How Not To Abduct a Banshee

Episode 6

Samuel looked down at the delicate bracelet sitting innocently in his lap, its diamond facets catching the faint glow of the dashboard lights. Talk about irony. This tiny bauble, something Caelin had tossed aside like a piece of junk, was worth more than his miserable life. If he could just get it to Mitch—oh, Mitch would forgive everything. Samuel could already see it play out in his head, like a twisted movie he’d watched far too many times.

Mitch would be lounging in that stupid oversized leather chair of his, the one that squeaked and groaned under his bulk but still somehow survived. His office—if you could call the smoke-filled back room of a failing pool hall an office—would reek of stale cigars and desperation. Mitch’s pudgy fingers would twitch against the armrest as Samuel stepped through the door, the bauble in hand. Mitch’s beady eyes would light up with that insidious glee only a predator could manage when they smelled weakness.

“There’s my boy,” Mitch would say, his voice slick, as if every word had been dipped in motor grease. He’d reach out and clap Samuel’s shoulder with all the warmth of a python curling around its prey, squeezing just enough to remind him of the power Mitch held. With Mitch, everything was a reminder—a silent warning wrapped in fake affection.

Samuel could feel it: the weight of that grip, the pressure bruising his shoulder, the quiet menace behind those words. It was always a balancing act with Mitch. Stay useful enough to live. Stay cowed enough to avoid punishment. Never get too cocky. Mitch didn’t like cocky. Cocky got people killed.

Samuel had learned that the hard way. He’d seen what Mitch did to people who stepped out of line—men who had run errands for Mitch longer than Samuel had been alive. One guy, Marty, had thought he could skim a little off the top. Mitch had invited him to “talk it over” behind the bar. No one had seen Marty after that, but there were rumors about what Mitch kept in his deep freeze.

Samuel had been there that night, pretending not to notice the bloodstains Mitch tracked across the floor. He had smiled, nodded, and muttered “Sure thing, boss” as Mitch handed him his next job. That was how you survived Mitch. You nodded, you obeyed, and you never, ever failed.

And yet Samuel had failed.

The latest job—some simple smuggling job gone sideways—had blown up in his face, quite literally. He’d lost the goods, pissed off a rival gang, and earned himself a bounty that Mitch swore was “Samuel’s mess to clean up.” Mitch didn’t shout about it, though. Mitch never shout. He just looked at Samuel with that blank, expectant expression, as if waiting for him to realize he’d already dug his own grave. “You’ll fix it, Sam,” he’d said, his voice casual. “Because you know what happens if you don’t.”

Samuel knew. He didn’t know how Mitch had found out but Mitch knew about his sister.

Her name was Eloise. Younger than him by three years, she was the only family Samuel had left. He hadn’t seen her in years, not since Mitch dragged him into his world, but Samuel had worked hard to keep her out of it. Mitch, of course, had other plans. One mention of Eloise’s name, one veiled threat, and Samuel would be back in line, ready to beg, steal, or kill for the man who held a knife to his life’s only soft spot.

That was the real leash Mitch had on him—one far stronger than money or fear of violence. Mitch didn’t have to hurt Samuel. He only had to threaten Eloise.

Which was why this bracelet—the tiny thing glinting smugly in Samuel’s lap—was so important. If he could get it to Mitch, it would buy him time. Time to breathe, time to think, time to come up with a way out. Samuel didn’t let himself hope for freedom anymore—hope was a luxury he couldn’t afford—but maybe he could buy himself some space. That was, of course, assuming Samuel somehow escaped the deadly woman in the backseat.

He swallowed hard and glanced where Caelin sat, quiet and still. A banshee assassin. Samuel had tangled with bad people before—gangsters, mercenaries, even vampires who didn’t like being hustled—but none of them scared him the way Caelin did.

“Yeah,” he muttered under his breath. “This is gonna end well.”

From the backseat, Caelin shifted slightly and Samuel stilled.

He couldn’t decide what was worse: living with Mitch’s leash around his neck or finding out what happened when Caelin decided to cut it. He checked the mirror briefly. Fearing that even looking at her too long might get him killed. Caelin was slumped against the leather seat, her eyes closed, her vibrant crimson hair spilling over her face like silk thread. Samuel could see it brushing against the curve of her jaw—how unfair was it that an assassin could have a jawline that perfect? Her face was serene, almost peaceful but Samuel knew better. That wasn’t peace. That was the quiet before a storm.

His fingers tightened on the wheel. He couldn’t get soft. She was dangerous—no, beyond dangerous. She wasn’t some sad little orphan lost in the woods. She was Caelin Arlie: the pride of her family, the blade they sharpened against the world. He told himself, over and over. Yes, she looked sad—truly sad, like she’d been carrying too much weight for far too long—but so what? Everyone was sad. It wasn’t his job to fix it.

