Her brother--a tall, husky man shoving his fingers agitatedly through his dusty red hair--pacedabout the confines of the small cave with jerky, unsteady movements reflecting the rage and
frustration that drove him. Back and forth he stalked restlessly like a lion caged, kicking up thick,
choking clouds of ageless dust. Pausing, he shrugged his broad soulders and gazed at her in baffled
hopelessness and helpless rage.
As Shannon turned her shoulder in an attempt to muffle the sneeze she felt coming on, she saw
a flicker of movement in the shadows near the back of the cave. For a brief moment, Shannon saw
a small, sad face peering out from the darkness. The Irish rebel could not remember her mother,
but she remembered seeing that little face before in the corner of the room in which her mother
had died. Shannon knew with an unshakeable certainty that it was the bansheee come for her father.
So what if legend claimed that the banshee only came for the young daughters of the wealthy. The
distraught girl knew it was there for her father. The image of that face had been burned into her
memory to last forever.
"Janar," a musical voice sounded in Shannon's head. "My name is Janar, and I'm not the
banshee!" Shannon did not believe the voice and shook her head to get rid of it. A quick glance
into the darkness revealed it to be empty. The face was gone!
Turning her tortured gaze back to her brother, Shannon watched him pace restlessly. Obviously,
she could expect no assistance from Shamus. She dragged her tortured gaze back to the man lying
on the cold, dank floor of the cave. As icy tendrils of fear clutched her heart, the chill air moving
about the cave on unseen currents clutched at her with frigid fingers.
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