Chapter 2
The pooka ran. He ducked around apple trees and moonlight and leaves. He let magic make his hoofs swifter, his movements more graceful, twisting and twining. Good at not being followed. Almost floating: dancing on air, as a sibling had called it.
He’d always liked running. Felt good. Weightless.
He slowed, though, as the guilt caught up. It was as fast as he was, after all.
He found a clearing, some moonbeams, some ruffling grass and fallen leaves and dirt. The night tasted like autumn and crisp juices and tart fruit over his tongue. His skin, his throat, held the memory. A bridle, a collar. Aidan’s bridle, Aidan’s collar.
He knew who Aidan Callahan was. Most people in the magical community did. Only one banshee agent in the MED. Not many male banshee offspring ever. Rare an
