"Conor, I cannot tell when you’re joking!" exclaimed the lovely blonde as she playfully smacked his right arm.

The couple was sitting at a table with various Spanish speakers at Holy Trinity Catholic Church in Dallas, it was a Friday night and a fish fry was being held for Lent. Lots and lots of people were there to enjoy the entertainment and the fried catfish, Tater Tots, beans, cornbread, and the rest.

“I’m totally bein’ serious!” The chuckling Irishman was sitting next to the girl, which allowed both of them to watch the various other members of the parish attending the event.

Conor and Marisa were on what could only technically be called a date. A Lenten Fish Fry celebration at a prominent Catholic Church would hardly have been either party’s first choice. However, they were here escorting Marisa’s teenaged cousin and her friend. In the last four months, the nights of the Dallas / Ft. Worth Metroplex had become dangerously unstable. All sorts of "things-that-go-bump-in-the-night" now felt emboldened (for various reasons) to venture forth and hunt.

In response to that, some other supernaturally aware forces were operating to protect those important to them. One of those groups is the Fort Wolf Posse, a band of werewolves – mostly Hispanic and a few Caucasians – now worked overtime to ensure their various relatives were safe as they went on with their lives. Marisa was a prominent member of that pack. Conor’s relationship with the FWP was … nebulous at best … though his interest in a specific member of it was clear.

After a drink of her lemonade, she continued “You’re telling me that your actual name means ‘He Who Helps Hounds’ … seriously?”

The smiling werewolf’s plate was stacked high with fried catfish fillets, very little to no vegetable matter at all. In spite of the officially “unhealthy” designation of her food, one would be hard pressed to tell that she had anything except stellar eating habits. Her figure was one that could cause professional fitness models to grow jealous (a beneficial side effect of being a werewolf).

“Aye, ‘con’ is the old way to say ‘cú’” – he pronounced it koo – “which is ‘a hound.’”

“The other part is ‘cabhair’” – which sounded more like KA-war – “which is ‘to help.’”

She looked suspicious.

“That’s my name in the Irish. So ye see, it’s not even remotely a chore to provide assistance – beautiful company an’ fine food is a bonus.” He then dipped his fillet of fish in a puddle of ketchup (they’d run out of tartar sauce) and took a big bite.

“So how do you say the whole thing in Irish?” One of her eyebrows was cocked quizzically.

Conor’s reaction was a bit out of sorts with the otherwise jovial mood. He looked around, then up in the sky, then back to his date. Then, leaning closer, he whispered, “I’d rather not say it with my own voice out in public. One can never know who’s listenin’ – an’ your name, from your own lips, has power. I’m probably bein’ paranoid but I just had a run in wit’ a Fae creature that reminded me about name … eh … call it security. Ask me again, when we’re behin’ a threshold, an’ I’ll happily say it for you – all right?”

Marisa nodded, and in Spanish, <Such a strange world I find myself in these days.> Then for a few moments they quietly ate their food.

Shortly, a young teen age Hispanic girl then walked up to the pair of them. “Aunt Marisa, I think we’re ready to go if you are. You said you wanted to walk us home, but that’s not really necessary, it’s not far at all.”

Marisa stood up, Conor just a brief moment behind her, “No no, Lisa, it’s ok, I want to. Go get your friend, your coats and things and we’ll see you at the entrance.”

After the teen left, she turned to her date, “Did you get enough to eat?”

The Irishman popped a handful of Tater Tots in his mouth with a grin, nodding as he chewed. Then he gestured with his hand that he would follow her lead.

As they left the church on this cool winter night, they traveled south on Blackburn Road. Along the sidewalk was a fine red brick wall, picturesquely shaded with green verdure from the various condos on the other side. They had walked maybe not quite a quarter mile from the church and were waiting for the crosswalk light on Turtle Creek. Marisa’s niece and her friend Elizabeth were teasing her in Spanish about her charming Irish date so close to St. Patrick’s Day. Conor, who had for most of the walk been silent, finally replied using his “now getting rather fluent” Spanish. Shocked, and slightly chagrined, they all burst out laughing as the light changed allowing them to cross.

