Morrigan

by Jonathan King

  “It’s not that,” said Morrigan. “He’s not afraid or territorial. That’s the look of a hunter.”

  “You think he’s going to try to rob us or something?”

  “I think he’s working for Cora.” Morrigan grabbed her sword and started to unsheathe it. “Wait here.”

  It was Abel’s turn to grab Morrigan’s arm. “You’re not going to kill him.”

  Morrigan shrugged. “Maybe. I don’t know that I’m not the one who breaks his neck.”

  “Not happening.”

  “You gonna stop me?”

  “If I have to,” said Abel.

  For a minute, Morrigan looked as though she were going to laugh. Then she saw he meant it. “Fine.” She slammed the sword back into her sheath. “Let him run off and tell Cora exactly where we are. See how long you live after that.”

  “That’s no excuse to murder a guy.” Abel started the car and pulled out of the lot. Eyepatch put his helmet on and backed up his bike. For one panicked minute, Abel thought he was going to follow them, but he pulled off in the other direction. “See? He probably wasn’t even looking for us.”

  “Or he knows he’s been spotted and he’s going to report in,” said Morrigan.

  “It doesn’t matter. I’m not letting you kill him.”

  “First, you don’t let me do anything,” said Morrigan. “Second, this is what I do. You don’t get to be a war goddess without killing a few people.”

  “This isn’t a war, though!” Abel snapped. “It’s…” He ran a hand over his face. “I don’t know what this is.”

  “Of course it’s a war,” said Morrigan. “It’s just more personal than most. Cora started it, and I’m going to finish it.” She glared over at him. “And you’re judging me? You killed six Red Caps last night.”

  “Those were monsters,” said Abel.

  “So is Cora.”

  “But not the biker guy.” Abel paused. “He is human, right?”

  “Far as I can tell,” said Morrigan.

  “So you can’t kill him.”

  “So human life is worth more than non-human life?” Morrigan asked. “Because I’m not human.”

  “That’s … different,” Abel floundered.

  “But you don’t like killing because there’s a commandment about it, right?” Morrigan went on. “Well, there’s a commandment about not stealing, too. And you stole this car.”

  “To keep from getting killed by Cora, yeah,” said Abel.

  “So it’s fine to break the rules as long as your life depends on it?” asked Morrigan. “Did your life depend on you disrespecting your father’s rule and running away with me?”

  Kind of, Abel thought, but he kept silent.

  “See? You can’t even stick to your own rules.” Morrigan crossed her arms. “Don’t pretend to understand mine.”

  “This is all your fault,” Abel muttered.

  “Excuse me?”

  “I was fine until you showed up. Now all of a sudden I’m a car thief and a runaway. This isn’t like me.”

  “I know,” said Morrigan. “You’re becoming positively interesting.”

  Abel rolled his eyes. “Thanks.”

  Morrigan reached down to the floor and plucked out a newspaper she’d snagged from the rest area. “You’re in the company of a goddess. Expect things to get weird.”

  A smile teased at Abel’s lips. He resisted it. “A goddess reading a newspaper. Kinda old fashioned, don’t you think?”

  “Best way to get the ads,” said Morrigan.

  “Ever heard of the Internet?”

  “Heard of it, yes. But Cora never let me use it. Too easy to reach out for help.” She circled an ad with a pen from the glove compartment. “Got it. Head to that address.”

  Abel glanced at it. “A dry cleaner?”

  “Just trust me.”

  “I have no idea where that is, though. I’ve never been this far from Pepper’s Mill on my own.”

  “Oh, right.” Morrigan reached back into the glove compartment and pulled out a map. “I’ll navigate. I at least know how to read a map.”

  Abel glanced up at the clouds gathering above. “I hope we get there soon. Looks like we’re in for another storm.”

  “You can say that again,” said Morrigan.

  9

  It drizzled as they pulled up in front of Washingford Coin Laundry. Abel jumped out and fumbled with the Mustang’s convertible top, trying to figure out how it came up.

  “Leave it,” said Morrigan. “It’s her car, anyway.”

