by Lee, Tawnya
She wanted to slay every man who, in weakness and depravity, preyed on women. She wanted to purge humanity of the pedophile and rapist, the wife beater. She wanted to protect women almost as much as she wanted to protect her own sons.
Moira looked at Breasal who turned her. She was still angry but her anger was mollified with the idea that he had only fulfilled what was meant to be. He had given her a power no mortal, no one but the gods, had previously wielded. Moira had not been mothered; she had not known the protective embrace and nurturing love a child deserved and needed. It had been her sole purpose to give what she never had to her boys. Breasal had taken this away from her. But now she realized that in its place was a desire and ability to do so much more.
“I don’t care about this fucking rebellion. These were your problems long before I came around. And I don’t give a shit for the politics and intrigue. I couldn’t care less for your laws and Tribunal. Tonight I hunted a man. I discerned his thoughts and saw he deserved to die. I saved a woman from his depravity. I wrenched the heart from his very chest and squeezed it dry of every drop and I dumped his body in Loch Ness like the sack of shit he was. Maybe I am the fulfillment of Morrigan’s promise. But I’m not here to solve your fucking shit. I was born to avenge Kennocha and every woman who has suffered her fate. I was born to purge mankind of its filth. I’ll protect my children, and I’ll avenge Banba’s daughter. I’ll destroy whomever gets in my fucking way. I won’t be anyone’s pawn. Do you understand?”
Moira looked from blood fae to blood fae. Without waiting on their answer, she walked from the room and flew up the stairs to the nursery. The room was dark, but Moira had no need for light. Her vision had only improved in the days since she had turned. She could see Derek and Tristan lying in their crib. She walked over to them and caressed their backs. The smell of lavender wafted up to her. She could smell the lanolin in the lotion the nannies applied earlier that evening and the shampoo in their hair. She whispered sweet nothings in the darkness, as the deepest, purest love washed over her.
“Morrigan, I am yours. I will avenge my sisters. Protect those that are mine. Destroy those who would destroy my children. But I have no interest in the squabbles of vampires.”
Derek began to stir and whimper. Moira patted his butt, and sang softly, the words rising to her, meeting her in righteous anger.
Should they scare you, make you cry
I will pluck out both their eyes
If they pinch you, make you scream
I’ll fill their lives with agony
I will tear them limb from limb
Spill their blood so slowly
I will rip out their organs
Pull their skin off slowly
I will watch their panicked eyes
I will laugh at their pitiful cry
I’ll save their heart for very last
I’ll kill them oh so slowly
I’ll send a million birds from high
To pluck and pull and terrify
They’ll regret the day they tried
To hurt my children, make them cry
I’ll break off each finger and toe
Rip them off slowly
So don’t you dare, don’t you try
To harm these babies of mine
Only days ago, Moira had burned with shame. Shame from being raped, guilt from the worry she had killed her family. Now she knew without a doubt she’d killed them. She had wanted Jake dead. She wanted Brad dead for bringing him to the cabin. The family who had refused to believe her stories, who said Moira had only wanted attention and thought her guilty of lying and ruining a dead boy’s reputation, all died. All of them. Every single family member--the uncle whose car wrapped around the pole, cousins with listeria, random food poisoning, the aunt beheaded by a loose log from a semi--all of it was her.
As a mortal, this would’ve wracked Moira with guilt. And when she thought about it, it had wracked her with guilt. But she hadn’t asked for her gifts. And she had no way of knowing her thoughts alone could be so powerful when she was younger. But now she knew. She knew and she felt unstoppable. She had found her purpose.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The Raven Stone
Daylight seeped into the nursery between the gaps of window frame and curtains. Moira sat in the rocker, watching through the slats of the crib, the boys’ chests rise and fall in their sleep. Peace shrouded the room, punctuated by the chirps of morning birds outside. Still mostly dark in the room, the pastel blues and greens of the nursery looked washed of color. Shadows clung to the corners, and loomed out toward her. She thought back to the day Derek and Tristan were born. It had been the happiest day of her life. She hated being pregnant. It had been miserable for her. There was very little in What to Expect When You’re Expecting that hadn’t happened to her. It started with Hyperemesis Gravidarum, extreme morning sickness, that lasted just past her sixth month. Then gestational diabetes. She’d had to write down every single thing she ate, take meds, and prick her finger four times a day. After week 31, she developed preeclampsia. She’d been put on strict bed rest in the hospital with constant monitoring. She stayed for roughly 4 weeks before they decided to induce labor. By that point, she was thrilled to finally have the pain of contractions, despite the fact it felt as if the twins were trying to rip her apart from the inside out. Knowing it was almost over was a relief.