The group crossed the boulevard and was now walking along an old stone bridge spanning a trickle of water flowing through a picturesque tree covered park. This was an older neighborhood of the Oak Lawn district – more famous for the colorful “Gayborhood” located about a half mile away. Though normally a busy stretch of road, there were few cars around at this particular moment.

It was then that several things all happened at the same time.

Marisa stopped laughing and with her brows furrowed, started looking around. She was inhaling in short sharp breaths through her nose. “Conor, I smell someth…”

Given but a brief moment’s warning by Marisa’s keen Werewolf sense of smell, the Irishman was scanning around and just happened to be staring directly at her niece’s friend Elizabeth when a gigantic green warty arm reached out from under the bridge and grabbed her. He sensed, rather than knew for certain, that a veil of glamour was now over the bridge to facilitate the abduction.

True to his nature, he leapt without looking; grabbing at the warty hand as he went over the side of the bridge, shouting as he did so “YOU WILL NOT!”

His aim was poor, but it did the job; knocking Elizabeth safely from the creature’s grasp as he went falling through the air, landing painfully with a splash in the frigid shallow water of Turtle Creek below.

He looked up, slinging water from his face and hair to behold what he already knew he would see – a bridge troll. As he started to push himself to his feet, he barked out “Those mortals are under my protection, troll.”

The troll hopped down from its “perch” on the underside of the bridge where it was clinging like a giant green cockroach. A huge splash of water accompanied the landing as a massive meat cleaver made from the thigh bone of a human swung from side to side in its right hand.

“The girl is lawful prize Sidhe Wyldling. It is nightfall and she is very, very naughty… disobedient, cruel, a liar, no longer a virgin, and she has turned her back on her own God of her own… free… will.” The troll’s deep and resonant last two words were spit out, nearly a curse.

Conor looked up; Elizabeth’s eyes were the size of saucers, Lisa as well. He could tell that Marisa was talking to them rapidly and that though they could hear the troll; as it was still standing under the bridge, they could not see it.

He took off his now soaking wet leather jacket, tossing it to shore. His drenched flat cap had already come off in the fall and was laying upside down the creek.

“Doesn’t matter; I am called Conor, an’ I am her protector this night. To get to her, you must go through me… whoever you are.”

At this stage Marisa was basically shoving the two gawking teenage girls further down the road. Conor vaguely remembered something mentioned about their home being nearby. She made various hand gestures that he interpreted to mean ‘Hang on, I’ll be right back.’

“Bah! She has forsaken her protection. Spinesavour the Troll I am called o’ Conor of the Sidhe. You will suffer greatly for trying to take from me my prize.” The creature then took two swings of its cleaver, the menacing sound amplified by the acoustics under the bridge.

“Well, so that takes care of introd…” Conor didn’t get to finish the sentence as the bridge troll came charging at him; its giant warty feet sending water in every direction.

The creature had deliberately splashed the muddy water along as it came charging forward. Conor couldn’t really see where the Troll was and that’s never a comfortable situation in which to find oneself. He narrowly dodged being cleft in twain by the cleaver, but left himself off-balance and wide open for a backhanded strike. He saw a flash of ‘stars’ and heard a ringing in his ears as the Troll’s weapon clipped him along the side of his head with its blunt back edge.

Strictly speaking, that was the last clear memory of the fight ‘Conor’ had, as the Sidhe Fae that came out of that clash was only the same being on a technicality.

The Troll stepped back to see the result of its wild cleaver swings and was momentarily stunned to behold a Sidhe Lord. In gleaming white skin and hair, standing before him in the moon and street lights, was the spitting image of Nuada. Any doubt as to his identity vanished with but a look at the silvery gleam of the Silverhand.

However, the Troll was more of Winter than Summer, and the momentary hesitation didn’t last. “I shall boast of this to my brothers as I eat your liver, Silverhand!”

Curious if the foe in front of him would live up to the legend, the Troll snapped out with a quick slash of the meat cleaver. The gleaming Sidhe easily slapped aside the strike with its left hand. With the heavy cleaver out of position and sensing what was to follow; the Troll tried to interpose its left claw but was too slow to deflect a vicious body blow to its belly delivered by a metallic fist. Conor’s punch went into the rubbery flesh of the Troll’s gut up to his mid-forearm; tiny chittering shrieks of protest could be heard from within the Troll’s belly.

