How Not To Abduct a Banshee

“Your daughter is at it again,” Lady Arlie announced, sweeping into the dining hall like a judgmental hurricane in satin. Her skirts hissed against the floor as she made her way to the oversized bay windows. A majestic blend of disapproval and grace. She paused, turning her gaze on her husband like he was the source of all her troubles, then gestured toward the courtyard with the kind of flourish only someone married for 25 years could master. “You should probably handle that.” Lord Arlie sighed, already regretting everything about his morning. “She’s your daughter too,” he retorted, dragging himself out of his chair with all the enthusiasm of a cat being tossed into a bath. He lumbered over to the window, bracing himself for whatever chaos awaited. Lady Arlie didn’t miss a beat. “Not when she’s doing… that, “she replied, punctuating the last word with a dramatic wave of her hand toward the courtyard. Her tone dripped with the sort of exaggerated horror usually reserved for social disasters, like serving the wrong wine at dinner. “That,” she said, with an air of finality, “is entirely your family’s doing, darling. Nothing to do with me.” Lord Arlie huffed—a noise that landed somewhere between a grunt and a groan—and peered out the window. He expected to see something ridiculous. After 20 years of raising Caelin, he was sure nothing could shock him anymore. He was wrong. So wrong. The courtyard was alive with chaos, and at the center of it all was Caelin, their daughter—a one-woman wrecking crew, a force of nature, and, a walking, talking testament to his genetic line’s questionable contributions to the family tree. He blinked, then muttered under his breath, “I should’ve known. Definitely my family’s temper.” Lady Arlie smirked. “Told you.” Down below, chaos unfolded like an unhinged circus. A massive Bengal tiger, draped in strips of silk that fluttered behind her like a dramatic flag, was in hot pursuit of a panicked Lord Fontaine. His high-pitched shrieks echoed through the castle. Trailing the bizarre duo was a group of guards who looked less like trained professionals and more like a pack of headless chickens. They darted back and forth in a series of half-hearted attempts to distract the raging tiger rather than stop her. Managing this proved difficult for them. The tiger was none other than their own mistress, Lady Caelin herself, in full shape-shifter glory. Fear paralyzed the guards; none were willing to risk their lives to save the man. Caelin’s golden eyes burned with a fury that suggested Lord Fontaine had undermined her temper. Meanwhile, the guards, having collectively decided bravery was overrated, circled the scene, shouting unhelpful things like, “Over here!”” and “Lady Caelin, please!” stepping nowhere near her claws. Lord Arlie stared at the scene in growing horror. “What is wrong with that girl? Honestly!” His voice rose to a pitch that made Lady Arlie glance at him with mild amusement. “As I’ve said many times before,” she replied, “your side. Not mine.” He whirled on her, arms flailing in frustration. “Cacia, this is not the time for jokes!” “Who’s joking?” she said with a straight face, sipping her tea and leaning closer to the window for a better view. “Oh look, she’s going for his wig. That’s new.” Lord Arlie groaned, clutching his head. Where on earth did she encounter a tiger shifter?” Lady Arlie shrugged and leaned closer to the window to get a better look. “One of Lord Fontaine’s personal guards, I’d imagine. Seems like something he’d do—employ a shifter without realizing how poorly that would end for him.” “Well then,” Lord Arlie declared, throwing his hands in the air, “it’s his own damn fault! He practically asked for this!” Lady Arlie clicked her tongue, the very picture of unbothered, aristocratic disdain. “The sorry fool had no idea that Caelin’s talent is absorbing other people’s special skills. You make it sound as though he’s intentionally flirting with death.” She couldn’t stifle a laugh as Lord Fontaine, with the agility of a man terrified for his life, attempted to climb atop his own guards like a frantic squirrel scaling a tree. “Though he should have,” Lady Arlie said with a smirk, watching as the tiger-turned-Caelin leapt onto a table and let out a guttural roar that sent the guards scattering like startled pigeons. “I’ve been saying that man’s overdue for some character development.” Lord Arlie glared at her. “Woman, now is not the time for your dry humor.” She raised a brow, unrepentant. “Oh, I disagree. If not now, when?” “We can’t keep doing this!” Lord Arlie exclaimed, his voice teetering on the edge of a full-blown tantrum. “She’s chased off every reasonable suitor in the known world! If she ruins this family name any further, I swear…” His words trailed off, but the vein bulging in his temple said enough. With a frustrated growl, he stormed toward the courtyard, his steps heavy with the weariness of a father whose patience had been obliterated. Meanwhile, in the courtyard, Lord Fontaine was darting behind the nearest guard. “She’s going to eat me! Someone