Page 11 of Outside the Veil
“A pooka.”
Oh, yes, much more believable than a leprechaun.“Ah. Aren’t pookas sort of like poltergeists?”
Finn hid his face in the pillow.
“Never mind. We’ll talk about it in the morning. You need anything?”
A shake of that black-maned head.
“You want me to stay with you?”
“Please,” came the muffled response. Diego slid under the blankets, leaving Finn on top of them. After a few moments, Finn shifted over to nestle his head in the hollow of Diego’s shoulder. Caught off guard, Diego wondered if he should say something or move away. In the end, he did neither. Finn had fallen asleep.
“Yes, he’s here.” Diego took the phone into the front room, trying not to wake Finn.
“Está bien?” Clanks and clatters told him Tia Carmen was in her kitchen, phone tucked under her chin while she cooked.
“More or less. He’s not well, but at least he’s alive.”
“Gracias a dios. I will come to see you later.”
Diego ran a hand over his face and debated taking a short nap. Finn had tossed and muttered most of the night. Instead, he powered up his computer and searched out everything he could regarding pookas.
There was precious little to be found and much of that was contradictory. They were mischievous sprites who delighted in breaking crockery and knocking fences over. They were guardian river spirits who appeared to people as black horses with flaming eyes to entice the unwary into a ride and then dump them in the swamp. They were vengeful fae, resentful of human encroachment and prone to violent reprisals.
Ghost, woodland deity, fairy, monster—no two accounts agreed on the nature of the legendary creature. But at least none of the websites called them leprechauns.
A soft knock at the door heralded Tia Carmen’s arrival. He hurried out to greet her.
“He’s still sleeping,” he whispered.
“Pobre niño,” she murmured, as she handed Diego the cardboard box she carried. Wonderful, complex smells rose from under the cover of dishtowels. He jerked his head toward the kitchen where he placed the box on the counter.
“He thinks he’s a pooka.”
“Pooka?” Tia Carmen’s white eyebrows nearly disappeared when her forehead crinkled.
“Un hada de Irlanda, an Irish fairy,” Diego explained. “Though ‘leprechaun’ offends him somehow.”
She only nodded as she unpacked plastic containers from the box.
“You don’t seem surprised.”
“I am too old to be surprised.” She shrugged. “You must have noticed strange things about him.”
“Please don’t tell me you believe him.”
Her hands stopped in the middle of folding the towels into precise squares. “For a smart man, Santiago, you are sometimes a little heavy.”
“Dense,” Diego corrected automatically, his ears burning. An odd dislocation of time and space struck him—six years old rather than grown, standing in hisabuela’skitchen in Miami. He sat down hard on one of the red plastic chairs. To head off her inquiries after his health, he told her about the trip to the clinic and Finn’s odd return.
“Por supuesto, no wonder he is so sick.” She pulled one of his aluminum pans out of the cabinet and poured two bottles of water into it. “Los hadas, iron burns them. And steel. It is poison to them.”
“I know the stories, Tia Carmen. But, honestly.”
“He was out on the iron fire escape last night? Have you looked at the bottoms of his feet?”
“No, but…”
