended on them. He cast an odd glance at her as he drove, watching as the streetlights seemed to have a hypnotic effect.

"So ... a thirty-year-old virgin, eh?" he said lightly, and she giggled.

She sighed then. "Ridiculous, isn't it?"

"It's quaint."

"It isn't for the want of trying, Daragh, believe me."

"Maybe you weren't with the right man."

"It's not him - I know that for sure. But he's had plenty of other women -- at least eight that I know of and fuck knows how many that I don't."

"And you stayed with him?"

She nodded, her hands squeezing the life out of a tissue she'd taken from her purse.

"He's not the only man that couldn't ..."

"Couldn't what?"

She shook her head and looked out the window. "I've tried to make myself desirable."

"You are desirable, you're fucking gorgeous. You're sexy, beautiful, successful, intelligent, and your body is--"

"So why do I turn men off?"

"Turn men off? What does that mean?"

She shook her head and returned to watching the tour buses as they drove up Park Lane and into a line of taxis that were threatening to turn right at Stanhope Gate.

"You can talk to me, Siofra."

"I will. But I need a drink first. Get me into the hotel. I have to change and tidy myself up."

"Where do I park around here?"

She took a card out of her purse and handed it to him. "Just stop outside the entrance. The valet will look after it."

He met Vale's eyes as they passed him on the way in.

"We have him, my Lord."

"Any trouble getting him?"

"No, but you won't believe this."

"I'd disbelieve nothing at this point in time."

"He was butt fucking a ladyboy when they caught up with him."

"You're not fucking serious -- and they call US fairies?"

"I'm going to join in the interrogation. Is there anything in particular that you need to know?"

"Yes. What was the arrangement between him and the Duke? What did he have over him that made him agree to this? It doesn't make sense."

"It could be anything. Maybe the Duke was into ladyboys too."

"Well, let's find out for sure. Do whatever needs to be done to get there."

"Yes, Lord. Will you be okay for a while?"

"I can manage. I'll try not to demolish the hotel or nuke London while you're gone. Just keep me in the loop."

"Yes, Lord."

He walked her to the lift, his hand supportively at her back. "I'll leave you here, Siofra," he said. "Give me a call if you want to talk."

"Don't leave yet, Daragh."

"Ok, I'll wait for you in the bar."

She shook her head and took him by the arm into the lift when it opened. "I fear I'll just drink myself into another stupor," she said. "Maybe it's time I confronted this. Do you think you can listen to a ranting woman for an evening?"

He laughed and squeezed her hand. "No, I'm going to leave you at your door and run the fuck away."

She screamed with laughter, scaring two older ladies waiting for the lift when the doors opened.

"Did you see how they looked at me?"

"Yeah, can you blame them?"

"Am I a mess?"

"It's nothing that a drop of water wouldn't fix."

She smiled.

"And a quick brush of your hair."

She smiled again as they walked the corridor.

"Maybe a bit of blusher."

"Ok, I get it," she said lightly.

"Possibly a change of clothes."

"I said I get it," she said at the door and pushed him back against it when they got inside. "You little bastard."

An unspoken recognition passed between them before she released his collar, walked away quickly, and headed for the bathroom. "Order me some coffee, please? I need to change."

"Don't go changing to try and please me," he laughed.

She held up a finger as she flounced away. "Get me a Club Sandwich too -- I'm fucking starving."

He quickly appraised the room. It was a suite, and it was beyond luxurious. He found a small scullery-type area and conjured a pot of coffee.

"Vale, how do I magic up a Club sandwich?"

"You need to know what that is first."

"Fuck off, I know what it is."

"Every chef has their own version of a club sandwich. Give me a minute and I'll find out The Dorchester's one, but here's a newsflash for you ... the kitchen doesn't close - pick up the phone and order one. It's not as if she's a fucking pauper."

"Of course. How are things going over there?"

"He's a stubborn cunt, but we'll break him."

"Ok."

Siofra returned to the smell of coffee and the sound of Daragh thanking whoever had delivered the trolley. "You look nice," he said.

She turned two cups over to set them on their saucers. "Thanks ... for nothing."

"What?"

She poured coffee into the cups. "Face, hair, blusher?"

He could see that she was suppressing a smile. "You missed a bit."

"Yeah, well, I was in a hurry. I worry when there's a strange man left unattended in my room."

"Does that happen often?"

She handed him his coffee and gestured for him to sit by the trolley. "Hardly ever. What did you order?"

"A club sandwich."

She looked at the trolley. "And a burger and chips in case you didn't really fancy it."

"I won't eat a burger."

"I don't mind helping out. I had to run out of a restaurant earlier because some deranged woman had a meltdown, so I'm starving."

"Oh fuck, we left without paying."

"The food was shit anyway."

"No, no," she grabbed her phone, "I'll just call them--"

"Don't do that, I got it."

"What?"

"It's sorted. I left them a fiver to cover it."

"A fucking fiver?"

He smiled and winked at her, then she collapsed into a chair, laughing.

She watched him eat, impressed by his economy of movement and his confident demeanour. He'd removed his jacket, and she could see the definition in his shoulders through the light fabric of his shirt, the tapered waist and tightness of his bum. He seemed taller than she'd earlier thought, slim but strong and masculine. He was obviously intelligent with an innate sense of fun, but there was something deeper, almost untouchable and indefinable.

He caught her looking. "What?" he asked with a lopsided grin as he cut his burger in half.

She shook her head slightly. "Nothing, I'm trying to work you out."

He sat on a loveseat beside her chair. "Let me know when you do."

"How are you still single?" she asked.

"Are any of us really single? We're surrounded by people every day."

"You know what I mean."

"I know, but I'm not the broken one here."

She finished the second quarter of her sandwich. "You think I'm broken?"

"That's what you intimated."

"This coffee is different, they must have changed it," she said and stood to pour another cup before walking to a window overlooking the street below.

He'd noticed every nuance of her body through the short silk nightdress she'd changed into. The hem flirted with the lower curve of her backside as she walked. The thin straps at her shoulders did little to provide shelter to the smoothness of her skin, and her nipples were clearly visible to his eyes.

He thought about home, the fields and trees. He tried to recall how he felt on his trip to Dublin, the trains, the amount of people ... anything to divert his mind from the activity that was occurring in his groin. She spun around quickly, the skirt of her slip flaring to reveal her lack of underwear and causing further consternation in his groin.

"Can we talk about something that doesn't concern my private life?"

"We can do anything you wish. But you need to help me clarify things first."

"What things?"

"You said that O'Boyle wasn't the only man -- that there were others."

She sat beside him on the loveseat, her eyes hooded. "Yes."

"So what happened with them?"

"That's the problem -- nothing happened. I couldn't arouse them. Are you happy now? I'm a turn-off for men. Fuuuuuck!"

He grabbed her hands and pulled her close. "That's a load of self-pitying bollox, Siofra! You're fucking beautiful, you're fucking hot, and I can fucking prove it."