  “Yeah, but we’re the ones who have to ride in it later, and I’m already as soggy as I’d like to be.”

  “Whatever.” Morrigan strode into the laundromat. After a moment more struggling with the canvas top, Abel gave up and followed her inside, making a mental note to point out how wet everything was when they sat in those leather seats again.

  The decor of Washingford Coin Laundry looked as though it hadn’t been updated since the eighties. The walls were cheap wood panels, except for one wall of steel washing machines stacked two high. Dryers divided the sticky tile floor into aisles. Metal carts and abandoned laundry baskets stood among the dust bunnies and cobwebs. The laundromat’s glass front was lined with plastic seats that looked as though they’d been stolen from a bus station, interspersed with the occasional cracked lawn chair. And it was still as the grave; no one else was in the building, and no air conditioning battled the stifling air. The only sounds were the buzzing, flickering fluorescent lights and the plink of a fly against the windows.

  “Looks like we’re the only ones here,” said Abel.

  “The sign said closed,” said Morrigan. “Only I know better.”

  “Well, at least we’re not freaking anyone out.” Abel wiped the rainwater from his glasses, and then he rounded a corner and shrieked.

  In front of him was an impossibly tall woman, thin as a skeleton and just as pale. She had a tattered dress, white hair that floated around her head like a spider web, and a withered face out of which two blood red eyes burned. She cocked her head, and bones cracked.

  Morrigan stepped around Abel, flashing an amused half-smile at him. “Nope, no one freaked out here.”

  “What is it?” Abel leaned back as far as he could. The thing still hadn’t taken its eyes off him.

  “It’s a Sidhe.”

  “I can see it’s a she, but what is she?”

  “Not a she, a Sidhe. Like a spirit or a fairy. This one’s a Bean-Sidhe, or banshee as you’d know her, and she’s named Moira.”

  The banshee curtseyed before Morrigan, and her eyes finally left Abel.

  “As you may have noticed,” Morrigan told her, tugging on her bloodstained tank top, “we’re in need of some intense laundering.”

  “Banshees wash clothes?” Abel asked. “I thought they just screamed at people who were about to die.” The banshee stared at him again, and he regretted opening his mouth.

  “It’s a little more complex than that,” said Morrigan. “But yeah, they also wash the clothing of the dead. And, on occasion, of their queen.” She shrugged. “That’s a long story for another time, though.”

  Goddess and banshee queen, thought Abel. This girl’s got quite the resumé.

  And as he watched, the goddess and banshee queen untucked her shirt.

  “Um, what are you doing?” he asked.

  “Taking my clothes off.” She stopped with her top halfway over her head and turned to stare at him. “What? Did you think she was going to wash our clothes with us still in them?”

  Abel opened his mouth, but it occurred to him then that he really hadn’t thought the whole thing through. He caught his gaze drifting down to the curves of her bra, and he did a quick about-face, rubbing his eyes with his hand. Bounce your eyes, came the voice of his father, and for once Abel listened.

  Morrigan laughed, and the rustle of fabric told him that her shirt was completely off. “Oh my god. You’ve never seen a girl naked before, have you?”
>
  Abel cleared his throat. “Now, when you say, ‘oh my god,’ which god are you talking about? Because I feel like there are a few different possibilities.”

  “Don’t change the subject.” Morrigan’s shoes clattered empty on the tile floor. “You’ve never seen a woman without her clothes on?”

  “It’s not that weird,” said Abel. “It’s not like I’ve had a lot of opportunities. The closest I’ve ever gotten is girls in t-shirts and one-piece bathing suits at youth group pool parties.”

  “Ever seen a movie?”

  Two soft objects—probably wadded-up socks—bounced off Abel’s back. He cleared his throat again. “The Reverend always fast-forwarded through those parts.”

  “You and your rules again.” There was a soft whoosh and thump. He pictured Morrigan’s pants dropping, and it stole his breath away. Then her voice drew nearer. “When are you going to learn to loosen up?”