During the nightmarish pregnancy, John Michael had been great. He rubbed her feet, helped paint her toenails, deflected her irrational mood swings, and was always ready to make an ice-cream run at midnight when the craving kicked in. He was the first person in her life that loved her without criticizing her without demeaning her as part of the package. He was the calm when she was the storm. But she’d been too busy suffering to notice. She had one regret. She hadn’t thanked him. She thought she’d have more time.
After fourteen hours of grueling labor and one hour of pushing, Derek, then Tristan, came into the world. Because of the stadol and intense fatigue, she’d been vaguely aware of the nurses rubbing her tummy. Bits of conversation stuck with her: “lost too much blood,” “doctor’s worried.” She wanted to see the boys but was too drugged to speak up properly. So while two nurses continued to massage her abdomen, she watched Gayle and John Michael holding the twins, oohing and ahhing. She wanted to hold them but was too groggy to speak. When she realized they were leaving the room with the boys, she snapped out of the fog.
“They’re my babies. Give them to me.”
Gayle and John Michael ran to her side and positioned her so she could hold the boys in her arms. That moment, the first time she held them, was the single best memory of her life. Her euphoria was so deep it burst through her chest and swelled like a bubble around her and her babies. At that moment, she would’ve endured the agony and pain of pregnancy ten times over to experience that joy again. Her heart was now living outside her chest, in the form of two baby boys. She had never been more in love.
“We did it, Moira. You did it. You did so good, baby.”
John Michael kissed the top of her head. Tears streamed his cheeks. If she’d known he’d only have a week with them, she would’ve kissed him back. Let him hold them longer. Said what she’d been thinking but was too doped to say. “Thank you, babe.” But the words never left her lips.
She snapped back to the present when Tristan began to stretch in the crib. He caught her glance and pulled himself up, reaching for her over the railing. Moira lifted him up and kissed his head.
“Hello baby. Momma loves you so much.”
She carried him to the changing table and was changing his diaper when Nanny Piper opened the door.
“Oh, Good morning, Ms. MacCauley.”
“You can call me Moira. How are you doing?”
“Quite all right. I believe I overslept. It seems the power glitched late last night and my alarm clock went out. If not for those birds outside, I think I might’ve slept all morning.”
“Yes, I was awake
when the power went out,” Moira said. Hell, I made it happen.
“I can take over the nappy.”
“Oh no, I want to do it,” said Moira, as she lifted Tristan’s legs and cleaned him. “So, what will you be doing today with the boys?”
“Ah, Nanny Beckett and I thought it would do them good to get some fresh air. So while the weather’s for it, we will go for a stroll after breakfast.”
“Sounds good. I wish I could go. I’d love to see what they think of the place.” Moira powdered his rear, and snapped a fresh diaper on him.
“Join us! It’s lovely out. Weather like this...”
“I can’t,” Moira cut her off. “I have issues with sunlight.”
“Oh yes, I forget. Breasal mentioned you had a touch of photophobia. I’m so sorry I mentioned it.”
“No, it’s okay. But please, take pictures of them, will you?”
“Of course, ma’am.”
“I’ll change Derek too, and then I best go lie down. I’m a bit tired. I was up all night.”
Moira picked up Derek. “Hey, sleepy head,” she whispered. She kissed him and changed his diaper then set him down. He toddled to the toy box and grabbed a toy police car.