"How?" she almost shouted. "How can you prove it?"

He took her hand and brought it to his fully formed erection. "I'm sorry, but that's the only way I can--"

Her lips stopped him, and his head spun until he could regain control. He pulled away and saw the look in her eyes. She took a step backwards, then another. Then she covered her face with her hands.

"No!" Daragh said, his voice strangled as he pulled her hands away to look at her.

She watched him slowly unbutton his shirt and slip it off. He threw it to the floor, then did the same with the expensive trousers, which almost folded themselves as they hit the carpet. "Daragh--"

"Later, Siofra. We can talk later. I want to see you."

She moved to the bed, slowly slipping the straps down over her shoulders, her eyes shyly cast downward as she avoided the directness of his gaze. As it slid to the floor, the nightdress revealed her perfectly white skin, her hands failing to extinguish the fire in his eyes as she tried, in vain, to preserve what modesty she could.

He bent forward as his hands pushed his black briefs down over his thighs, stepping out of them before standing straight and stepping towards her to take her hands and hold them apart, her body now on full display as her heartbeat began to race.

He slipped one arm around her waist, moved it to her shoulders, and pulled her to him. He kissed her deeply, her willing lips devouring his as his tongue dove fully into her mouth. He led her hand to his throbbing erection, holding it there until her fingers gripped his shaft and slowly began to stroke it. She hummed as she fell deeper into his kiss, lowering her hand to the base of his cock and gently cupping his balls.

"Fuck that's good," he breathed, breaking the kiss.

"It's amazing. You're so big, so hard."

"It's all yours."

She knelt and kissed the tip, her tongue slowly tasting him as she nervously explored his length and girth with her lips and fingers. He watched her enjoy herself for several minutes, the head of his cock shining and wet with her saliva before lifting her to the bed to lie beside her and wallow in the feel of her skin.

"I'm a virgin," she whispered, and their eyes met.

"I can wait," he replied.

"I don't want you to."

He moved slowly, his body moving sinuously as he positioned his head between her legs, pulling them apart at the knees to reveal the flower of her womanhood. Her scent was overpoweringly hypnotic -- a wooded glen by a bubbling stream, protected by the rich, spicy, earthy fragrance of Bog Myrtle, with a background hint of citrus balancing the stronger herbal notes. Alongside it was comforting, healing Meadowsweet -- sweet almond with a hint of honey and spice as he descended into her heaven when he kissed her damp, delicious lips before slipping his tongue deftly inside the soft pink folds beyond the lips of her labia.

Her hips lifted in welcome, bringing a sigh that warmed him, driving him on as he almost devoured her, never wishing to leave. She began to whimper, and her body trembled as his tongue and lips explored her fully, touching every corner of her - every bump and hollow of her dripping, demanding sex before opening her wide and slipping his long tongue inside her to the sound of an intoxicated scream as she exploded in a gush of sweetly pungent fluid, her body pulsing in rhythm with the flow of the orgasm cascading through her.

She clung to him in the room's darkness, her nerves tingling and her entire being awakened. Her eyes shone in the dark as she listened to his deep, sonorous breathing, an odd murmur of unintelligible phrases comforting her as she recalled the evening. She wanted to wake him, wished to hear him tell her about himself, desired to touch his face, kiss him, feel his hands on her again. She wanted to feel him inside her, taking her womanhood. He'd talked her out of it, mumbling something about vows and kingdoms.

"Hey, Dia dhuit a bhean álainn," he whispered, her touch waking him.

"You make me believe it," she said.

"You are beautiful, fairer than the fairest princess."

"Not fair enough for you to fuck, though."

"It's the hardest thing I've ever done, Siofra."

"At least tell me why."

"I only know half of it, but I promise I'll tell you when I know everything."

"Is it to do with Derren?"

He made a face as he considered the question. "It's about half and half, but I won't keep anything from you once I know."

"Can you give me a hint? Just an idea of what's going on?"

"Let me use the bathroom first."

"Vale."

"Yes, Lord."

"What's happening?"

"We have O'Boyle tied up in a cave outside Santander. He's not doing well - the Andaja are in charge. It's their territory."

"Have they got anything out of him yet?"

"Nothing that we don't already know, except for one thing he let slip -- Siofra was right about there being a taboo in place, but there's actually a second one too. The Union dissolves naturally at dawn on the Hallowe'en of her thirtieth birthday, whether she's with child or not."

"What happens to the dowry?"

"It's refunded with interest under the threat of the ultimate penalty."

"Has he still got it?"

"We're working on that?"

"Do we know how much it is?"

"Ten thousand gold sovereigns and a mansion in Louth."

"Ok, I'll contact you later if I haven't heard from you."

"Yes, Lord. You're progressing with Siofra?"

"Somewhat. But I have a question -- can I fuck her?"

"That's a hard one. It's not against the rules - royalty have been fucking each other since Ramses was just a stain on his father's loincloth. We all know about Henry the Eighth but, amazingly, Siofra could actually be a virgin queen, the first since Da Vinci painted the last one."

"Mona Lisa?"

"Yes, Lisa del Giocondo. She was a foletti, a sprite from Tuscany. But remember, once you fuck her, you're joined forever. Are you prepared for that?"

"Yes, I am."

"Comhghairdeas leat, a thiarna."

"Don't congratulate me until this is done."

He returned to the bed, her arms reaching for him as she smiled widely. "I have news."

"What? How?"

"It seems that Mr. Derren has run afoul of some not so nice people in Santander."

She sat up in the bed, unconcerned about her uncovered breasts.

Daragh looked at them and smiled before she slapped his outstretched hand playfully. He pulled back the covers to show her his erection, and she smiled in delight before kissing him tenderly. "You still find me desirable?"

"Yes."

"So tell me about Derren. Is he in trouble?"

"It's possible he won't live through it. Would that upset you?"

"Of course it would! We're together a long time after all."

"Do you love him?"

She squirmed at the touch of his hand on her arm. "It's not like that. He's more like a cousin, really. We never see each other, hardly ever talk unless he's looking for something ... how serious is this?"

"It's life and death."

"What did he do?"

"He was caught fucking a male prostitute in Santander."

"And they're going to execute him for that?"

"No, he's planning something much worse, something that could disrupt centuries of our cultural heritage."

"An síoga?"

"Yes."

"I warned him about that -- my father did too."

"But he ignored you?"

"Yes. He's a mortal. He can't be a Fairy High King, Daragh. He'd be killed the moment he took the crown."

"I expect it's because he wants to own the fae gold. He wouldn't be the first."

She clicked a fingernail along the edges of her teeth, and he took her hand away from her mouth. "What would you say if you found out that your dowry had disappeared?"

"That's my family's fortune! It's protected by an enchant ... agreement," she said hooding her eyes at her faux pas.

"I know your heritage, Siofra. I also know your destiny."

"How?"

"I can't tell you that right now."

"Why not?"

