by Lee, Tawnya
“What would you have me do?”
“She’s sick. In a coma. She hasn’t woken up since that day at Tara. I want to make sure she never does. Curse her, kill her with magic, whatever it is you do. I want her gone, her and the ancient one who protects her, Breasal.”
“Why do you need my help? Why not just go and get her?”
“She’s too heavily protected and right now, our numbers are too few. Most of us scattered after what happened at Tara.”
“I’ll see what I can do. It must be done on Samhain. This is when the veil is thinnest between our world and the next. If she is in a weakened state, we can use this time to push her. I need to consult with my coven and decide the best action. But this will cost you.”
The snake on the ground hissed and raised its head a foot higher in front of Keita.
“And I insist on being paid before we kill the witch.”
“Then what incentive will you have to do what I want?” William asked.
“Do you question my integrity? Think twice, blood-drinker.” The snake bared its fangs and slithered toward the vampire.
“I’m not afraid of your snake.”
“You would be if you knew this snake had iron in its venom.”
“Very well. What do you want?” William didn’t dare challenge the witch’s statements.
“I want gold. And lots of it, Five million in bullion. And when this is over, I want to keep Moira’s body.”
“What on earth would you do with her body?”
“It doesn’t concern you. But I have plans for her. Oh don’t worry. I won’t bring her back from the dead. But I do believe her remains could make me very powerful. I intend to capitalize on that. I’ll be the most powerful cailleach in the world if I control her ashes.”
“Fine. I’ll get your gold. And you can have her carcass. As long as she is dead, I don’t fecking care what you do after.”
“Great. Bring the money here in a fortnight to the circle of stones. Tap three times on one of the stones. And remember: I keep her body.” Keita snapped her fingers, and the snake curled into a coil, hissing and slithering back to her feet. The snake curled up her torso. A flock of black birds, circled the sky swooping lower and lower. The sound of their wings created a loud sound, as if a gigantic fan were blowing. They flew around the witch and collapsed into fog. The witch was gone. Dense fog hugged the rebels, and the hissing of snakes and cawing of birds fell into the distance.
“Time to get the gold,” William said.
The three blood-drinkers flew into the air as the cawing of birds echoed through the forest.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Children of the Morrigan
Moira remained asleep, sealed off in her room, protected from the outside world. Kali, finally claiming Breasal’s home as her territory, lay curled up day and night at Moira’s feet. From time to time, she mewed, moved to Moira’s head, and licked her face, before returning back to her own perch in the bathroom closet. Faolon and the other guards continued to watch and feed Moira. At times, they would return with treats for the cat as well. She rewarded them with well-earned rubs against their ankles. If the treat was really to her liking, she’d lick their hand as they fed it to her. Just like Paul, Moira responded to the scent of blood but her physical body remained silent and still.
In the beginning, Moira was terrified and panicked in the darkness. Unable to move or see in the conventional way, she began to focus on her powers of telepathy. Intuitively, she attempted to speak to Paul. She could sense him and knew he heard her. His lack of response discouraged her, but day after day she tried. She didn’t understand their bond at first, but she knew it had to do with saving his life at Tara, sharing her essence with him.
Alone in the darkness, she had time to realize her mistakes. She had refused to stand for Na Fuilteacha. Stubborn, she had rejected what Breasal tried to tell her, that she was destined to save her kind and her world. The choices she’d made before Tara had led to destruction, chaos. She had furthered the schism when she could have made it whole. Regret tormented her. She wanted absolution, a mulligan, the chance to redo, to make things right. Now she was trapped in the darkness and forced to face her deepest flaws. Anger, stubbornness, and pride. And then there was the Raven Stone. She was connected to it. She revisited her memories of the day she touched it. The power scared her. If she could just touch it again, maybe that power would save her. Maybe it would give her a second chance. A chance to make things right.
When Paul finally responded, she basked in her connection to him. It alleviated some of her guilt. But she wanted more. She needed more; she needed her children. Missing them the most, she tried to speak with them the same way she did with Paul but discovered she couldn’t. It was as if she picked up a phone and dialed, but the phone on the other side never rang. Just empty silence. She tried Breasal, Seara, and Faolon. It was all the same result. Crushing blackness. Echoing silence. Despondency became an enemy she frequently encountered. Each time she thought of the stone, visions of an aged witch flitted across her subconscious. She’d never seen such a woman. She didn’t know if the witch was real, but it felt important.
Then one night, the witch whispered. Look into their dreams. Of course! Why had it taken her so long to think of this? With Derek and Tristan on her mind, she willed it. Let me see their dreams.
Silenced was replaced with sounds of laughter. As it grew louder, she began to see a forest. Sunlight was fading, and fireflys lit the sky. Tristan was ahead of her, running and laughing. “Wait for me!” Derek shouted. The laughter stopped abruptly as a great snake shot out from behind a branch.
“Derek, watch out!” Moira said.
“Mommy? Mommy, where are you?” Derek asked. “Why aren’t you here?”
“I’m with Paul. I’m in a cauldron. But I’m coming, sweetie! I’ll visit you here in your dreams. I’ll be back soon! Tell Uncle Breasal I gave Paul my essence. It’s important, sweetie. Tell him to get the Banba witch and the Raven Stone.”
