Otherworld (Oxford, 2024)
Excerpts (scroll down):
Dagda wanted Bóand. He had watched her at feasts and games, and in the solemn crowds that gathered to hear his judgments. He had spied her slipping into the river in the moonlight. He had heard of her skills at magic and her talents for pouring drink, an important duty for the wife of a ruler. Her skills as a lover were obvious to him. Her beauty, in his eyes, was unsurpassed.
Bóand wanted the Dagda. What woman would turn him down? Granted, he was a giant of a man with a long unruly beard. His clothes never fit properly. He was always hungry—he could consume a whole cauldron full of porridge. Still, he was fearless, good, and wise, and he ruled the Túatha Dé. He was skilled in many arts. He was a druid. He had a cauldron always full enough for a feast. He carried a massive club—one side crushed enemy heads, while a touch of the other side could resurrect a man. He also owned an oaken harp whose spellcasting voice set the pace of the seasons and ordered the minds and hearts of the Dagda’s people.
But Bóand feared the wrathful power of her husband Elcmar. If he found out about her tryst with the Dagda, Elcmar would punish her, not by beating or starving her as some husbands did to their wives, but with magic. He would challenge the Dagda with spells and spears. After all, the man’s name meant Spiteful.
The Book of Becc (forthcoming 2025)
I decided he was good looking, although not as handsome as a hero in one of my stories. His hair dark as treebark curled just above his shoulders. His cheekbones were sharp. A scar ran down one of them. His eyes were light and quick, a greyish blue—or were they greeny-grey? He kept them on the path ahead but held out an arm whenever he thought I might stumble.
He asked, “Are you running away from someone? A father, a husband? A master? Do you seek sanctuary?”
He wanted to know if someone would come after me. Why else would a woman suffer the night alone on Bríg’s Hill and then dash out of the woods at twilight if she were not escaping a man?
”I am not a runaway. I have come to Tobur Brigte for my own purposes.”
“In order to learn the way of vowed Sisters?”
“In order to learn to look the right way.” I kept walking.
The Highwayman, in progress
The robber ducked and raised one arm up to snag the bag and dropped it neatly on the ground. With his weapon still levelled and eyes on the prisoner, the masked rogue bent and slid a hand into the satchel to probe its contents, lifting out a pair of trews, then a book. His mouth turned down in dismay.
“You did not mention a book,” the robber said, trying to peek at a few pages one-handed while keeping eyes on the victim. He dropped it on the ground. “The Villain of Penrys Castle?” The robber sighed. “I declare, sir, not only do you appear to be appallingly bust, but you have deplorable taste in literature. Poor fiction and penury in a hired coach.” The robber pushed his hat brim higher with the tip of his pistol. A few dark brown wisps of hair escaped. “What are you then, the youngest son, sent off to Ireland as punishment?”
The sky had been spitting before, but now rain dripped steadily on the robber and his prey. The passenger yanked off his hat and ran a hand through his hair. “Something like that,” he ground out. He tapped his fingers on the edge of the window but when he saw his opponent watching, he clenched his knuckles.
The Highwayman spotted the glimmer of the gem in the squalid light of the wet evening. He said cheerfully, “Right, you liar, give us the ring.”
“You will have to take my finger with it.”
“I suppose I must shoot off your hand. I see no other way of gaining the ring. Did I mention that I am quite a good shot? With a duelling pistol, I can blow the center out of the ace of hearts at ten yards.” The villain steadied his weapon and regarded the victim. “But I cannot promise to ruin only one finger with a weapon of this sort. It is not precise enough. Alas.” He was grinning.