"I gave my word."

"To who?"

"The person who's holding Derren captive. I have one other thing to say."

She placed her hand on his chest, a devilish smile on her face. "Can I hold your cock while you talk?"

"Seriously?"

"You don't realise how long I've dreamt of this."

"Ok, but what I have to tell you is that I can't fuck you right now."

Her eyes flared. "Why the fuck not?"

"Because, when we do fuck it'll be written in history."

"When we fuck?" she said, her smile returning. "Does that mean ...?"

"It means you're mine."

"And you're mine?"

He smiled and nodded.

"I know how to suck a cock," she said suddenly.

"Do you?"

"Yes, I've read a million books on sex. You almost blew me away tonight, and I want to reciprocate."

"Maybe we could try for a simultaneous orgasm?"

"Oh!"

"Just be warned, though, I tend to release quite a lot of come."

"And I've been practising since I was fifteen. How do we start?"

"It starts with a kiss."

They woke the next morning to Siofra's phone ringing. She slipped out from under the covers, and Daragh watched her crouch down to pick up her nightdress. He whistled as she slipped it over her body, and she curtseyed before grabbing her phone and returning to bed.

"Busy day?" he asked.

"Why am I getting texts about this fucking Hallowe'en Twilight party?"

"Because you're the boss."

"It's my birthday, and I've no intention of spending it dipping for apples or searching for a ring in a Barmbrack."

"Did you know that one of your taboos was the cessation of your union if you're still without child at nine am on Hallowe'en?"

She raised her head at the memory. "I'd forgotten about the nine o'clock part. My father put that in there."

"He was blessed with foresight."

"Yes, he was a good man."

"Hallowe'en is a Liminal time."

"Tráth tairsí an Samhain."

"If a woman becomes with child on the Samhain, she could become the Virgin Queen."

"Ógbhanríon. That's the dream of all little girls."

"You have to attend the party. If we're drawn to each other, that will be the time."

"For what?"

"For what you asked for last night."

"I have to wait four weeks?"

"So do I, but I've waited all my life for you."

He saw her brain thinking behind her eyes. "What do you mean if we're drawn to each other?"

"It's a costume party. The ladies wear white gowns and masks, and the men wear black."

"How do we ... I know, we'll wear something that'll identify us to each other."

"I know your smell now."

"I don't smell, but I know how you taste. I'll be your Ógbhanríon that night, remember that."

"So you're coming?"

"Now that I've come four times, you can count on it."

He laughed and kissed her. "I'll miss you until then. When do you leave for France?"

"Noon, will you call me while I'm away?"

"I'll have to keep you appraised about Derren."

"Fuck Derren. Call me to talk to me about us, or just call to say hello."

"The phones work both ways."

"Oh, I think that's a given."

She checked her watch. "It's after nine now. What time is your flight?"

"Half one."

"Have you time to join me in the shower?"

"Oh I don't know ..."

He left her at eleven o'clock, took two steps outside her room and vanished into thin air, carelessly not noticing a staff member loading a trolley in the corridor. Ten minutes later he was home, hung his new clothes in the wardrobe, dressed in track gear and, feeling energised, ran for fifteen kilometres to clear his head and focus.

"Lord?"

"Vale."

"Checking in."

"Any news?"

"O'Boyle isn't giving anything up. We're engaging him in conversation in the hope he'll slip up."

"What's the general feeling?"

"I think everyone wants to end it - we all hate the bastard."

"I don't know, Vale. Something is eating at me -- something he's hiding. Do we know where his main base is yet?"

"Yes, it's in Louth."

"Would it be worth my while taking a look around?"

"Not on your own. I'll go with you."

"Ok, give him one day and do what you have to do."

"Yes, Lord. Thanks."

Daragh's phone rang as he was catching up on work that evening. He wasn't that far behind, so he flew the phone over to where he sat and smiled when he saw her name on the screen.

"Hey!"

"Are you missing me yet?"

"Funny enough, yes. What're you up to?"

"I'm just back in the hotel after a horrid day. I ordered a Club Sandwich, and I'm going to eat it in bed."

"The sandwich, I hope."

She giggled into the phone. "Then I'm going to sleep because someone kept me up all night."

"I had the same problem. I'm battling sleep here, but I'm just about to surrender to it."

She was quiet for a beat, then, "How are things in Spain?"

"Still much the same, except Mr. D's health is questionable."

"He's a stubborn fool. Is he in danger?"

"Everyone is in danger, Siofra. This could be the end of him."

She sighed. "Beidh an rud a bheidh."

That threw him. "What will be will be indeed," he intoned, "would that not make you sad?"

"You don't know the life I led, Daragh. To be honest, he's lasted longer than I'd expected. I thought the síoga would have caught up with him long before now."

"That's true, but these are The Andaja, so ..."

"So he's fucked is what you mean."

"I think so."

"Can you come see me soon?"

"Say the word, and I'm there."

"Tomorrow, you can be my man Friday."

"Text me the details."

"I'll send you a flight ticket."

"There's no need. I'll organise something myself."

"Will you bring me a couple of bags of Tayto cheese and onion?"

"Oh, I don't know."

"Thanks, I'll text you the details now. Catch an early flight tomorrow - I can't wait to see you."

He retired early and was asleep inside ten minutes. He slept deeply but woke with a start in the pitch darkness at the prod of Vale's finger. "Lord, wake up."

"What the fuck ... Vale!" he said, throwing back the covers.

Vale smirked at the hungry erection in front of him. "Does that thing have its own postcode?"

"Fuck off, or I'll hit you with it."

"Did Sophie get a fright when she saw it?"

"It's Siofra -- and I wouldn't say frightened exactly."

"I thought she was a virgin."

"She says so."

"But you don't believe her, do you?"

"There is much I need to know yet. But why are you here?"

He threw a leather pouch on the bed. "O'Boyle is no more."

"How?"

"He just expired. His heart gave out."

"That's convenient."

"Keep thinking that - it's best you don't know too much. The remains will be scattered at sea."

"What? Am I supposed to tell her that?"

Vale pointed at the pouch. "It's all in there."

Daragh walked past him and pulled on a pair of leggings. "Do you have coffee?"

A wave of an extended arm was followed by two mugs of coffee appearing on the locker by the bed. Daragh picked them up, handed one to Vale, and walked into the lounge with the pouch in his hand. He mainlined the coffee, then opened the clasp on the pouch, emptying the contents onto the table.

"Have you been through this already?"

"Yes, Lord, I didn't want any surprises."

He picked up an envelope that held a last will and testament. "Where did you get it?"

"In his hotel room - we scoured it in case there was anything incriminating there."

"He left everything to Siofra."

"He had to - it's another taboo," he said, pointing quickly at the pouch. "The papers are there too."

Daragh pulled out an old yellowing envelope and removed the contents slowly. "Ten thousand sovereigns, she was right."

"There's also some property, a house on ten acres in Louth."

