It was, however, amazing.
There had been other times over the years when she’d taken this form, the one with which she’d been born. And it was always a pleasure and a revelation.
People so often misunderstood her role. She did not take life. Life was lost to the natural order of the world. She simply helped those who died. There were evil banshees, of course. Evil men and women made evil banshees. Michael was always on guard against such creatures, who caused only havoc and pain.
Michael had been around since the beginning of time, but he never explained where the evil banshees had come from; he only warned those who served him that they must never make more of such creatures. He knew so much, she thought, knew all about humans and mortality. Banshees were Irish and it was their role to help the Irish, though sometimes they assisted others, as well. For the most part, though, every ethnicity had its own beings who came to escort the dead.
The ancient Greeks had crossed their river Styx.
The Norse were taken to Valhalla.
And always it was the escorts who controlled the experience, who made the journey one of joy or, on those rare occasions when evil slipped in, of horror.
A new banshee had to be chosen with great care, and always the choice was Michael’s. It was the banshees’ job to take the hand of those who had lived good lives—they didn’t have to be saints, they simply needed to have treated their fellow humans with the same kindness about to be given to them—and escort them into the next world. The coach that came, the black carriage drawn by the plumed black horses, was strictly Irish.
Hers was a compartmentalized duty. What became of others, she didn’t know, nor did she have time to worry about it. The Irish had populated all corners of the globe, so banshees tended to be very busy.
Death in old age was not a tragedy. It was the natural progression. Death at a young age was wrong, against nature, against the great plan. It occurred, and when it did, sometimes a new banshee was born. She herself had been a victim of ages of conflict, of hatreds that had been bred into people for hundreds of years. Murdered for love—both sad and poetic.
It was said that at the moment of someone’s death, a banshee who had taken on human form, as they were sometimes required to do, could convince the dying soul to take her place. But that soul had to be a worthy one, for there was no sin greater than allowing someone cruel, someone evil, to become the escort of the dead as they made their journey to the land beyond, where the hills were green, and youth and beauty and happiness were returned.
She had always enjoyed her work, which she saw as the final kindness for those who had led deserving lives. She slipped into their minds to take them gently to whatever rolling hills and old loves reigned in their souls. She had seen men who had been strong in their convictions, women who had quietly been the strength behind great men, and all those in between, as well as those who had learned, at the end of their days, that the things they had fought for, the wars they had waged, had not been everything—they had learned late that killing in the name of God was not always just and never done with God’s approval.
She had taken those who had given their own lives to save others, and she had been glad to be there, to say thank you, to let them know that their love and sacrifice had not gone unnoticed.
In human form she had enjoyed the fashions of many ages, seen sights of incalculable beauty, and reveled in sweet and subtle perfumes.
Like Michael, she’d savored many good meals.
But she’d never indulged in such physical pleasure before, and now she knew too well why she had been wise not to do so.
Pain.
Allowing herself the pleasures of the flesh could, in the end, bring only pain.
She could not be killed again. She might feel it when she bruised herself, if she tripped or received a cut. But it would be gone in a wink. But in the great dilemma of life and death, internal suffering was far worse than any physical pain.
Love.
Was she really in love? Was it possible to fall in love in a matter of days?
Indeed, did kindred souls exist?
Was it possible…
To be immortal, then look into the eyes of a man and know that he was everything she desired?
To fall in love with a strength that had nothing to do with muscle, nothing to do with the way he walked or talked, and everything to do with a quiet code of honor and ethics?
Even a love for music.
She yearned to stay. Had allowed herself to dream.
She should have known better.
Once, long ago, in another life—in her mortal life—she had loved. She should have learned. She had thought that love was greater than hatred, that love between those born to be enemies would be understood, even celebrated. She had thought that she could change her tiny corner of the world, make people see that they should no longer nurture the hatreds they had nurtured for so long.