Without warning, blackness replaced the forest. Silence fell. She’d lost connection when she felt Derek’s fear. Not fear of the snake, but fear of her. Why is he afraid of me?
She tried many times to speak to Breasal and the others. It never worked. She wondered if it was because she didn’t share the soul connection with everyone as she did Paul. The connection with her children was obvious. There were no powers on earth that could prevent her from reaching her children in their dreams, even if they couldn’t hear her thoughts by day. Not even true death could stop that, she thought.
She enjoyed the daily talks with Paul but grew restless without other stimulation. When telepathy bored her, she attempted astral projection. As a mortal, she believed the concept absurd, and the domain of the dim-witted, naive fool. But while Moira was unable to move, her mind was still sharp. The monotony of floating in black consciousness grew tiresome. She wanted--no craved--something to work toward. A goal of some kind to keep her occupied every day. She didn’t admit it to herself, but she feared without trying something she would be stuck in limbo for all eternity. So after she played with the limits of her telepathic ability, she branched out to telepathic travel.
Once as a mortal, she had read a pseudoscience article about how she just needed to relax and then imagine herself floating above her physical body, attached by a cord. Moira tried this for a day or two but had no luck. She decided to simply think of the place she wished to be and will herself there. The first time it happened, Moira thought she was dreaming. She thought of the cabin in Arkansas. She imagined the dirt path and the busted down station wagon. Suddenly she felt immersed in the world of pine trees and cicadas. She glided through the rooms and looked over the photos. She noticed the food in the fridge covered in green fuzz. A trail of ants conquered and claimed a Cheerio lying on the kitchen tile. The detail was so real and so vivid, it occurred to Moira that she might really be in Arkansas.
She soared out to the backyard, felt the whoosh
of wall as she mentally pushed herself outside. She looked up at the tree and saw a crow perched on a limb. The crow sensed her presence yet was unable to see her. He hopped side to side, a nervous dance on the limb.
Moira then willed herself to Inverness and floated beside a man watching television at a pub. He sat cradling his mug, peering into the screen. A BBC One newscaster reported of “yet another home” found with a dead family inside, all drained of their blood. The woman on the screen reported that it was the third such home found in Scotland this week.
Moira was concerned. The story made her uneasy. She travelled to each home and watched as crime-scene detectives snapped photos of dead bodies, grey in pallor, eyes open staring ahead. She sensed the mortals’ fear. They did not yet believe vampires existed. But when she listened to their thoughts, she sensed fear and wonder. A man snapping photos of a crime scene thought, “This looks like a fucking vampire killed them.” Moira saw the blood splattered on walls, spilled on the carpet, the corpses pale, white, and bloodless. While she couldn’t feel sorry about her own need to feed on humans, she hated the carnage she saw. If this continued, it would destabilize her children’s world. They wouldn’t be safe. And it would be her fault.
Moira, again despondent, returned to her physical body, and anchored her soul in her flesh. She gave in to the sludge of melancholy and began floating in and out of consciousness. While she remained unaware of her surroundings, her flesh began to burn. In her feverish state, she gripped the sheets and arched her back, moaning. This change disturbed Breasal and the others. They did their best to lower her temperature, icing her down when possible. Seara began to wipe her brow and murmur soft nothings in her ear.
Then it happened. Moira began to hallucinate. Or maybe it was real. She couldn’t tell. Part of her believed she was simply dreaming. Part of her knew it wasn’t just a dream.
She saw a woman dressed in red. The woman sat on a cow, as one might ride side saddle on a horse. She began to caw as a crow, and as she did, her body shifted into an oversized black hooded crow. Moira was fascinated by the crow-woman. She felt as if she knew her. There was a recognition but Moira couldn’t place who she was. Suddenly, the crow hopped to the ground. A flash of smoke swirled around the bird and Moira saw the woman again. This time she was clothed in black robes. She had jet black her, wore a cloak of feathers, and held a staff with a cow’s skull hinged at the top of it.
The woman looked straight into her eyes and said, “Moira.”
Moira knew. She was standing in front of the Morrigan.
“Yes, my Queen,” said Moira.
“We are alike, you and I. Fierce and passionate. Devastating in battle. Breasal made you as I wanted. Always the fierce protector. You must not only protect your children. You must protect mine.”
“Who are your children?” Moira asked.
“Banba witches and Na Fuilteacha. These are my children. And they are on the verge of war. I chose you and have transformed you in my cauldron these many months. You were chosen for your strength. You never saw it, but it was there. Always there. And now it is even more so. You are stronger than any of my children. Do not resist my call. You will not like the punishment I mete out for those who don’t obey.”
“How am I to protect these people?”
“You must remove those who would seek to destroy their brothers and sisters. They have been poisoned and are rotten on the inside. I must have them removed. You must restore balance and honor to the Tribunal. And you must restore community between Na Fuilteacha and Banba witch. A great war will break out, and it is necessary to root out the putrefaction. But balance must come. And it will only come if you can successfully lead my children together. You have the power to do this. I will aid your hand in victory. But you must listen and heed me when I call you and do the right thing, or you will die and your children will die.”