Unwilling to press the close nature of this particular brawl, the Troll used its near-magical ability to climb odd surfaces to escape. Now out of the reach of the Sidhe, it gathered its wits and caught its breath. Conor simply stood in his spot of ground watching the Troll; rooted to the creek bed like an ancient oak – ready.

However, the tension mounted as the Troll could be heard rustling monkey-like – despite its huge bulk – in the trees. Conor knew that it was trying to find an advantageous position from which to strike. However, as it must either attack with claw or cleaver, he prepared a logical retaliatory strike as the muddy waters swirl around his ankles. His breath in the cold night air condensed to form great puffs of steam.

Suddenly, with a guttural roar, its massive rubbery bulk leapt from the leafy canopy above – diving for Conor. He was able to avoid most of the force of the attack as the Troll’s cleaver buried itself two inches into the muddy creek bed, leaving behind a glistening line of crimson in the Sidhe Lord’s thigh. Unfortunately for the now nearly prone Troll, it looked up just in time to have Conor pull its leathery right ear with his left hand, and drive his silver fist into its face with a thunderous crack.

With a tremendous splash, the huge bulk of the Troll plopped back down in the creek bed. Conor leapt to its head and used his superhuman strength to close the Troll’s open mouth. Even as he did so, the troll seemed to be less like a creature and more like a green rubbery bag with a vaguely manlike shape. However, various “things” were wigging within the rapidly deflating bag.

A wolf leapt down into the creek bed, looking left and right to see the situation before cocking its head quizzically at the gleaming white Fae. In a voice reverberating with ancient Sidhe power, Nuada spoke to the wolf. “Indeed, this is the body of your Conor. He has given me great sport tonight she-wolf! Great sport! Long has it been since I traded blows with one of the Troll kin!”

The gleam vanished, and a soaking wet and shivering Conor took the Sidhe Lords place, holding closed the “mouth” of the wriggling troll bag.

In Spanish, he said urgently, <I need a way to burn these things. Do you have fire? Petrol?>

After a stunned second, the wolf seemed to shake its head from side to side in a negative way.

<$#!+ … I guess that… ok, plan two. When I drag this thing to the shore, come closer to me. > At which point Conor dragged the green rubbery troll-bag to the shore.

As the wolf approached, Conor closed his eyes for a moment, and then flames erupt around them, the heat is very nearly painful. Startled, the she-wolf came closer to the drenched form of the scrappy Irish Fae.

“Hear me Spinesavour, or whatever is left of ye. If ye want out o’ the bag I want you all to swear that you’ll leave North Texas forever, ne’er to return.” Conor looked down at the Troll bag’s “belly” and saw the telltale signs of a trolling with claws trying to tear the rubbery wall.

He quickly reached down and “thumped” the offending miniature Troll with his clenched fist. “An’ any that think of trying to escape by clawing through the flesh bag; I shall use greater force next time to convince ye otherwise.”

After a few moments, one of the Troll’s eyes “opened” like a windowsill. A smaller version of the troll, merely inches tall, staring out from within. Seeing the flames, it shrieked and “jumped” back as well as it could. Several other of the tiny mini-trolls took turns looking out of the “window” to behold the ring of flames.

Eventually one squeaked up, “Or you will burn us with Summer’s fire, yes? Art thou a Summer Lordling?”

“Etain the Rider is my mother and I share a soul bond with Lord Nuada the Silverhand… decide for yourselves Trollings.” Conor glared at the open eye.

The eyelid closed, and after a few moments of frantic chittering, it opened again. “As you say, release us and spare us from the flame, we shall never return to thy realm.”

Conor glared, “So swear ye ALL?”

Silence for a moment, then a few more chitters, “Aye, so swear we all.”

After enacting a thrice-fold swearing, Conor let go of the slimy and rubbery troll head, also dispensing with his Glamour. One by one, the Trollings escaped through the mouth and vanished into the brush, bushes, water, and reeds, scattering to the four winds.

Afterwards, with the rubbery Troll “bag” beginning its slow ectoplasmic melt, Conor looked down at the wolf. “Well… I’ll see you at your car then? I don’ know where your left your clothing and as much as I’d love to watch you put it all back on… I’d like to go someplace warmer and less wet.”

