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Gale Force

SoulShares #2

by Rory Ni Coileain

Conall Dary is the mightiest mage born to the Fae race in more than two thousand years, ever since the Sundering of the Fae and human worlds. But that power condemns him to an untouched, virginal life — sex calls to power, and his power is enough to drain the magick, the life, from his entire world. Exiled from the Realm for refusing to turn his talent to service a Noble’s petty revenge fantasies, his soul is torn in two and his magickal gifts blocked.

Josh LaFontaine is a gifted tattoo artist with a heart of gold. While doing a good turn for an ex-boyfriend, he’s stunned when a gorgeous red-haired twink appears out of nowhere at his feet during New York City’s Pride march.

The Marfach was thwarted in its first attempt to capture a Fae. But when a terrible accident separates Conall and Josh before they bond, it’s a race to see who finds the mage first, the monster who will use him as a weapon to destroy his race, or his SoulShare.

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Conall had no more time to stare. He walked out into the center of the dank, musty room, feeling the magickal force swirling around him, like the fog of his dream. But Josh was nowhere in this fog, though his eyes kept trying to create his image there; if there was any relief from his pain here, it was before his eyes, where the two lines crossed and the light danced.

Slowly, Conall knelt. Be damned if he was going to fall. He was stronger than his pain.

Movement caught his eye, and he startled. But it was only an old mirror, meant to hang but leaning now against some shelves, and his own reflection coming back to him. Shirtless and barefoot and in a pair of Terry’s jeans; a pale, drawn face looked back at him, eyes almost glowing, feverish. Behold the greatest power in two worlds, rider of storm, master of hurricane. How the mighty mage has fallen.


He grimaced at himself, and reached out a hand; it was lost to view even before his fingertips brushed the floor, vanished in the light that was not light.

Fingertips brushed dank cement. Nothing.

And then—everything.

A force surged up through the floor, strained to enter his body. Overwhelmed, panicked, he tried to fight it off, or to control its entry. But there was no controlling this. It seized him, it coursed through him, it met the walls of his flesh and thundered back into his truncated soul, flaring for an instant as bright as the sun, as cold as the moon.

When the glare faded, the streams of light were gone, as if they had never been.

And so was Conall Dary.


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.