  Right now, nothing in his body was loose, and it only grew harder with her breath on his ear and her body so electrically close. He squeezed his eyes shut and willed himself back under control. Flee from sexual immorality. All other sins a man commits are outside his body, but the man who sins sexually sins against his own body…

  Morrigan backed off. “Tell you what, if it makes you uncomfortable, I’ll keep my underwear on. Deal?”

  “Thank you,” Abel said, although it came out as more of a squeak.

  During the uncomfortable silence, Morrigan gathered up her clothes. Then she said, “I’m gonna need my socks too.”

  Keeping his gaze off her, Abel kneeled and turned, picking up the balled socks. But he couldn’t blindly shove them in her direction—not without looking like an idiot, anyway. So he took his gaze off the floor and saw her.

  He’d been somewhat braced for the body, the toned muscles, the way her underwear hugged her curves, the way her breath moved. . . everything.

  He hadn’t been prepared for the scars.

  Wicked, painful to look at, hatching her beautiful skin like a gruesome lattice. Some were straight and clean; others were jagged, as if from claws. Some were discolored, others were clearly from burns. They covered her stomach, ran down her legs, and crept out from under her bra. And while he only had a view of her front, Abel had no doubt that she had as many or more on her back.

  And yet, despite the scars—or perhaps because of them—she was still beautiful. He couldn’t take his eyes off her.

  Morrigan laughed, although Abel heard some nerves in that laughter. “You like what you see, don’t you?”

  Abel raised his eyes to meet hers. “Yeah. I do.”

  She smiled and inhaled, and her bravado was back. She shoved her clothes into the hands of the banshee, who placed each piece into the washing machines, separating lights from darks. Then Moira reached out an expectant and bony hand to Abel.

  Abel glanced down at his bloody sweater. And shirt. And pants. Crap. I really didn’t think this through.

  “It kinda defeats the purpose if you don’t let her wash your clothes too,” said Morrigan, her smile turning devilish again.

  Abel swallowed hard. He wasn’t sure which disturbed him more, stripping down in front of Morrigan or under Moira’s dead gaze. Not that the banshee would care—he hoped—but he hadn’t liked the way that creature had looked at him since he walked in here. Like she saw too much. He wasn’t eager to show her more.

  He also wasn’t eager to go around looking like an axe murderer.

  Abel stuck his hands in his pockets, and his fingers closed around the Freedom List. Go shirtless in public. That was the last item he’d written. He hadn’t wanted to go pants-less too, but at least this was less public than what he’d envisioned. And he had to admit there was a small part of him that really wanted to know what Morrigan thought of his body, as terrified and slightly nauseous as that thought made him.

  He emptied his pockets and dumped the contents onto a nearby seat. He took off his shoes and socks, then his cardigan, and finally, with a determined lack of eye contact, his shirt and jeans. The banshee took them all and got busy sorting them, while Abel stood there, flushed with heat and embarrassment and wrapping his arms around himself as Morrigan’s gaze made him feel even more exposed.

  “Stop it,” he muttered.

  “Nope,” she replied.

  He sighed. Not that he could complain; he’d stared at her too. And besides, that much interest meant he’d passed inspection, right? He felt a little pride at that.

  The banshee reached out again, and Abel’s eyes widened in horror as he crossed his hands over his boxers. “I’m keeping these on, thanks.”

  Moira shook her head and rubbed her fingers together.

  “She wants coins,” Morrigan said, rolling her eyes. “For the washing machines.”

  “Oh, right,” said Abel, fumbling through his belongings for his wallet before he realized he hadn’t carried coins in years. He held up a neatly folded dollar bill. “Can you make change?” he asked the banshee.

  Morrigan stepped between them. “He’s with me, Moira. You can’t ask us to pay after all I’ve done for your people.”

  The banshee dipped her head and placed her long fingers against the washing machines, and they started on their own, no coins required.

  “That’s more like it,” said Morrigan.

  It was hard to tell with those horrible red orbs, but Abel was pretty sure the banshee rolled her eyes.

  He lowered himself into one of the plastic seats and shivered. Even in the hot room, the plastic was cold against his bare skin. Morrigan stared at him, and he crossed his arms and legs, aware of how exposed he was.

  “Will you relax?” Morrigan said, scoffing. “I’m not going to take you here and now.”

