Storm Boys Read online

  Copyright © 2019 by Davis Lavender

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Series badge - Silvana G. Sánchez © Selfpub Designs selfpubdesigns.com

  Author logo - Qamber Designs and Media qamberdesignsandmedia.com

  Five fold Celtic knot - C. J. Collins

  A Note on Storm Boys

  Storm Boys is set in Ireland and written with the English terminology, spelling and grammar used there, with the odd exception. Like “elevator” in the first sentence. Because sometimes a US term just sounded better.

  Other than Devin, all the main characters are based on actual figures in ancient Irish and early Christian mythology. There are many different versions of their stories—I hope you enjoy this one.

  This is a medium burn gay harem paranormal romance with multiple love interests (MMM+). It is the first in a series.

  If you’ve ever summoned a storm

  and made it out the other side,

  this is for you.

  In memory of Scott,

  who should have made it.

  Contents

  1. Devin

  2. Devin

  3. Fintan

  4. Devin

  5. Bren

  6. Devin

  7. Airech

  8. Devin

  9. Fintan

  10. Devin

  11. Fintan

  12. Devin

  13. Devin

  14. Devin

  15. Cap

  16. Bren

  17. Airech

  18. Fintan

  19. Devin

  20. Bren

  21. Devin

  22. Cap

  23. Airech

  24. Fintan

  25. Devin

  26. Devin

  27. Bren

  28. Bren

  29. Airech

  30. Devin

  31. Airech

  32. Devin

  33. Devin

  34. Devin

  35. Cap

  36. Devin

  37. Devin

  38. Zaz

  Storm Angel

  Acknowledgments

  About Davis Lavender

  Chapter 1

  Devin

  Devin’s heart dropped like a runaway elevator. There was no way he was getting out of this one. The mob had him cornered and the crush of bodies seemed to edge closer every time he blinked. A few more backward steps and he would be plummeting from the clifftop, seven hundred feet into the raging ocean.

  Beside him, Bren cleared his throat. Devin didn’t need to turn his head to know he was getting The Look. He glanced sideways on the slim chance he might be wrong. No. There it was.

  Bren’s piercing gaze shifted away from Devin to the crowd in front of them. “Come on, Dev, they’re getting restless,” he muttered.

  Devin sighed. “Is there not anything else we can do?”

  “We promised we’d do whatever they asked. Stop stalling. In five minutes, it’ll all be over.” Raising his hands, Bren curled his long fingers, ready for action.

  “I can’t go through with it, Bren. Not again. You’ll have to do it without me.”

  “That won’t keep them happy. You’re the one they want, and you know it.”

  Devin sighed again. Some days he struggled to work his magic on demand. He pushed his messy blond hair back from his face, a nervous habit that was all the more satisfying because he knew Bren found it annoying.

  “Devin!”

  “Fine.” Devin snatched up his fiddle and bow from the case at his feet. Turning to the throng, he gave them his most charming smile, transforming him from slightly sullen to boyishly handsome in an instant.

  “Folks, we hope you’re enjoying your visit to our spectacular cliffs,” he said. “This will be our last tune, and we’re going to play Danny Boy, because you asked for it. Twenty. Fecking. Times,” he added under his breath, still smiling, his comment drowned out by the enthusiastic applause. Bren glared daggers at him, and Devin winked back.

  “Just play your harp, Gabriel.”

  Shaking his head, Bren started plucking the harp’s strings, sending murmurs of appreciation through the audience at the sound of his sweet music. He answered another scattering of applause with an even sweeter grin. Devin fought the urge to roll his grey eyes toward the matching clouds. Bren’s heavenly cheekbones might have them fooled, but his instrument was the only angelic thing about him.

  With the silver Atlantic as a backdrop, Devin began to sing, accompanying himself on his fiddle, hardly taking any notice of the words. He didn’t need to—he could belt them out in his sleep. For all he knew, he did.

  He could always rely on the crowd to join in after the first couple of lines anyway. A few of them went one better, breaking out random rifts like starry-eyed hopefuls on Ireland’s Got Talent. Most of the voices blended in harmony with Devin’s; others made Bren, who had the ear of a classically trained musician, wince with almost physical pain.

  Devin felt his bad temper unravelling. The truth was, he’d play Danny Boy on a loop until his fingers bled if it meant his life would always feel this simple and uncomplicated. When they were busking, his restless mind finally let him be, his dark thoughts dissolving into the mist. And that was one thing about this place. Mist was guaranteed.

  A lot of the people standing there listening were as lost as he was, travelling in the hope of finding a piece of their own puzzle. He couldn’t help liking them, even the ones in the Keep Calm and Leprechaun t-shirts. Especially the ones in those shirts. Not that he would ever admit that to Bren.

  The air around him hummed, alive with music, his senses raw to the static energy crackling underneath. The hairs on his arms shot up to meet it. No wonder he was being such a prickly bastard today—storms always put him on edge.

