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Deep Plunge

SoulShares #3

by Rory Ni Coileain

More than two thousand years ago, the healer Lochlann Doran was the first Fae to leave the Realm after the Sundering of the Fae and human worlds. After centuries of wandering the human world, seeking his SoulShare, he has spent all his magick, and lost all his hope.

Garrett Templar is the star pole dancer at Purgatory, the hottest gay nightclub in Washington, D.C. If his past hadn’t taught him the futility of hope, his present surely would; HIV-positive since age 18, his illness has suddenly and inexplicably mutated into drug-impervious AIDS.

A SoulShare bond with Garrett may give Lochlann back his magick, his gift of healing. But it also might kill him. And if he survives the return of his magick, the Marfach and its host are waiting to use the dancer as bait in a deadly trap. Only an impossible love can save them both. And everyone knows Fae don’t love….

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“Garrett, lanan, please, don’t fight me.” A rough cheek brushed against his own. “What do you feel, when I kiss you? When I touch you?”

“Nothing.” He barely managed to get the word out through clenched teeth. “Not a fucking thing.”


Lochlann’s grip on Garrett’s hair loosened, just enough to allow him to stroke the pad of his thumb along his cheekbone. The gently possessive gesture sent an ecstatic tingle racing through his body, straight to his groin, which was so not obeying orders at the moment. But he sucked in a breath, and kept his face impassive. “Really.”

“Not true.” Lochlann shook his head, tousled dark hair falling over his forehead, nearly into his eyes. “I know exactly what you’re feeling. I can see it. And I feel it too. The joy, all out of proportion to what it’s supposed to feel like when you touch someone. Even someone you want as much as I want you.”


“What do you mean, you can see it?” Better to talk about that than about the other. About joy, about being wanted. “Let me guess, you’re psychic.” The impulse to push, push back hard, put this danger at a safe distance, was overwhelming. “You never did say what you do for a living – do you sit around your house and answer calls on one of those bullshit four-dollar-a-minute hotlines?”

“Psychic?” Lochlann arched a brow, his gaze capturing Garrett’s with abrupt impossible intensity. “Not in the sense you mean.” The hand on the small of Garrett’s back slid under his sweatshirt, and he shivered with the delicious heat of it. “But I’m not human. And if you’ll stop fighting me, I might be able to heal you. If I don’t die trying.”


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.