do something!” he wailed, clutching the guard’s arm like a lifeline. Aaron, Caelin’s long-suffering personal guard, took a deep breath and stepped forward, doing his best to radiate calm. “Lady Caelin,” he began with all the soothing authority he could muster, “perhaps you might reconsider your current course of action?” The tiger that was Caelin turned her golden eyes on him, her expression somehow conveying both amusement and a complete lack of intention to reconsider anything. Aaron’s grip tightened on his sword—not that he had any intention of using it. He clung to the slim belief that Caelin wouldn’t maul him, but self-preservation instincts still had him questioning so many of his life choices up to now. “Please?” Aaron tried again, his voice an octave higher than before. The tiger crouched, muscles rippling as she prepared to pounce. Aaron swallowed hard and squeezed his eyes shut, bracing himself for an undignified end. And then… nothing. The tiger scoffed—a sound so human that it made Aaron peek one eye open in confusion. With an almost playful leap, she bounded around him, ignoring his pathetic attempt to mediate. Aaron exhaled, his knees nearly giving out as the tiger focused her full attention back on Lord Fontaine, who had managed to wedge himself halfway up a tree in his desperation. “You’re on your own, my lord,” Aaron muttered under his breath, stepping aside with all the relief of someone avoiding disaster. This was a family problem now. Lord Fontaine let out another ear-piercing shriek, his dignity abandoning ship as Caelin—still in her tiger form—deftly dodged the flailing guards. With feline precision, she barreled into him, bringing the unfortunate lord to the ground with a thud. Her claws pinned him, and her fangs grazed his trembling jawline before settling menacingly against his jugular. The growl that rumbled from her throat was deep, primal, and terrifying. Lord Fontaine’s breathing turned to ragged wheezes, each gasp punctuated by a strangled whimper. She could feel his heartbeat hammering like a frantic drum solo beneath her, the scent of his fear hanging in the air like the finest perfume. For Caelin, victory had never smelled so sweet. She tightened her jaws, just enough to send another wave of panic through her prey. His garbled cries for help were now reduced to pitiful gurgles. Triumph surged through her as she let out a purr—low, guttural, and filled with satisfaction. And then, like a scene straight out of a third-rate magical drama, a brilliant flash of light engulfed them. When the glow faded, Caelin was back in her human form, straddling Lord Fontaine’s trembling figure in all her glory—quite literally, since shape-shifting had the unfortunate side effect of shredding one’s wardrobe. The courtyard went silent. No one moved. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath as Caelin sat up, her eyes sweeping the stunned crowd. She radiated both fury and a remarkable lack of embarrassment for someone who was completely, unapologetically, naked. Her gaze landed back on the quivering wreck that was Lord Fontaine, and her lip curled into a feral snarl. The guards took a collective step back, the sheer awkwardness of the situation more terrifying than the tiger had been. Lord Fontaine’s guards intently studied their boots, pointedly avoiding her gaze. Caelin’s own guards, however, had long since grown desensitized to her antics. Aaron, ever the weary professional, moved with the speed of a man who had done this far too many times. Before Caelin could launch herself at Lord Fontaine’s throat—fangs or no fangs—he tackled her to the ground in one fluid motion. “Apologies, my lady,” Aaron grunted as he wrestled her into submission, avoiding eye contact with… well, everything. “But we can’t afford another diplomatic incident.” Caelin hissed in frustration, squirming beneath his grip. “Diplomatic incident? He deserved it!” “I don’t doubt it,” Aaron replied, pinning her arms with a sigh. “But maybe next time, let’s aim for something that doesn’t end in an international scandal, yeah?” From the sidelines, Lord Arlie arrived just in time to witness the spectacle. He pinched the bridge of his nose and muttered, “I need a drink. A strong one.” Lady Arlie, who had followed at a much more leisurely pace, smirked. “Don’t forget to get one for me, dear. I feel this is going to be a long afternoon.” Caelin growled in frustration, her face still half-buried in the grass as Aaron’s weight pinned her down. She was a tempest of fury and indignation, every ounce of her body straining to get free. She didn’t want to hurt Aaron—he was one of the few people she liked—but the sheer audacity of Lord Fontaine was too much to bear. “Get off me, Aaron!” she snarled, her voice muffled by dirt and grass. Her arms flailed toward the retreating figure of Fontaine, who was now tripping over his own feet in his desperation to escape. “You’re going to tame me?” she roared after him, her voice carrying across the courtyard with the force of a cannon blast. “Isn’t that what you said? Break me? Come on, then! Let’s see you try!”