  A sudden gust sent a freezing blast into his face, whipping his hair back and almost loosening the fiddle from his grip. Bursts of icy raindrops stung his bare neck. His foot snapped out onto fiddle case as it flipped, barely in time to stop it from skidding into the low retaining wall behind him.

  As it surged from the east, the glacial wind pushed at the people huddled around Devin, forcing them all closer to the cliff edge. The chorus of voices sputtered and died as a solid sheet of water poured down on them from the darkening sky.

  Scattering in panic, the crowd hurried to the paths that led to the visitor centre and safety as needles of freezing rain pounded Devin’s face. He dragged his bow to a sudden halt, killing off Danny Boy with a strangled squawk.

  “Do you think you could throw a few coins our way before you run off screaming? No? Okay,” Devin called after the disappearing backs. “Well, that was worth it.” He grinned wryly at Bren.

  A woman in a three-piece suit, holding the jacket over her neat bun, was threading her way through the stampeding sea of leisurewear from the opposite direction. A little breathless, she reached the two men.

  “There’s a red weather warning,” she said, raising her voice over the wind. “We’re evacuating everyone to the centre until it dies down.”

  “What, this balmy breeze?” Bren asked. “It’s practically tropical. Have they not heard of the Gulf Stream?”

  “No arguments, lads. No point staying out here anyway. The only living creatures left will be the birds, and they’re cash poor. Prefer to barter in half-eaten hamburgers.”

  “We weren’t planning on serenading the seagulls, Emer.” Devin strained to blunt the knife-edge of his voice. This steady gig depended on him keeping his sarcasm in check, and he was probably
on his third strike by now. Maybe even his thirty-third strike. “We were heading home after that last song anyway.”

  “Sorry. Lockdown means lockdown. You’ll have to stay in the centre until we get the okay. I’ll pay you extra to entertain them, keep their minds off the storm.” Emer’s winning smile made it seem like a request, but that didn’t fool Devin. “Look at it this way—you won’t get an audience more captive than this.”

  Devin groaned, his shoulders slumping. “Then why do I feel like the hostage? Sweet Jesus. What’s the bet they’ll want all ten verses of Rattling Bog?”

  Bren shrugged as he slid the cover over his harp. “It’s your call, Emer. You’re the site manager, and I’m the lowly busker. The only thing we have in common is our raging passion for each other.”

  “I’ve known more passion than you’ve played semi-quavers, harp boy,” Emer said. “Get inside or get blown to Newfoundland. I don’t particularly care, but if you mess with my health and safety statistics, you won’t be plucking anything in my town again.” She turned her back on them, moving to shepherd the last of the stragglers towards the centre.

  “She likes me,” Bren said. Another blast of frigid air came barrelling at them, making his harp shudder. It was over a metre high and awkward to handle, even for someone as tall and fit as Bren. Devin could see his wiry arms straining as he tried to stop it from toppling over.

  “I think you’re getting carried away. Literally. Go, before you start para-gliding with that thing.”

  “What about the rest of our gear? Will you be okay on your own?” Bren looked doubtful.

  Devin snorted. “I thought I was the one with dyslexia. I’m 21, not 12.”

  “That would be dyscalculia.”

  “What?”

  “If it’s numbers you get mixed up, it’s dyscalculia.”

  “Speaking of correct terminology, is it still mansplaining, when it’s to another man?” Devin wondered. “I’ll be fine, thanks, Dad. You get your harp inside, and your arse with it.”

  “I never knew you were so fond of my arse.” Bren raised an eyebrow.

  “Not in a lustful way. You’re too bony.” Devin slapped the back of Bren’s jeans. “Ow! See? It’s like sticking my hand into a crypt. Now get going, Skeletor. I’ll follow you.”

  “You do know that Skeletor is pretty buff, right?”

  “Could we, maybe, delay this discussion of eighties cartoon characters until after the hurricane?”

  “Actually, he was a comic character fir—”

  Devin gave Bren a look as black as the sky.

  “Okay, okay, I’m going.”

  Bren lifted his harp with a grunt and began to inch his way along the path. Devin stood for a minute, watching the gusts snatch at his friend’s dark auburn hair as he fought his way towards shelter.

  He gave himself a shake. Time to pack up his fiddle and their other gear and get the hell out of there before the full fury of the storm hit. He’d been busking at the cliffs since he was a kid—he knew what was coming. Even so, compared to the crowd at the centre, this felt like the lesser evil. The thought of being shut in anywhere made him queasy. He hated to feel trapped. Confined.

  A rising note in the wind triggered a deep sense of dread in his gut as an echo from the past tugged at his memory. The sky was screaming, and he wanted to scream back—howling like an animal, to match the crying gale.

  Spooked, he took off running, his fiddle and bow still clutched in his hands, his feet finding the rough cliff path north. He knew every inch of the ground. His breathing was ragged and harsh but his drumming steps were calm and certain, carrying him rapidly away. He wasn’t even sure where he was headed. If he kept moving, he would end up back home, but that wasn’t where his frayed mind seemed to want to take him. Fifteen minutes into his frantic dash, he reared to a sudden stop.