Samuel cursed under his breath and forced himself to look away, focusing on the road ahead. She didn’t need his help. People like her never needed help.

Don’t get soft, Sam. She’s a banshee assassin, not a damsel. If you go all sentimental, she’ll slit your throat before you can blink.

Still… she felt defeated. Despondent, even. Like she’d lost something important, something irreplaceable.

Stop it, he lectured himself. She doesn’t need your pity, or your help. This isn’t some tragic princess who needs rescuing. It’s a venomous viper who will murder you with the spoon from her coffee cup.

And yet. He was a siren, after all. Samuel had spent his entire life wielding emotions like weapons. He could see them, taste them, bend them to his will. In Caelin, he felt the heaviness of her sadness like a stone pressing against his chest. Her emotions were quiet but heavy, dragging at the air around her. Loneliness. Grief. Anger, smoldering like coals beneath a dead fire. It gnawed at him, dragged at him, refusing to let go. Crap. Crap, crap, crap.

Maybe he could help her. For once. It had been years since he’d actually helped anyone. His job with Mitch wasn’t about kindness. It was about talking people out of their money, their secrets—whatever Mitch wanted. Samuel shrugged, muttering to himself. If he could make himself feel better in the process, all the better.

He began to hum. Softly at first, low enough that he thought she wouldn’t hear. It was an old melody—one he’d known since he was a boy, though he couldn’t remember where he’d learned it. The tune was soothing, a balm against the sharp edges of the day.

The notes filled the car like mist, curling into the corners of the silence. Samuel didn’t care if Caelin was listening. The song wasn’t just for her; it was for him as well. But then he saw it. The faintest twitch of her brow. The slight lift of her chest as she inhaled, the rise and fall matching the rhythm of his humming.

Caelin shifted in the back seat. Her brows furrowed ever so slightly, but she didn’t move to stop him. Samuel glanced up in the mirror, his hum faltering as her eyes opened the barest fraction. She was watching him now. Peeking through her lashes. He quickly snapped his gaze back to the road.

Oh, great, Sam. Real smooth. You’re serenading a banshee. The same banshee you’re supposed to be escaping.

Still, she hadn’t stopped him. That had to be a good sign, right? Samuel took a deep breath and started again letting the song flow a little louder. He felt—well, not happy, exactly, but better. For the first time all day, the weight of Mitch’s shadow lifted just slightly.

Samuel glanced up in the mirror again, this time Caelin’s eyes were closed, but her face had softened. Her shoulders, which had been rigid the whole ride, relaxed ever so slightly.

His pulse quickened. He shouldn’t feel proud of that. He shouldn’t care. But then—It happened.

A sound began to weave in and out of his humming—a voice. Her voice., weaving into the melody like a thread of silver. Soft and low, it slipped between his notes, coaxing the tune to places he hadn’t even known it could go. Pushing it, pulling it, teasing it into something deeper and far more dangerous. It wrapped around him like silk laced with razor blades, and for a moment, he couldn’t breathe.

Samuel’s breath caught. His heart stuttered. The sound wasn’t human—not entirely. It was ancient, filled with a quiet power that made the air shimmer and his vision blur. Her voice tugged at his very soul, and for a horrifying moment, Samuel understood exactly what it felt like to lose control. He wanted to lose control.

His heart hammered as realization slammed into him like a freight train. Is this how it feels when I do it? The sense of losing control, of slipping under the waves, willingly surrendering himself because it felt so damned good? Samuel gripped the wheel harder. Her voice coaxed at something primal inside him, pulling at his very soul. He would have done anything—anything—to keep her singing.

Oh, gods, she could ask me to slice my throat right now and I’d smile while I did it. Is this what I do to people?

It wasn’t just singing—it was calling. Her voice demanded surrender, and everything inside him wanted to give in. He could’ve been driving off a cliff and wouldn’t have cared, so long as she kept singing. The thought terrified him.

The song swelled, filling every inch of the car with something unnameable and ancient, until— Caelin’s head snapped up. Her eyes flew open, burning like twin fires. Her banshee scream riped through the car. The sound wasn’t human. It ripped through the air with all the fury of a hurricane, shattering the melody like glass and slamming into Samuel’s chest. He gasped as it roared through him, rattling his very bones. His vision exploded into white-hot sparks.

Samuel’s world shattered. He’d heard stories about banshee screams, but nothing could have prepared him for the raw, unearthly sound that erupted from her throat. It was more than sound—it was despair, grief, and unrelenting fury. The kind that could shatter stone and call death itself to heel. It condensed into one keening wail that cracked through his skull like lightning.

Samuel barely had time to register what was happening before the headlights appeared in the corner of his eye. The other car hit them like a battering ram. The world spun in a blur of metal and light. Samuel’s head slammed forward, and for one agonizing instant, all he could hear was the sound of twisting steel and breaking glass.

And then—nothing.

Samuel slumped forward in his seat, the world gone black.