"Carlingford Lough?"

"Yes."

He turned to the next page and confirmed what both Vale and Siofra had told him. He breathed a sigh of relief. "She was truthful," he murmured.

"Yes, Lord."

He turned to Vale, tapping his chin with the papers in his hand. "Would she be aware of her destiny?"

"Not consciously. If there was a male heir, she certainly wouldn't, and she had two brothers. Why?"

"She doesn't give any indication of awareness. She allowed a couple of things to slip out before attempting an awkward recovery, but apart from that she seems totally oblivious to her Sídhe roots."

"She knew about the dowry and one of the taboos at least, Lord."

"Yes, and she genuinely seemed to have forgotten about the second one until I mentioned it."

Vale thought for a moment. "What's your instinct?"

"I want her to be true."

"Okay then, we go to Carlingford Lough now."

Daragh handed Vale the property details, and less than a minute later they were standing in the living room of an old farmhouse that had been tastefully remodelled and furnished.

Vale ran a quick inventory. "I'm surprised at how nice this is. O'Boyle was such a pig I'd never have believed he had enough taste."

"This is a woman's house, Vale. I wonder if the dowry is still intact."

"It's here somewhere - can you not sense it?"

"I've a feeling in my head like someone is scratching my skull with the point of a needle."

"That sounds right. I'm not of Royal blood, so I wouldn't have that. Pick a direction and walk toward it until it feels like your skin has been pierced."

They walked in circles for five minutes until Daragh suddenly gripped the back of his head. Vale leapt towards him and pushed him away from a large flagstone he'd been standing on. He fell to his knees and felt around the edges.

"Under here," he said, "it looks like it's been well sealed."

"Can you open it?"

"If O'Boyle sealed it, I could undo it. If it was Siofra or her father, I couldn't. But you can."

"Okay, you try it."

Vale picked up a knife from the kitchen and fell to his knees. He performed some easy scratching and watched the mortar crumble under the knife. "This is the work of a mortal, Lord. Stand aside." Daragh stepped back, and Vale joined him, one arm extended and eyes rigidly fixed on the stone in concentration.

They watched it heave slightly as the mortar slowly gave way, eventually covering their mouths as it erupted in a puff of smoke and released a strange odour when the seal broke. "Stale lemon balm and bergamot," Vale explained. "It's used as a charm."

Daragh laughed when he saw the Clark's Shoes box levitating out of the hole in the floor. Vale looked at him strangely. "What's so fucking funny, Lord?"

"I don't know, I was expecting a Leprechaun crockpot or a muslin sack tied off at the opening, not a fucking shoe box."

"You're watching too many cartoons. Grab that box, and I'll see if there's anything else here."

The heavy box surprised him at first, but he quickly adjusted and carried it to a table. He lifted the lid carefully, the cardboard damp and soft after years of submersion underground. "Krugerrands," Vale said.

"She said they were sovereigns."

"They usually are, but these contain more gold."

"Was there anything else in there with it?"

"No."

"Ok, I think this is all we need. Can you organise someone to give this place a good going over?"

"Yes, but what about those?" he said, pointing at the shoebox

"They're not ours. I'm giving them back to her. Will you magic up a couple of strong bags?"

Vale raised his hand. "I can do better, but you do realise that you have the power to do this yourself."

"Just do it, I'll watch."

Vale closed his eyes and waved his hand in a half circle. Two bags appeared and stood straight on the table as the gold poured out of the box and onto the floor, then was shared equally between them.

"Impressive," Daragh said, lifting one and smiling as he felt he could manage it comfortably. "You forgot the string to tie them up."

"There's always something with you, Lord, isn't there?"

They tied the bags with magic string, each gripped one, and left the farmhouse, landing back in Daragh's kitchen without trouble. Vale placed the bag in one corner of the reception room and made them disappear with a wave of his hand.

"I need one coin to give to Siofra tonight."

Vale blinked, and one appeared in his hand. "Once again, you can do this yourself, my Lord."

Daragh performed the same enchantment and received a second coin. He smiled at Vale, who said, "Now send it back."

Daragh closed his eyes and waved, opening them again when he felt it had left his hand. He smiled and checked his watch. "I'd better make tracks, Vale. I'm off to Paris."

"Do you need me?"

"Why, have you got other plans?"

"You'll need a handmaiden for your wife, Lord. I should probably work on that."

"A handmaiden? Really?"

"Yes, to take care of the home, tend to her needs and for you when your wife isn't available to you."

"Wife! Fuck, that certainly lands with a shock."

"There's always something first of many, my Lord."

"Okay, off you go, but stay in touch."

"Yes, Lord, enjoy Paris."

He stayed in Paris with Siofra for the weekend, then went straight to the office when they parted. He'd materialised on a side road to the left of the building and walked in with a smile. He was in his office thumbing through a pile of file folders when Tara Kelly disturbed him.

"You're in? I didn't see your car downstairs."

"Oh. I walked in again. What's up?"

"I just ... what are you doing?"

He straightened and touched the base of his spine. "What do you think I'm doing?"

"It looks like you're clearing out your desk."

He smiled.

"Fuck. You ARE. What happened in London? Did they fire you?"

"No, I was offered a new position elsewhere."

"Where?"

"I can't say until I sign the contract."

"Are you leaving now?"

"No, I start on the first of November. I had to give three weeks' notice."

"That reminds me, can you help with the Hallowe'en party?"

"No."

"Ah, Daragh, I told them you would."

"What would I be doing?"

"We need someone to help with dressing the venue. It's mostly drapes and chairs, maybe a few tables -- we want to make it look like a clearing in a forest."

"Fuck. What's going on with the robes and masks?"

"They're cloaks and gowns, not robes, and they're on schedule. Did you order yours yet?"

"Not yet. I need to try on a few to get my size."

"Right. So we'll have the room from eight am on Hallowe'en morning -- we should get finished by three."

"Where is it being held?"

"The Crowne Plaza in Santry, did I not tell you?"

He made a face, then shook his head. When she left, he smiled when he thought of Siofra modelling her outfit for the party. She couldn't get over how scandalous she felt when she revealed that she planned to be naked under her gown.

When he arrived at the George V Hotel, he hadn't been prepared for its opulence, so he was a little cowed as he entered the building, past haughty concierges and reception staff, on his way to the elevators.

He had spent a couple of hours renewing acquaintances with Siofra in the luxurious bed of her room, after which he updated her fully on the fate of Derren O'Boyle. She looked at him with pure sorrow when he relayed the news of his passing, but it disappeared the moment he handed her the Krugerrand. They'd snuggled together the entire first night as she came to terms with the news, but the morning found her sprawled out on the bed screaming as Daragh's tongue reached deeper inside her than it had previously.

"I can't wait for Hallowe'en," she whispered.

"I'm looking forward to it myself."

They'd kissed, and when they separated, a serious expression crossed her face.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

"I think it's better if we didn't work together anymore, Daragh," she said.

