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SoulShares #4

by Rory Ni Coileain

Rian Sheridan is a foundling, a Falls Road corner boy, whose world went up in flames beside an Orangemen’s bonfire of hatred last July the Twelfth. A pain he barely remembers is a siren’s call, taunting him, daring him to find its source and lose himself to it. And he searches in the only place he knows, the S&M underground of Belfast.
Cuinn an Dearmad is the last surviving Fae Loremaster. He’s just seen the beginning of the death of the Realm, the home of the Fae race and their haven from the twisted evil of the Marfach. The only hope of saving the Realm starts with finding the Prince Royal of Fire he himself stole from the cradle, and lost in the human world, many years ago. He has a few guesses about where that hope ends, none of which bode well for him.
Rian and Cuinn are an impossible pairing, two SoulShared Fae. Any two Fae strike sparks, but these two Fae are an explosive combination. Drawn into an escalating series of sexual collisions, their passion will save — or destroy — two worlds.

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Groaning again, Rian pulled a pillow over his head. How could something as good as what Cuinn did to him have made an even bigger balls-up of his life than it had been before? The only pleasure he’d ever known had come from pain. Before the night of the bonfire, he’d been something of a joke among his friends, the beautiful boy who’d never been kissed, not that he gave a fuck. It never mattered to him. On the Twalf, he’d embraced the pain. At first for the sweetness of the vengeance, a vengeance and a sweetness he’d known even then couldn’t be anything human. But there was more, beyond the pain, beyond the pleasure that followed on its heels. Each time he indulged his dark craving, there was a delicious terror, as something buried in him came closer to stirring to life. Something he feared, but something he needed. And whatever it was, since yesterday it was barreling down on him like a lorry with failed brakes.


The treatment Cuinn had given him in the coffee shop had done nothing for any of his needs. Not a fecking thing. Has anyone ever been gentle with you? the other Fae asked. Hell no, for he’d never wanted that.

Why was it so good, to get what he didn’t want, didn’t need, and couldn’t use?


About the Author

Rory Ni Coileain has been writing almost as long as she’s been reading, and reading almost as long as she’s been talking. She majored in creative writing in college, back when Respectable Colleges didn’t offer such a major, so she designed it herself—being careful to ensure that she never had to take a class before nine in the morning or take a Hemingway survey course.

She graduated Phi Beta Kappa at the age of nineteen, sent off her first short story to an anthology being assembled by an author she idolized, received the kind of rejection letter that fuels decades of therapy, and found other things to do for the next thirty years or so, including nightclub singing, working as a volunteer lawyer for Gay Men’s Health Crisis, and studying ballet in New York City, until her stories grabbed her by the shirt collar and announced they were back.

Now she’s a legal editor, a soprano in her church choir and the St. Mark’s Cathedral Choral Society (unless they’re singing Mozart, because she’s decided that Mozart didn’t like sopranos very much), the mother of a teenaged son and budding film-maker, and amanuensis to a host of Fae, Gille Dubh, and shapeshifters who are all anxious to tell their stories, and some of whom aren’t very good at waiting their turns.