“MacDermott?”

He flinched.

“Brian MacDermott?”

He was older, much older than his photo, of course. But those eyes were unmistakable, those brows still furrowed with the piercing gaze that took you by surprise when you first flipped to the inside dust jacket.

One of the infamous brows rose haltingly, questioning as he turned from the green, rainswept valley below to regard his accuser. —After Leanan

I’d been working on another story, a story I’m still struggling with, when this one came to me pretty much all at once. I’m not particularly surprised, given the legends of the sídhe inhabiting the hills north of Dublin.

Thank you as always for reading. If you want to encourage me, please consider signing up to support me on Patreon. And if you do like the story, please pass it around to friends and, if you’re willing, to give a tap or two to those little clappy hands that look like this:

at the bottom of the story page. It tells the folks (actually the algorithm) at Medium.com that you liked the story and encourages them to show it to more people.

Regardless, thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoy this month’s story, After Leanan.