“Mommy, a wee-hoo!”
“I see that! Wow!”
She looked at Nanny Piper. “Anything that has a siren is a wee-hoo because of the sound they make. You know, ‘wee-hoo, wee-hoo’.”
“Oh how clever! What a sweet boy.”
“Yes, I’ve been blessed. Well, I’ll let you take over. Thank you so much, Nanny Piper.
“My pleasure. You have two well-behaved boys. Take your rest now, dear.”
Moira walked down the hall from the nursery to her bedroom. She locked the door, climbed under the covers, and fell into a deep sleep.
Moira woke to the buzzing vibration of her cell phone on the nightstand beside her bed. She fumbled for it and peered at the notification through drowsy eyes. Pictures from Nanny Piper. She sat up in the bed and flipped through each image of the boys, grinning towards the lens.
“Bless that nanny.”
She stretched and got out of bed. Rummaging through the closet, she found a pair of 7 for Mankind jeans and a coral v-neck tee. For an old fucker, that Breasal sure has expensive taste. The classiest pair of jeans she’d ever owned as a mortal were a pair of Mossimos from Target.
Her phone buzzed again. This time it was Breasal. Come down when you’re ready. Plans tonight. Another hunt. Excitement shot through her. Moira laced up a pair of ankle boots and headed downstairs.
“Ah there she is. Moira, I was telling Seara that tonight we should hunt again. But this time, I think we should show you how to sip, not kill.”
Moira stopped smiling. Shame covered her at the realization his words disappointed her. Oh my god, am I such a fucking monster that I want to kill this bad?
“Don’t worry,” Seara said, feeling the change in Moira’s mood. “There’s a thrill to self-control as well. We’ll help you with the self-restraint, and once you see how it can be, you may find yourself wanting to kill less and less.”
“I just, well, I didn’t realize I’d get that excited about knocking someone off.”
“Understandable. But you’ll begin to see it’s not the death but the blood that really does it for you,” said Seara.
Moira wasn’t so sure. Flashes of victory, holding a dead man’s heart in her hand, and meting out judgment quickened her pulse. She wasn’t sure sipping just a little of someone’s blood would have the same impact.
“Even so, Moira,” said Breasal, “you’ll need to know. And aren’t there times when it’s essential to our survival to lay low? Killing a new person every night is not laying low. And neither is ripping their heart out.”
“Yeah, I get that. So, what’s the plan?”
“First, I’m wanting to take you to the Raven Stone.”
“What’s that?”
“To be sure, I’ve not quite sussed out why it’s important to ye, but don’t I know it is? I’m hoping once we get near, it becomes clear.”
“It’s a Pictish stone,” Seara said. “The Picts were tribal peoples of ancient Scotland. Not too much is known about them. But this stone has a carving of a bird. Some say it’s an eagle. Other’s say it’s an osprey. But I don’t think so.”
“And don’t I agree?” Breasal said.
“So is it a raven?” asked Moira.
“Aye, ‘tis. And I believe it’s to do with the Morrigan. Irish Celts and Picts, different people. Different myths. But gods travel, do they not? And somehow, I think this stone is connected to you.”
“Well, let’s do this thing. Where is it?”
“It’s in Tyrie, Aberdeenshire. Won’t take us long as the birds fly to get there. Built into the wall of a church, adjacent to the vestry. So, we’ll be doing a little breaking and entering,” Breasal smiled and rubbed his palms together.
“Let’s go then. Chop, chop!” Moira responded.
“And isn’t she excited? Alright, let’s go,” Seara said.
The three blood-drinkers landed in the middle of a cemetery in Tyrie, across from the church. Night had fallen. Moonlight spilled across the land. It was quiet and rural. Isolated at night. Moira looked up at the sky, lit with stars.
“Wow. There’s so many of ‘em. I never realized just how many stars there were.”
“Isn’t it grand? Not so much light pollution up this way,” Breasal said.