  A blast buffeted him closer to the edge. After a second’s hesitation, he stepped up onto the crumbling drystone wall and glanced down. The sea at the bottom of this drop held a special magnetic power, beckoning and repelling him. Here the memory of his parents was a diamond blade, dazzling him with its clarity while it lacerated his heart. This was where he felt closest to them, despite the pain. But that was no surprise. This rocky outcrop was the nearest thing he had to a grave.

  “You want to hear me scream? How about this?”

  Devin tucked his fiddle under his chin and raised his bow. He started to play, matching the rising fury, mimicking the shrieking in the air around him, accompanying the brutal beauty of the storm.

  The squall battered Devin’s back and his fiddle sang as the waves reared up, reaching for him. He answered them with bitter, jagged notes, so different from his usual lyrical bow stokes. A deafening roar almost drowned out the strange duet, and his face blanched underneath his freckles.

  A tower of water was approaching, dwarfing the swell around it. Just the right conditions had to converge to create something as rare and beautiful as this wave. It was a terrifying sight, almost forty feet high at its peak. Some people called it the perfect wave. The locals called it Aileen’s, after the headland Devin was standing on, Aill na Searrach. Foal’s Leap.

  Only a certain type of surfer would tackle Aileen’s. And, in all its history, only one body surfer had made an attempt. But that had been pure madness. Suicide. Devin had first seen that monster as an eleven-year-old when he watched it swallow his father, Ryan Donovan, Body Surfing Champion of Europe. He’d witnessed its savage power a handful of times since then, but he’d never seen it quite like this.

  His eyes caught on a shape in the middle of the wall of water. He followed its progress as it moved, being carried by the wave. No. Riding it. It began to zigzag, navigating the sheer drop with apparent ease as the treacherous barrel rolled towards the shore. Either it was driftwood caught in a bizarre current, or the shadowy form was moving with deliberate intent. Maybe a seal or a turtle?

  Watching it break the surface, Devin gasped and the fiddle’s tune juddered. What the…?

  He saw gleaming dark hair. Under it, golden skin. It was too far off for him to make out any features clearly, but there was no mistaking what he was looking at.

  It was a man.

  Chapter 2

  Devin

  Devin watched the man manoeuvring out and away from the barrel, escaping the deadly force of the wave’s curling lip. He slowed to a stop, treading the choppy water, tilting his face towards the clifftop. For a long moment, the mysterious figure seemed to take him in, as Devin struggled to make sense of what he saw.

  It couldn’t be a surfer. No-one would have made it down the treacherous goat track of a cliff path in those winds. The only other way to reach the wave was to be towed out by a local with a jet ski, and this weather was too ferocious, even for the village dare-devils. Bitter fear stung his throat.

  It’s happening to me too.

  His mother’s delusions and hallucinations. This was how they’d started. Without a body to bury, she became convinced the same savage sea that swept his father away would bring him back. And her belief never wavered, not once in the three years before Devin lost her, too. He’d spent so many restless nights standing on this very same spot, trying to convince her to come home, shivering beside her while her eyes scoured the water.

  But this wasn’t some apparition of his father. It didn’t have his Dad’s blond hair, sun-faded and salt-streaked, even lighter than Devin’s.

  The fiddle music started up again. Devin was only vaguely aware of his cold-deadened arm moving the bow, like a fairy tale prince under an enchantment.

  Another head surfaced next to the first. It was hard for Devin to be sure in the gathering darkness, but this man’s hair looked shorter and his face paler. Both men observed him calmly, and he played on under their unrelenting scrutiny. They shouldn’t have been able to hear his music over the wind and the waves, but he somehow knew they were listening. He couldn’t have asked for a more appreciative audience for his impromptu performanc
e, even if they were hallucinations. Or guys with a death wish even stronger than his own.

  Behind them the wave was building again, arcing over their heads, preparing to release its devastating fury. They didn’t even seem to notice, let alone make any move to avoid it.

  A third form burst between the first two. Powerfully built, he loomed over the others. Straining to get a better look, Devin caught the glowering, forbidding look that darkened the man’s features. It seemed like he was only there for an instant before all three disappeared as if pulled by an invisible force, sucked under the surface cleanly in the time it took Devin to blink.

  Abruptly the wind changed direction, and his eyes began to tear as he faced it. He blinked again. There was nothing there. His heart galloped on, his hair plastered against his head, his ears burning from the cold. He scanned the sea. Aileen’s was dying mid-break, collapsing back into the ocean. An aching feeling of longing pinned his feet to the ground and his stumbling fingers to his strings.

  “What the fuck are you doing?”

  Devin tumbled forward with a start and Bren hastily grabbed the back of his soaked jumper to steady him.

  “Careful, that’s vintage,” Devin said.

  Bren hauled him away from the sheer drop with one powerful arm.

  “Oh sorry, my mistake.” Bren loosened his hold. “Didn’t know perfectly dressed corpse was what you were going for. Thought you might want to live.”