The wolf wagged its tail a couple of times, and then vanished at speeds only possible with certain supernaturals. Conor had seen it before and was still a bit envious.

After retrieving his hat and jacket. He took off his clothing one item at a time, wringing out the water as best as he could. His jacket was still mostly dry, so he took off his T-shirt and put on his jacket – zipping it up tight. Then, still wet from the waist down, but with less “dripping,” he started jogging to where Marisa had parked her car… back at the church parking lot. His Glamour would only last so long in fooling him into ignoring the cold and the wet. If he managed to avoid a cold from this he’d be lucky indeed.

He arrived at the car to see that Marisa was already inside. She had draped a gym towel across the passenger seat and the engine was idling. When he opened the door and looked in, Conor could tell that she was no longer wearing most of the clothing in which she had arrived. Instead, she was only wearing the T-shirt, yoga pants, and sandals. All quite rapidly thrown on, and her hair slightly disheveled. Conor couldn’t help but think that the look suited her well. After he got into the blissfully warm car, she started driving through the streets of Dallas.

After a long silence, broken only by road noise and the sounds of Dallas on a Friday night. “So… gleaming white skin, rings of fire, and … mini-me trolls?”

Conor chuckled, “Look, get me a nice hot black tea from the nearest double-doodle secret handshake coffee joint … as hot as they’ll sell them… an’ I’ll tell you what I know.”

<That’s… so much to take in.> She was sitting in her car, leaning the back into her head-rest.

“Si,” Conor tilted back his 20 oz, the last of it. He realized that he felt tremendously better than before. The abortion that was marketed as black tea that he’d just consumed was, at the very least hot and so it accomplished the goal.

<So why did you let the Trollings go free? Or was it Nuada> She looked over at him tiredly.

Conor thought before replying, <It was me, and it wasn’t my preference. We had no wizards, no flamethrowers, and no way to run down escapees… it would have been a poorly executed burning if we’d tried. If you let Trollings escape, you and your family have just earned an immortal Trollkin enemy that will hunt you down forever. Fae can be truly vindictive… if you’re going to try to kill them, best be sure.>

<Why do you sometimes refer to Fae as “they” and “them” and sometimes as “we” and “us?”>

Conor chuckled, <I knew you were a nurse, I didn’t know you did therapy as well!>

She smiled slyly, <Call it professional curiosity… or perhaps… highly unprofessional interest.>

He switched back to English, “I honestly don’ know. I don’ really like … eh … my people or what part of me is … I don’ really feel like I’m fully a part of it, yet I so clearly am. I hate so much of the Fae an’ Fairy, an’ yet, there’s so much good that I can do with the powers in my blood. I don’ even know if I can really answer that question because I don’ really know myself yet… That’s the depressingly esoteric navel gazing truth that is.”

Nodding, the blonde replied “Fair enough. So now what?”

Conor looked around the random parking lot into which they had pulled after buying the tea, “Well, I guess I’d be most appreciative if you could take me homeward. I enjoyed the fish fry and meeting your niece and her friend… oh … how is she by the by?”

With a laugh, “Traumatized. I think she’ll probably head down to the Church in the morning for confessional. It’s not every day an evil voice under a bridge that tried to grab you, so clearly delineates all your darkest flaws.”

“So a silver-lining then! Grand!” Conor put the empty cup into a cup holder. When he looked up, Marisa was staring at him.

She seemed to be thinking about something, “Or you could come up… and I invite you in.”

Conor looked out the windshield, “So one o’ these is your apartment? Wasn’t a random lot after all then.”

Marisa said nothing for a while, just quietly looking at Conor’s eyes. He returned the gaze and was nearly about to say something when she spoke first, “If I let you in Conor O’Neill… what am I getting myself into?”

Conor reached across and took her hand in his, “I hear the double-meanin’ in your question, I do… but I don’t know the answer myself. Not these days; not anymore. But … eh … are ye wantin’ to see where things go?”

The she-wolf looked down at the Irish boxer’s scarred knuckles, gently tracing one particularly raw scrape one across the middle knuckle of his left hand. As if coming to a decision, she nodded to herself. “Come on up Conor O’Neill. You need a bath and to dry out those damp clothes anyway… as for the rest… I guess we’ll cross those bridges as we get there.”