Banshee: The Story of Giselle Deschanel: Crimson & Clover Stories, #3

By Sarah M. Cradit

Dive into the secret, ancient, powerful world of two New Orleans families, the Deschanels and the Sullivans...

Lagniappe /ˌlanˈyap/ " a little something extra"


I was eighteen when I died.

I'd been mere moments from throwing down a full house and winning the game with my elder sister, Nathalie, in the back seat of our family's town car. Ah, to see the delicious frustration as I finally bested her. I'd waited the whole ride for it.

Disaster happened awfully fast. Crunch of metal. Hissing engine. Wheels spinning. The fleeting scents of fetid swamp water and sultry summer air.

Then, at that precise moment, I was aware of my own coming death. Nothing flashed before my eyes. No treasured memories. My mind, I learned, was not wired to look back. Only forward. My fight-or-flight was set firmly to fight.

So, yes, I was eighteen when I died.

But then, at eighteen, I was reborn.

The Saga of Crimson & Clover
A sprawling dynasty. An ancient bloodline. A world of magic and mayhem.
Welcome to the Saga of Crimson & Clover, where all series within are linked but can be equally enjoyed on their own.

Series List
The House of Crimson & Clover Series: Dive into the secretive, ancient, powerful world of the Deschanels & Sullivans
The Midnight Dynasty Series: There's no place like home.
Vampires of the Merovingi Series: From the ashes of the sorcerer kings rose an empire.
The Seven Series: Seven siblings. Seven years. Seven spellbinding novels.
 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Storyville Press
• Release date: Dec 29, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201827526

Sarah M. Cradit

Sarah is the USA Today and International Bestselling Author of over forty contemporary and epic fantasy stories, and the creator of the Kingdom of the White Sea and Saga of Crimson & Clover universes.   Born a geek, Sarah spends her time crafting rich and multilayered worlds, obsessing over history, playing her retribution paladin (and sometimes destruction warlock), and settling provocative Tolkien debates, such as why the Great Eagles are not Gandalf's personal taxi service. Passionate about travel, she's been to over twenty countries collecting sparks of inspiration, and is always planning her next adventure.   Sarah and her husband live in a beautiful corner of SE Pennsylvania with their three tiny benevolent pug dictators.     Connect with Sarah:   sarahmcradit.com Instagram: @sarahmcradit Facebook: @sarahmcradit

Book preview

Banshee: The Story of Giselle Deschanel

Banshee: The Story of Giselle Deschanel

A Crimson & Clover Story

Sarah M. Cradit

Copyright © 2017 Sarah M. Cradit

All rights reserved. This book or parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission of the publisher, except as provided by United States of America copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, at Attention: Permissions Coordinator, at the address below.

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Cover Design by Sarah M. Cradit

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Publisher Contact:

[e-mail]

www.sarahmcradit.com

Contents

1. Death

2. Rebirth

3. Abbeville

4. New Orleans

5. Janie

6. Adrienne

7. Oz

8. First Date

9. A Reason

10. Honeymoon

11. Reckoning

12. And Beyond

St. Charles at Dusk Excerpt

The Storm and the Darkness Excerpt

Also by Sarah M. Cradit

Crimson & Clover Connections

About the Author

Death

Iwas eighteen when I died.

I’d been moments from throwing down a full house and winning the game with my elder sister, Nathalie, in the back seat of our family’s town car. Ah, to see the delicious frustration as I finally bested her. I’d waited the whole ride for it.

Disaster happened awfully fast. Crunch of metal. Hissing engine. Wheels spinning. The fleeting scents of fetid swamp water and sultry summer air.

Then, at that precise moment, I was aware of my own coming death. Nothing flashed before my eyes. No treasured memories. My mind, I learned, was not wired to look back. Only forward. My fight-or-flight was set firmly to fight.

So, yes, I was eighteen when I died.

But then, at eighteen, I was reborn.

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Giselle Adele Deschanel is the name I was given at birth. It’s a fine name; a lovely, lyrical-sounding moniker that might lead you to believe the wearer was a creature of exquisite beauty and refinement. If I told you I was all these things, and now am no longer any of these things, would you believe me?

Does it matter?

Do you care?

Whoever was in charge of this intelligent design didn’t. My life was only beginning. I was only a few weeks shy of stepping foot on the campus of Tulane, where I would make mistakes, yes, but where I would become… There isn’t an end to that sentence because I never made it far enough to decide.

And now here I am.

Here we are, as you’re still listening.

Shall we begin?

Rebirth

Let’s return to the scene of the accident.

If you’re at all aware of the news in South Louisiana, you’re familiar with the basics already: Charles Deschanel, heir to the vast and unending Deschanel estate; his wife, Cordelia; and daughters, meet their untimely end in a tragic car accident en route to a family vacation in the Gulf of Mexico.

All but one.

The youngest, Adrienne, disappears without a trace. She doesn’t re-emerge for three years, and when she does, she comes with an unbelievable story about a covert rescue and eons of memory loss. She becomes the next, and always, darling of the media where the Deschanels are concerned, eclipsing even our half-brother, Nicolas, who was not on the trip and inherited everything.

But this is not Adrienne’s story or Nicolas’. It is mine.

In the future where we now live, I’m a faded memory, a sad shake of the head when someone new in town hears the story of how the most treasured family in greater New Orleans came to an unspeakable end.

My body, or most of it anyway, was never recovered. I’m not here to tell you I miraculously survived, living off nutria and prolific bayou flora. Pieces of my body are interred in the family tomb at Ophélie, our family’s plantation. Enough of me for my brother Nicolas to feel right in paying respects when he lays flowers at the base of our crypt. The rest of me found home in the bellies of gators and snakes or dissolved in the gasses of the unforgiving swamp.

Now might be the time to share that my family comes from a long line of witches and warlocks. Mind readers, yes, but also healers, elementalists, telekinetics, and all manner of amazing and talented creatures. Yet, through some ironic twist of fate, none of my immediate family was granted such gifts. Or any gifts. Benign, the family calls those of us who can do nothing amazing and wonderful, those of us who cannot move objects across the room with a simple flick of the mind, or lay hands on the injured and see them whole.

So imagine my shock when