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Authors: Charlotte Boyett-Compo
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her brows drawing together before
they shot up, her eyes widening. “I’ve been sensing something, but drochtáirs ? They are
mythological creatures.” She felt Fallon staring avidly at her.
“One of our mediums believes seven of them are already here,” the Supervisor
answered.
“Does she have any proof drochtáirs are real though?” Keenan challenged.
“Madame Gregorovich has a very keen understanding of the preternatural world
and she assures me they are,” the Supervisor said, throwing Fallon a quelling look. “She
believes the drochtáirs were on Earth long ago but were destroyed in the Great Flood.
Now she believes they have come back to colonize again and that we cannot allow.” He
lifted a hand and pointed to the papers Fallon was holding. “Those are her notes to us
on the matter.”
Fallon held the papers out to Keenan. “Not a romance novel but a fairly
entertaining read,” he quipped.
Keenan snatched the papers from him with a glare from her narrowed eyes. “I want
my bloody book back, Fallon,” she snapped under her breath, low enough she hoped
the Supervisor hadn’t heard her.
37
Charlotte Boyett-Compo
“Haven’t finished reading it yet,” Fallon said. “I’m on the part where Rogue is
fingering Sharyn while they are…”
“That’s enough!” Keenan hissed, her face flaming. She glanced at the Supervisor
who was looking at her with a bland expression on his lined face. She lowered her head,
embarrassment flooding her very soul.
“Do you have something that belongs to her, Fallon?” the Supervisor inquired.
Fallon shrugged. “A trashy romance novel.”
“Give it back.”
Another fatalistic shrug and Fallon peeled himself out of the chair, stood then
reached behind him to the pocket of his jeans where he had stuck the book. He tugged it
out and extended it to Keenan.
Loath to touch something the odious man had been sitting on, Keenan nevertheless
took it then opened her shoulder bag and dropped it inside without a word of thanks.
“You’re welcome,” Fallon said as he took his seat again.
“Don’t filch anything else of hers,” the Supervisor ordered. “Is that clear?”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Fallon agreed, and shot his long legs out in front of him,
threaded his fingers together over his belly and laid his head on the back of the chair.
“You were going to tell me what you know about drochtáirs , Keenan,” the
Supervisor encouraged.
“Well, if I remember what I read about them, they are a species of blood fiends. A
bite from their serrated fangs will make you one of them since they inject you with
some kind of venom when they attack. Bite victims will in turn infect others. The
creatures completely drain the blood from their victims until the body is nothing more
than a decimated husk. They spend the daylight hours in the ground and can only
move around after sunset. Wherever the corpses of their victims are buried, nothing
will grow around the site. The land will be barren and scorched for a hundred feet or
so. The same holds true concerning any land over which the creatures move. It is
believed the destruction of plant life is due to the poisons given off by the drochtáirs .
According to what I’ve read, they leave a noxious slime in their wake that is particularly
vile.” She shifted in her chair. “They live in lairs deep beneath the ground in viper
shape. When they emerge, they slither swiftly across the landscape in that form, but
when they are ready to attack, they assume an animal shape. What kind of animal
hasn’t been recorded, but whatever it is has to be big enough to overpower a full-grown
man.”
“One theory is they merge with whatever animal they come into contact with so
there is no one specific shape,” Fallon put in. “They don’t shape-shift but rather invade.
They can’t tolerate heat. Forty degrees to them is like a hundred to humans.”
Keenan shuffled through the papers she
they shot up, her eyes widening. “I’ve been sensing something, but drochtáirs ? They are
mythological creatures.” She felt Fallon staring avidly at her.
“One of our mediums believes seven of them are already here,” the Supervisor
answered.
“Does she have any proof drochtáirs are real though?” Keenan challenged.
“Madame Gregorovich has a very keen understanding of the preternatural world
and she assures me they are,” the Supervisor said, throwing Fallon a quelling look. “She
believes the drochtáirs were on Earth long ago but were destroyed in the Great Flood.
Now she believes they have come back to colonize again and that we cannot allow.” He
lifted a hand and pointed to the papers Fallon was holding. “Those are her notes to us
on the matter.”
Fallon held the papers out to Keenan. “Not a romance novel but a fairly
entertaining read,” he quipped.
Keenan snatched the papers from him with a glare from her narrowed eyes. “I want
my bloody book back, Fallon,” she snapped under her breath, low enough she hoped
the Supervisor hadn’t heard her.
37
Charlotte Boyett-Compo
“Haven’t finished reading it yet,” Fallon said. “I’m on the part where Rogue is
fingering Sharyn while they are…”
“That’s enough!” Keenan hissed, her face flaming. She glanced at the Supervisor
who was looking at her with a bland expression on his lined face. She lowered her head,
embarrassment flooding her very soul.
“Do you have something that belongs to her, Fallon?” the Supervisor inquired.
Fallon shrugged. “A trashy romance novel.”
“Give it back.”
Another fatalistic shrug and Fallon peeled himself out of the chair, stood then
reached behind him to the pocket of his jeans where he had stuck the book. He tugged it
out and extended it to Keenan.
Loath to touch something the odious man had been sitting on, Keenan nevertheless
took it then opened her shoulder bag and dropped it inside without a word of thanks.
“You’re welcome,” Fallon said as he took his seat again.
“Don’t filch anything else of hers,” the Supervisor ordered. “Is that clear?”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Fallon agreed, and shot his long legs out in front of him,
threaded his fingers together over his belly and laid his head on the back of the chair.
“You were going to tell me what you know about drochtáirs , Keenan,” the
Supervisor encouraged.
“Well, if I remember what I read about them, they are a species of blood fiends. A
bite from their serrated fangs will make you one of them since they inject you with
some kind of venom when they attack. Bite victims will in turn infect others. The
creatures completely drain the blood from their victims until the body is nothing more
than a decimated husk. They spend the daylight hours in the ground and can only
move around after sunset. Wherever the corpses of their victims are buried, nothing
will grow around the site. The land will be barren and scorched for a hundred feet or
so. The same holds true concerning any land over which the creatures move. It is
believed the destruction of plant life is due to the poisons given off by the drochtáirs .
According to what I’ve read, they leave a noxious slime in their wake that is particularly
vile.” She shifted in her chair. “They live in lairs deep beneath the ground in viper
shape. When they emerge, they slither swiftly across the landscape in that form, but
when they are ready to attack, they assume an animal shape. What kind of animal
hasn’t been recorded, but whatever it is has to be big enough to overpower a full-grown
man.”
“One theory is they merge with whatever animal they come into contact with so
there is no one specific shape,” Fallon put in. “They don’t shape-shift but rather invade.
They can’t tolerate heat. Forty degrees to them is like a hundred to humans.”
Keenan shuffled through the papers she
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