"Why?"

"I feel it would have a negative effect on morale in the office."

"You're probably right. Do you want me to resign?"

"There's no need, maybe if you just ... disappeared one day? I can put you together with a few of my contacts."

"I've been thinking of launching my own thing anyway," he said to her surprise.

She rolled away slightly. "Doing what?"

"I don't know -- consulting?"

She'd laughed nervously, but he'd agreed to meet with three of her suggested contacts to satisfy her. He removed his active files from their places in his filing cabinet and carried them over to their new home in the office common area.

"What are those?" his immediate superior, Emmet, asked.

"My current project files. It'll save you looking for them when I'm gone."

Emmet sat back and tapped a pen on his desk. "Are you sure about this, Daragh?"

"Yeah."

"What the fuck happened in London? There's talk that Alan Chamberlain is being investigated."

Daragh placed the first of four files into their proper slots and didn't meet Emmett's eyes. "I hadn't heard."

He picked up two more and checked them one more time as Emmett watched. "Is that the Clayton file you have there?"

"Yes, do you want it?"

"No, don't file it as active - it's being rejected." Daragh looked at him, not believing what he'd said. He'd been working that file for two weeks and was convinced that it would be approved.

"By who?"

Emmet shrugged his shoulders. "It's over my head. Just bin it or give it back to them. Do the same with Cavalier and that disaster from Colin Jameson."

"Who authorised that?"

"It's my call on those two. Jameson irritates the bejaysus out of me -- him and his dickhead projects both."

"But--"

"Don't go there, Daragh. I know you and that cunt get along well, but that's your thing with him. He's out. End of story."

"I'll file them for return. Will I do the same with the Montague Investments project?"

"Yes. The Peterhill, Optimus and that Canadian project from Pat Courtney." He threw two more folders on his desk. "These too, I'm not even going to read them."

"Why not?"

"Because I haven't got the time to waste on shit like that. Just get them all out of here today -- they're taking up space. By the way, when is your last day around here?"

"I'll be in and out for a couple of weeks, since I'm helping out with the Hallowe'en party."

"Okay, but I'll need your desk back from Monday." Daragh nodded and left him behind, carrying seven files back to his desk. He placed them in a cardboard file box, along with the project submitted by Pat Courtney, carefully closed the lid, and sent the lot to his apartment with a touch of his finger. He then picked up his jacket, pulled it on, walked to the bathroom, and followed the box home.

"Vale. Get over here."

Vale materialised beside him. "Yes, Lord."

"I need an office to work from, any ideas?"

He sat down and scratched his head. "Lord, you do not need to work. You have the entire world at your fingertips... literally."

"I've always worked, Vale. My father--"

"Foster father."

Daragh glared at him. "My fucking father ... brought me to work every weekend, holy day and holiday from school. The notion of sitting around doing nothing all day frightens me to death -- I'd go fucking mental."

"Do you want to follow in his footsteps and become a fucking builder?"

"No, I'm going to try my hand at providing a fund sourcing service."

Vale stood and walked slowly around the room, his head down as he thought. "That could be a good move, Lord, but you'll also have to deal with real-life issues that arise."

"Such as?"

"Such as interceding in something that looks like it could be a problem in the next few months. Such as making yourself available to visit your subjects to introduce yourself and get your agenda across to them without pissing them off."

"I understand. But I still need to have something else ... something different."

Vale nodded. "Okay, leave it with me. I'll think of something."

"I'll also need a staff, maybe someone to man a desk at the office."

"Male or female? Mortal or fae?"

"Either or, but mortal ... I think."

"When does this begin? Is there a business plan?"

"There will be. Officially, my time will be freed up from the first of November, but I can act informally before then."

"All Saints' Day?"

"I know, I usually observe Lá na Naomh Uile since it follows an Samhain directly, but it's a workday too."

Vale laughed. "Let's see how things are after the party. You might be otherwise engaged."

Daragh spent the bulk of the following fortnight winding down and handing off a backlog of compliance work to colleagues at the office. When he wasn't physically present, he handled any queries by phone. Vale secured a modest suite of offices that overlooked the River Liffey. It was in one of the newly built high-rise buildings in the Docklands area of the city centre, and they turned their attention to making it ready for business. Daragh still thrilled at the speed at which Vale worked. From a bare concrete cube to an expensive-looking, walnut-panelled penthouse, it took less than an hour to complete, three quarters of which was them arguing over finishes and furnishings. They relaxed into it quickly, fingers touching anything they could reach, enthralled and a little overcome by the reality of the situation.

"This'll do, Lord. How about a coffee?"

"Just a quick one, please. I have a meeting about the party in an hour, then back here to talk to Pat Courtney about this Canadian project."

"Do you need me to be here?"

"Yes, I think we should check him out thoroughly. I don't want to buy a pig in a poke."

"Might we be going to Canada?"

"Possibly, just to view the property."

"Leave me the file, I'll read it while you're away."

Daragh materialised at the rear of the Crowne Plaza Hotel in Santry and strode to the entrance, where Tara and Jane Armstrong, the chairperson of the committee, met him.

"Daragh," Jane said, offering her hand, which he took with a welcoming smile.

He followed them to a large banquet room, the movable air walls pulled open to reveal two large areas forming one huge space.

"What do you think, Daragh?" Jane gushed excitedly.

"It's very big, Jane. How many are attending?"

"Seventy."

"Is it not too big for that number of people?"

"Yes, but we'll lose a lot of it to the forest, won't we? Watch this," she said and aimed a remote control at the ceiling. The lights flickered and changed colour, then dimmed.

"Isn't this too cool?"

"It's creepy," Tara said.

"It's supposed to be creepy -- it's the Eve of All Hallows."

Daragh cleared his throat. "It actually began as a pagan celebration over 2,000 years ago in Ireland as part of a festival called Samhain. Good spirits were thought to return home and visit their loved ones on that night, and a fire would be left burning for them. A feast would be held for them, and the Celts would wear masks and costumes to disguise themselves from any other evil spirits that sneaked through the Liminal curtain. This gave rise to the tradition of wearing masks and costumes at Samhain. Still, it's basically a Celtic festival that celebrates the end of the harvest and the coming of Winter, hence the abundance of fresh seasonal produce at this time of year. Of course, there were no trick or--"

"Daragh, we get it, it's been completely commercialised, and it offends your sensibilities, but this is now -- not a thousand years ago," Tara said.

"It's actually over 2,000 years ago, Tara."

"Yes, well, we must move on. Thank you for the history, Daragh," Jane said and led them to one end of the room where a large circle was drawn on the floor.

"This was where we were going to place a brazier to signify a bonfire, but the hotel won't allow it. It's against the fire rules."

Daragh felt the need to point something else out to her. "Bonfires aren't traditional to Hallowe'en, Jane. They're a modern construct imported from North America."

Tara pinched his arm to stop him talking, but he shrugged it off. "Also, the correct positioning of the aforementioned brazier would be in the centre of the room and not at one end."