They walked past a war memorial and crossed the street to the doors of the Tyrie Kirk.38
“And aren’t we playing little burglars tonight?” Breasal said, with a gleam in his eye.
Moira blushed as she looked at him, awestruck with the realization the man before her was more than a thousand years old. His translucent, milky white skin and blue eyes caught her breath, just as they had the first night she saw him. He was beautiful, even if she hated him at times. Based on his grin, she realized he may have just read her thoughts. Moira glared. Breasal winked at her.
“Get on with it, will ya?” she said.
“Oscailte,”39 Breasal whispered.
The door swung open and they stepped inside.
“Ah, there she is!” Breasal said.
In the wall was a framed stone, just as Seara had said.
“Wow. It’s so simple, but there’s something regal about it, isn’t there,” Moira said.
“I have to agree,” said Seara.
“Iffen you ask me,” Breasal said, “the raven is representative of the goddess, the Morrigan. Celtic, yes, but I believe her story and myths traveled. It’s believed the Picts spoke some sort of Celtic language. It’s not beyond the realm of belief and expectation that the two peoples traded not just goods, but stories, too. In fact, my belief, and the reason I brought you here, is that this particular stone tells your story. The Morrigan, the goddess responsible for your existence, is the head. And the z-form you see, with what looks like a staff of sorts at the top, and a blade on the other side of the bottom, represents both sovereignty and war. And this creates a ‘Z’ right through the half of the strange puzzle-like piece. I believe that piece is you. Part Banba witch, part fuilteach, to form one person. Meant to reign and to fight.”
Moira took a moment to let his words settle.
“What do you mean, sovereignty?”
“Well, the Morrigan is a triad goddess. Us Celts never quite got to writing our stories down. This happened later when Catholic priests decided to put pen to paper the stories we’d been telling knee to knee. And while there are some discrepancies, some disagreements, I believe this triad was Anu, Macha, and Badb. There’s some contradictory sources there. The Morrigan is both a goddess of war and of sovereignty, the power to reign. It was important to Celtic Kings to be on her good side. If she was happy, it meant peace and prosperity,” said Breasal.
Moira reached out and touched the stone. When she did, the stone began to light up, flooding the dark church. At the same time, a cry rang out and
echoed into the distance. Moira pulled her hand back, and the stone grew dark and fell silent.
“What the fuck was that?”
“Ah, my girl, that’s a fair question, is it not? I think the stone recognized you,” said Breasal.
“You were right. I thought you were a fucking loon to come here, Breasal, but you were right,” Seara said. “She is connected to the stone.”
Breasal chuckled. “Ladies, I’ve been following this story my whole life. The things I know...”
“And now that we’ve seen the stone, let’s go for a bit of craic. I’m in the mood for a pint. Who’s with me?” Breasal asked.
“Count me in,” said Moira.
“I could do with a jar meself,” Seara replied.
“Grand. I’m in the mood for Dublin tonight. Should we try Temple Bar?” Breasal said.
“Lead the way,” Seara laughed.
Ireland. Moira stood on the corner of Temple Bar and Temple Lane, transfixed. Sound fell away. Tourists and locals walking past, their laughter and conversations, dropped from her consciousness. She stared at the red-faced building, the gold lettering on a black drop “Temple Bar,” and breathed in. “I’ve never been to Ireland before. It feels magical.”
“That she does. Wait until you see her countryside. You’ll feel her even more. ‘Tis no rival on the planet,” Breasal said.
“Yes, give me a minute to soak it in. I want to remember all of it.”
Moira longed to sponge every possible detail. The cobblestone roads, the potted plants hanging on the side of the buildings, but most of all, the feeling. I can’t believe I’m here. It feels like home.
A tear slid down Moira’s cheek. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know I’d feel like this. I feel at a loss for words. This, this place, it’s amazing. I’ve seen pictures all my life. They were always so beautiful, and I felt this pull, this desire to come. And now that I’m here, it feels like the home I was always trying to get to. It’s a fucking weird feeling.”