“How will I lead them? And how will I know what to do?”
“You must do the right thing.”
“What right thing? How will I know?”
The woman faded and disappeared. Moira shouted after her, “How will I know? How will I know?” unaware it was the first time she had spoken out loud in many months. The guards sent word to Breasal, informing him of the change in her. Moira, distraught, was unaware of all the commotion around her.
While Breasal was encouraged, her fever had not yet broken. Other than Paul, he had never known a blood-drinker to carry a fever and had no idea how it would impact her or why she was inflicted. He thought perhaps it was due to her being both witch and fuilteach. He wondered what other ways this would change her reaction to things such as iron or sunlight. Would it be more intense? Or less?
Moira stopped shouting after the woman. She shifted into another dream. She saw two grown men. Both were tall, over six feet each, and beautiful to her eyes. The men were angry at each other, and yelling insults “Betrayer!”, “Coward!”
Moira stared closely at them, and realized the two men were her children, but grown. Tristan and Derek both standing, arms locked and wrestling. Their faces were red. Sweat poured down their foreheads. In her dream, the boys noticed her. Derek, angry, folded his arms. “I can’t take part! Look at what they’ve done to you!” he shouted at her. Suddenly, he stood 100 yards from her. He turned his back to her. She began to plead to him to come back and join her, but he only shook his head and yelled.
“Never!”
Tristan glared at him. “It’s not her fault, you fool!” He reached for his mother, but just as he was inches away from Moira, she saw him clutch his throat. Blood seeped between his fingers and down his neck. “NO!” Moira screamed, reaching out to grab him. As she did, he vanished. Moira beat her chest and sobbed. She screamed. And as she screamed in her dream, every light bulb in Breasal’s home burst. The guards standing over her clutched their ears, blood trickling down their earlobes.
Moira stopped writhing and screaming and collapsed into silence. She neither moved nor dreamed nor travelled for the rest of the night. Her fever broke and her skin felt as ice and took on a blueish tint. Breasal sent Faolon to hunt for her, hoping the fresh blood would ease her suffering.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
They Are Connected
As Moira lay comatose, everyone in the house was concerned. But no one missed her like her children. Derek and Tristan cried themselves to sleep each night, asking for their mother. At first, thinking Moira would waken any day, Breasal told them she had left on a trip while they were sleeping and that she would be back soon. But when days turned to weeks, and weeks to months, Breasal realized he couldn’t keep them from the truth. With the nannies help, he explained to them that their mother had been badly injured. He let them know she was sleeping and the doctors didn’t know when she would wake up. For the mortals’ benefit, he arranged to have monitoring devices installed in her room so it would appear Moira was under medical care. The guards pretended to be nurses hired to give care and foster her healing.
Each day, he brought the children into her room and allowed them to sit with their mom. They brought her drawings and toys. Breasal hung their artwork on the wall next to her bed.
“Why is she sleeping so much, Uncle Breasal?” asked Derek.
“Well, Derek, your mommy got very sick. Her body is sleeping so all her energy can go into healing herself.”
“Can we sleep with her?” Tristan asked.
“No, I’m not sure that would be good,” Breasal said.
“Oh please? We can sing to her,” Tristan pleaded.
“Please, Breasal!” Derek joined his brother.
Breasal looked at the children, depressed by his inability to heal Moria, and felt guilt seep into his bones. Watching their pleading eyes, the thought occurred to him that regular contact with her children may speed her healing.
“Okay. I’ll let you fall asleep beside her every night. But when you are asleep we’ll move you to your own rooms. This way we can make sure your mommy sleeps really good.”
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br /> Tristan smiled. He snuggled in closer to his mom’s side.
“I love you, mommy. You’re the bestest mom ever.” He stroked her hair and kissed her cheek.
“I love you more than Tristan.” Derek wrapped his chubby arm around his mother’s waist.
Breasal watched the boys snuggle their mom and compete in their love for her. He thought he noticed the temperature in the room rise but was afraid his mind was playing tricks on him.
“All right boys. Time to take your baths. Follow Nanny Beckett and Nanny Piper out. I’ll let you back in later.”
The boys kissed their mother one last time and climbed out of the bed, each taking the hand of a Nanny. Breasal looked at Moira and saw a single blood tear slide down her cheek. It both stirred him and gave him hope. He set standing orders for the nannies to bring in the boys just before bedtime to lay beside their mom. Once they were asleep, the guards moved the children back to their rooms so that Moira could feed.
This pattern became the new ritual. Week after week, the boys slept by their mother, waking in their nursery the next morning. This continued for nearly a month before Derek began to have nightmares. Just as Paul’s night terrors caused the whole house to stir, so did the screams of a two-year-old boy.
The first night it happened, Derek and Tristan had been sleeping in their room for almost forty-five minutes when Derek began to scream.
The nannies and Faolon rushed to the boys’ room. By this point, Derek’s cries had woken Tristan. The sheer panic in Derek’s voice moved Tristan to tears, so that both boys clutched to the crib railing, screaming for help. The Nannies hushed them back to sleep, patting their bottoms, and singing them songs.