"I was thinking it could be something like an altar. A spiritual focal point," Jane said.

"The Celts gathered around fires for heat and light -- they didn't worship fire. In fact, the fires are to welcome visiting spirits and to help people recognise departed loved ones in the darkness. Maybe that could be factored into the design of the room."

"How? We aren't allowed one fire, let alone several."

"It can be accomplished with light."

Both girls looked at him.

"Can you make that happen, Daragh?" Tara asked.

"If I'm left alone, I can."

"Could we see a design on paper before we sign off on it?" Jane asked.

Daragh looked deep into her eyes. "No. I'll just do it, and it'll be authentic. You'll have to trust me."

"Can you give us an idea of what you're thinking?"

"Not yet, but I think that every attendee should assemble in a breakout room before filing into the 'forest of light'. They'll be in single file, and I think it would look very impressive if we had a black room and a white room at opposite ends so they can meet in the centre around the largest fire."

"Wow! That's dramatic. What an imagination you have. We'll need scary music."

"No, Jane. There'll be no Monster Mash or Thriller at this stage. The first hour is ceremonial. I'll come up with a program that you can distribute, and you can organise the breakout rooms with the hotel before we leave so we can factor them into the design."

"Will we use the lighting system, Daragh? It's so cool!"

"What are you using for music on the night?"

"We've got a DJ coming."

"We'll set him up off the side in a clearing. The forest greenery should be backlit in green, and the centre aisle should be a very dim, almost brown, shade of light at both ends. Can you imagine a procession of people in white and black moving slowly out of the gloom into a brilliant white light."

"Ooh, that's ethereal, Daragh, I love how you think. We need something with a slow beat that they can walk to."

"That's just one man with a bass drum. I'm sure there's something like that on tape somewhere."

Jane scribbled that down on a pad and almost leapt in the air. "Can you do all this, Daragh?"

"I'm sure I'll get close to it at least, but I need the room at eight am, and I need total privacy."

"Okay, I'll let the banqueting manager know. This is going to be the best one ever."

Daragh arrived back at the offices a few seconds later, materialising in the main office before walking into the reception area, where Vale was sprawled in the chair behind the reception desk.

"It looks like we'll be busy on Friday," he said from behind a thick file.

"What did you make of my plan?"

"Are you going to set up a ceremonial altar where we get to watch you fucking Siofra?"

Daragh laughed. "It starts at eight, and we'll be out of there by nine."

"And she'll be pregnant by five past."

"Fuck off, five minutes?"

Vale broke down in laughter. "Sorry, Lord, I forgot who I was talking to. By the way, we need a name for the business. Any ideas?"

"Saolú."

"As in giving birth?"

"Yes, Saolú Capital Partners. Can you do that in ancient Irish script on a nice vellum? It might have to be in Ogham too."

"Yes, I can do both. What colours?"

"Green and navy blue on a cream stationery."

Vale scratched something on a pad and turned it around. "A logo."

Daragh smiled and nodded his appreciation. "Can I see it in Ogham?"

"Here's the transliteration --" ᚄᚐᚑᚂᚒ

"Place it under the Irish version. I think that'll work."

"Most people won't know what it is, Lord."

"No, but we will."

Pat Courtney knocked once, pushed open the door and stuck his head into the room. Daragh leapt to his feet with a wide smile.

"Pat! Come in, it's great to see you."

"I'm a bit early, Daragh. I misjudged the traffic again."

They shook hands and went into Daragh's office.

"Nice space you've got here. Am I the first visitor?"

"Yes. We're not fully operational yet, but you have to start somewhere. Take a seat, and I'll grab your file."

Daragh picked up the file from the reception desk and exchanged a knowing look with Vale, who handed him a slim box.

"What's this?"

"Stationery, Lord, everything you need for now."

Daragh nodded his thanks and returned to his seat across the desk from Pat. He picked up a business card from the box and handed it across the table, then sat down and opened the file as Pat examined the card.

"Saolú -- bringing to life?"

Daragh nodded. "Or giving birth, depending on where you come from."

"Is this the word in Ogham underneath it?"

Daragh laughed. "We didn't think anyone would get that, Pat. Now please tell me what you need from us. I'm familiar with the file - it's a great project."

"Thirty million Euros as a first tranche of funding."

Daragh whistled. "A first tranche? What's that for?"

"Land and initial development costs. It'll cover the complete building and fit out of two showhouses and the groundworks, excavation and delivery of the first fifty serviced sites."

"Why do you need two showhouses?"

"There are two different designs, one less expensive than the other, both built on the same size slab."

Daragh considered this. "You're planning on selling them off plan?"

"Yes."

"Are these going on the golf course?"

"No, but the larger one will be what's built around the course."

Daragh considered this. "Who's building the course?"

"We've spoken with Jack Nicklaus, but Nick Faldo is also under consideration."

"How far along are you with them?"

Pat thought for a brief moment. "Nicklaus will be in town at the end of November. He's doing a thing at the Clayton Hotel with Rory McIlroy and Tom Watson -- a dinner evening including an informal interview with David Feherty."

Daragh grinned. "That sounds interesting if you're a golfer."

"It's sold out with a huge waiting list. The proceeds go to charity."

"Really? How much are the tickets?"

"€500. It includes dinner and some memorabilia from the pros."

"Are you going?"

"Yes, I have four guest passes. If you're interested, you'd be welcome to come. We'll be sitting at the Nicklaus table with his design team -- Jack is building a new course out in Meath, and he's folding some PR for it into this trip."

"You'll need more than thirty million, Pat. You'll need to have enough in hand to build out the golf course too. Have you any idea of the cost of that?"

"They recommend we allow a budget of nine million US dollars."

"Half a million per hole? Is that not a bit low?"

"It's just a line item at this stage, Daragh. You know how it goes yourself."

"Who's the selling agent?"

"International Golf Properties out of London, and two more in the US and Canada."

"None here?"

"We're talking to a few, but until we have notice of funding ..." he waved a hand to finish the thought.

Daragh considered it for a moment. "Ok. I like the project, Pat. I'll put out some initial feelers to gauge interest. Still, I'll need a full P&L spreadsheet for the first two phases, plus an extrapolated projection for the entire project, including eighteen million dollars for the golf course construction. You'll also need to consider the addition of a hotel into the plan."

"Why?"

"Because the golf course will go tits up inside a year without external usage, and potential funders will ask for it, Pat."

"I'll have the P&L to you next week. I already have one done with five phases. I need a day or two to assemble the rest."

"Include a twenty per cent lift to the sale prices in each phase."

Pat sat up and smiled. "I'll do that, Daragh. What do you reckon?"

"I'll let you know when I see the numbers. Will you send me a property map and a map of the local area in relation to the largest urban centres?"

"It'll be in your email in an hour."

Daragh stood to end the meeting and walked Pat out of the office. When the door closed, Vale looked at him. "Well?"

"It all sounds good, but they always do. Do you fancy a bit of background investigation?"

"No."

He laughed. "Tough! Get to it, and don't forget we have a forest to build tomorrow."

"That'll be five minutes of our lives we'll never get back," Vale grumbled.

"It'll be fun. I want to go over the top with this."

Vale grabbed Daragh's arm. "We should stick a couple of lions in there too - they'll all shit themselves."

Daragh laughed. "Yeah ... talking lions, carrying spears."

"So that's a no, is it, Lord?"

The next morning, after an evening of discussion, planning and argument. Daragh and Vale arrived in the hotel's reception lobby. Daragh asked to see the banqueting manager and started to step away to wait when a tall, blonde woman in a business suit called his name.

"Cheryl Harney," she said, taking his hand. "If you'll follow me, I'll show you how we laid out the rooms."

He noticed her looking around behind him before she asked, "Are you alone?"

"Yes, there's more on the way."

"You can back your van up to the loading bay - you must have a lot of gear to unload. Jane made it sound like a dream."

He just smiled. "Thanks, Cheryl. If I need anything, I know where you are."

She left him at the door to the room. "I'm excited to see what you come up with - it might give me some ideas for the future. I'll drop by in an hour to see how you're getting on."

He smiled, almost a grimace, and walked into the space. "Lock the doors, Vale, we don't want anyone disturbing us."

"Yes, Lord. Where do we start?"

"First things first -- breakfast."

Vale smiled and extended an arm, revealing a large panoply of breakfast food and coffee. Daragh looked at him.

"What?

"Are we animals? Where's the fucking table?"

Vale extended his arm again and a table materialised with all the food on board. They ate quickly and discussed the work that lay ahead. They'd agreed beforehand that Daragh would mark out the floors with the boundaries needed to place various elements. They'd then discussed it further to ensure the proportions were correct. When Daragh marked two curved lines on either side of where a path would be, they stepped back to consider it. Vale spoke first.

"A bit too uniform, I think, Lord."

"You're correct, Vale. It doesn't look natural. We need it to be more irregular, roughed up, crooked in the way a forest path would be."

Vale waved a finger at the line, making it less uniform, as Daragh smiled.

"Yes, that looks perfect - now the other side."

"We need to add a couple of paths out to the gathering rooms at either end, and another off the centre to the main exit door."

When Vale finished, they could imagine what it would look like.

"That's great. Now we need to make the path feel like a path. I'll do that while you fill in outside the lines with shrubs and trees."

"Are you going to use the lights we discussed?"

"Yes, it'll give good atmosphere."

An hour later, they were satisfied with their work. "It looks great, Lord. Where did you come up with this?"

"I don't know, but there one more thing we need -- a slow drumbeat to mark time."

"What do you mean?"

"Just a single intermittent beat on something like a bass drum, say one beat every five seconds. Can you do that?"

"Yes, but--"

"Make it echo slightly. It'll give us a feeling of suspense."

"You're watching too many fucking movies, Lord."

"Maybe so, but can we try it first at least?"

Vale waved a hand and an enormous BOOM cascaded around the room. Daragh shook his head. "It's too fucking loud. Make it quieter."

Vale adjusted it a little and summoned it again. Daragh smiled and rubbed his hands together. "That's it, Vale, but the intervals are too far apart. Can we bring them down to three seconds apart instead?"

Vale adjusted it again, bringing it to two seconds instead by mistake. Daragh was happy then. "Right, let's have some coffee and take in the atmosphere before we decide if that's enough or too much."

Ten minutes or so later, Daragh said, "What do you think, Vale?"

"I'm impressed. I especially like the large flame in the centre of the path. How did you do that?"

"I don't really know - all I demanded was a fire that had no heat, and that's what came out."

"Will it not burn stuff?"

"With no heat?"

"It's a flame, Lord."

"Do you want me to stick my cock into it to prove it to you?"

"Fuck off."

"So are we good?"

"Yes, Lord, we're very good. What now?"

"I want to be able to make this all disappear until we're ready for it. Is that possible?"

Vale thought for a beat and nodded. "Yes, I can freeze the room, make it invisible, and just reapply it when we need it."

"Great, that way it keeps things under wraps. Make it go away now before someone comes in."

Vale blinked, and the scene disappeared. Daragh slapped him on the back. "Now bring it back and disappear it again."

Vale complied, and they left the hotel, locking the room behind them and sealing it with an enchantment.

Daragh didn't hear his phone ring when he was in the shower that evening. He was drying his hair with a towel while simultaneously choosing what to wear that night when the text alert sounded. He grinned when he saw it was Siofra, then dialled her number.

"Hey babe, I was looking for you earlier. Did you not hear the phone?" she said lightly.

"I was in the shower. Everything okay?"

"Yes, I just got in fifteen minutes ago. The fucking plane was delayed. Did you get the room finished?"

Yes, it looks great. Where are you staying?"

"I got a room at the Crowne Plaza."

"That's convenient. Have you got your costume?"

"What there is of it. Have you?"

"I have a black cloak of sorts, but it's not the best. I'll just carry it with me, wear it when I need to and throw it away afterwards."

"Can I buy you dinner?"

"When and where?"

"There's a little place near the hotel, or I can get a Chinese delivered to my room."

He laughed. "And what would you do with him? I'll pick something up on my way."

"Perfect, see you soon."

He dressed, gathered his things and materialised outside her room, a bag of Chinese food in his hand, twenty minutes after they'd hung up. He walked towards the end of the corridor and pulled out his phone.

"Hey, I'm here. What's your room number?"

"283. It's on the second floor."

"Okay, I'm on the second floor now. I'll be with you in two shakes of a lamb's tail."

When he knocked on her door, it moved slightly. He eased it open and stepped into pitch-black darkness. He sensed her standing inside, pausing until his eyes adjusted, but he detected her shape leaning against a wall about eight feet away. He moved an unseen finger and a draught moved the blackout drapes that were drawn across the windows, illuminating the room enough for him to see that she was naked save for a white bodysuit. He placed the bag of food on the floor against a wall and took a step closer.

"It's time," he said, joining her in semi-nakedness, quickly stripping to just his smooth black briefs, the outline of his quickly developing erection clear to see.

She almost ran to him and threw her arms around him. "I've been dreaming about this," she almost growled as her lips inhaled his.

She kissed him deeply, her breath heaving, her hands clutching his naked back, her hips grinding against his hardness. He slipped the straps of lace down over her shoulders, revealing her breasts as he peeled it downwards. It was like a second skin, and it quickly lay between her feet as he knelt before her and pushed her knees apart.

He felt her begin to slip downwards, the smooth hotel room walls denying her the purchase to remain standing as his tongue began to massage her groin. He caught her as she began to fall, standing quickly to support her as her hands felt for his burgeoning erection.

"It feels bigger than last week," she breathed in his ear. "I'm ready for you. Don't make me wait any longer."

He laid her on the floor at his feet and knelt between her legs. "Tell me where you want it."

She moaned. "Oh god, in my pussy, fuck me please."

"Take it."

She gripped his cock and led him towards her, raising her hips to hold the tip against her opening. He pushed forward slightly, and she cried out joyfully when it slipped inside her impossibly wet vagina, opening her up as he slowly sheathed himself inside her trembling body.

Her inner walls pulsed constantly as he slipped deeper, moving slowly to a constant melody of moans, curses and pleas until he was fully sheathed inside. Her ragged breath wheezed in her chest as she ground against his groin, an occasional whimper escaping her as he began to move inside her. They both realised quickly that this wasn't going to take long, their bodies hungry for the completion they'd denied themselves since they'd met.

"I'm coming, Daragh, don't stop."

"Wait for me, I'm close."

"I can't, I ..." was all she said before emitting an ear-splitting scream as she climaxed and another groan as his cock pulsed inside her, pumping several strong jets of come as she moved against him when she felt another wave begin to flow through her.

He lifted his body slightly and eased his still erect cock slowly out of her pussy, generating further tremors inside her tender sheath. She smiled when she felt their excess liquids trickle out and pool on the floor between them, kissing him sweetly through the weak but satisfied grin on her face.

"Are you okay, Siofra?"

She nodded quietly, wonder in her eyes. "I'm sorry, I couldn't wait any longer. It was everything I ever dreamed."

"Next time will be better."

"What about the party?"

"Fuck the party, I'm where I want to be, and we've got much to make up for."

He stood, pulled her to her feet, kissed her, and picked up the bag of food. "Let's eat first."

They ate in bed, licked food off each other and caught up with each other's news. His phone rang at six o'clock, just after they'd fucked for the second time. Siofra picked up his phone and handed it to him. "It's Jane, you'd better answer it in case there's a problem."

He watched her walk to the bathroom as he answered. "Jane, are you ok?"

"Yes, we're here, but the room is locked."

"I know, I didn't want anyone to go in there in case they'd mess it up. I'll open it from my phone for you."

"Are you around?"

"Not yet. I'm going to be late if I get there at all, but everything is set up, and I can stream it on my phone."

"Awhh, Daragh, you have to come."

He grinned. "I'll come if I can. I'll do my best. Now go inside and have a ball. I think you'll be impressed."

He watched Siofra return to the bed, smiling as her seductive walk bewitched him. "You're live streaming the party?"

"Yes. On my phone."

"Show me."

He pulled up the feed and transferred the screen to the large TV on the wall. She snuggled against him, and they watched the footage for a few seconds.

"That's amazing. Did you do all that in one day?"

"I had help."

"Even still ... it's almost a real forest."

"I'll take you down later so you can see it."

"Thanks, but I want you inside me tonight."

"We have all night. Samhain Shona, Siofra."

She giggled. "Try saying that after ten pints."

He laughed. "I can barely say it sober."

She reached down for his cock, kissing his lips lightly. "Can we do this again?"

"You're insatiable."

She squeezed his shaft softly. "I've been waiting for thirty years."

He shook his head once. "Technically it's only been fourteen years if you factor in that it's illegal to have--"

She cut him off with a kiss and pulled him down beside her on the bed, rolling on her back and taking him with her, imploring eyes weakening his resolve. "Fuck me, please," she whispered.

With long, slow strokes, he made love to her. Gone was the frantic thrusting that had her screaming, and the frenzied rush to completion of their earlier coupling. He lasted through four of her orgasms, each one heavier than the last as she visibly tired beneath him. As he felt his climax building, he eased his cock out, turned her on her side, and entered her from behind, slowly increasing his pace until he finally exploded deep inside her. He kissed the side of her neck, and they snuggled together before dozing off.

He felt his shoulder being prodded and woke with a start - his arms filled with Siofra's sleeping body.

"It's almost nine o'clock, Lord, you need to get up."

"What the fuck, Vale? Are you going insane?"

"The liminal veil is opening soon. You need to be there."

"What about Siofra? Should I wake her?"

"She's out cold, Lord."

Begrudgingly, he got out of bed and reached for his costume and mask. It hung awkwardly on his body until Vale fixed it with a careful touch of a finger. "There! That's perfect, Lord - I'd nearly fuck you myself."

The materialised in the empty black room, and Daragh followed Vale out onto the path through the forest, a billowing cloud of dry ice across the floor adding a mysterious frisson to the occasion.

"Walk in time to the drum, Lord," Vale said.

Daragh could see the assembled Hallowe'en revellers chatting merrily in a small clearing beside the DJ's booth. Masked people clad in black or white paid no heed to his arrival and his solemn journey to the central clearing. Marr and Cara stood at one side of the flames -- Marr holding a smoking Thurible and Cara a gold Monstrance held to her heart.

Daragh reached the opposite side of the flames and bowed his head towards his parents. Marr swung the Thurible toward Daragh as he recited a ritual incantation in Ogham over his now-kneeling son. The vessel swung in circles around his bowed head, spreading an intense, evocative aroma of frankincense, myrrh, and background spices to enhance the spiritual solemnity and sanctity of the ceremony.

Marr placed his left hand on Daragh's head, the Thurible hanging loosely by golden chains from his right, the final wisps of smoke drifting into the air and meandering to the roof. He eased his son's head back, placed a thumb in the bowl of the Thurible, blackening it with the ashes of the burnt incense, and touched it to his forehead, lips, and heart, all the while reciting something that sounded like Aramaic to his kneeling son.

Cara stepped forward and removed Marr from his position in front of Daragh, the Monstrance held in her right hand. She opened the Lunette containing a glass rondel holding a clear unguent. She dipped her thumb into the thick, unscented ointment and handed the Monstrance to Vale, who stood behind her. She stepped forward, placed her hand on Daragh's head, and dabbed the dark stain Marr had left with her thumb.

"With this sacred salve, I anoint you. With all the love in my heart, I preserve you. With every breath of my body, I pass you the magical draíocht. Within the traditions of An Tuatha Dé Danann, I proclaim you Crown Prince and King of Coillanair, Son of Marr, Guardian of Midé and Protector of Uisneach."

She stepped back and bowed solemnly, tears on her cheeks as the diminishment took Marr away. She leaned to his right ear and whispered, "I must leave you now, Coilleach Síogra. You are the descendant of the greatest warrior to walk this world, the bravest of An Sídhe, and I leave you, Vale of Maighread, as oracle and Leas-Cheannasaí."

Vale bowed low and moved to Daragh's side as Cara slowly disappeared beyond the Liminal Veil. Daragh lifted his arm, and a spear tipped with gold appeared in his hand. Vale took it from him and held it at his side.

"What now, Vale?"

"Now we leave this place."

"I must go to Siofra."

"She will sleep until morning. We have things to attend to first, nice catch with the spear by the way."

Daragh laughed and embraced his friend as they disappeared from the room.