  Abel pushed that image out of his mind and forced his limbs apart.

  Morrigan shook her head, but a gentle smile crossed her lips. She kneeled to dig through a laundry basket and pulled out two white terry cloth robes. She tossed one to him and slipped into the other.

  “Thanks.” Abel wrapped the robe around himself and relaxed.

  “Don’t mention it.” Morrigan flopped into the seat beside him.

  Their hips touched, but Abel didn’t pull away. His elbow brushed her side, and he felt the ridge of a scar beneath the robe. “So what’s with the scars?” he asked.

  “I’m a war goddess. You don’t go to war without taking a few wounds.”

  “No, but I mean, you can turn into a bird. Can’t you make your scars go away?”

  Half a dozen emotions flashed across Morrigan’s face so quickly Abel couldn’t register them all. “I did, when I was young and vain and new to these powers. I made my body flawless, scar-free. I erased every cut.” She gazed out the window at the empty parking lot. “It wasn’t until centuries later that I realized the longer you live, the more you forget. My greatest achievements made it into stories and songs, sure, but so many of the smaller battles are gone forever. They made me who I am today, and I can’t even remember why or how.”

  “So you brought them back.”

  “For a while. But they weren’t real, just fabrications. It wasn’t the same, wasn’t earned, wasn’t me.” She opened her robe a little and ran her fingers across the scars on her abdomen. “So I started over, blank slate. Everything you see is the last two or three thousand years.”

  “That long?” asked Abel. “I’d have thought you’d have more.”

  Morrigan’s smile turned bitter, and she rubbed her smooth forearms. “I did.” Her emerald eyes blazed. “She got rid of them.”

  “Cora?”

  “Said she didn’t want to attract attention, make anyone think she was abusing me. Ha!” It was halfway between a laugh and a spit. “So she cast some spell, and they vanished. Gone. I’ll never get them back.”

  Abel nodded. “You lost part of yourself.”

  “She took it from me.”

  “But she left you these.” Abel put his hand on a particularly nasty scar on her thigh
, then drew it back as he realized what he was doing.

  “Oh, she called that her mercy,” Morrigan sneered. “I begged for every one of them. And she has the gall to call me her daughter.” She held her head high. “My real mother bore her scars with pride until her last day in battle. She knew what they meant. She never would have taken them away.”

  “Tell me about her,” said Abel. “Your real mother, I mean.”

  Morrigan finally smiled again. “Her name was Errimas. She was the greatest warrior our people ever knew. Many are the songs of her victories.” Her smile faltered. “Which is good, because that’s the only way I remember anything about her. She died millennia ago. This was the woman who raised me, taught me to fight with courage, live with integrity, die with honor, and I can’t even remember the sound of her voice or the color of her hair.” She looked at Abel, tears shining in her eyes. “Is that terrible?”

  Abel hesitated, and then, gently, delicately, put an arm around her shoulders. “It’s not. Sad, yes. Terrible, no.”

  Morrigan nodded and stared at the floor.

  They stayed that way for a long time, Morrigan lost in thought, Abel losing feeling in his arm. Finally, he pulled away and cleared his throat. “I should check on our clothes. Bet they’re about ready to be dried.”

  “Moira will take care of that,” said Morrigan.

  Abel stood. “I know, but, um…”

  Morrigan chuckled. “Getting awkward again? Fine, go.” He started to walk away, but she grabbed his arm. “Hey, Abel? Thanks.”

  Abel shrugged. “Anytime.”

  He was staring at the washing machine timers, willing them to go faster, when he felt a chill on the back of his neck. He turned to see Moira peering down at him, gaze burning its way into him like acid.

  “Can I help you?” he asked.

  The banshee leaned closer and cocked her head. Something like a gale billowed through her hair and dress, but the air was still as ever. Then her cracked lips parted, followed by her blackened teeth, and then a wail rolled over her tongue and broke over Abel.

  It was a wail like nothing he had ever heard, full of creaking bones and dying breaths and the winter wind through bare tree limbs. It was the sorrow of a mother or a lover or a child parted from the one person they loved most. It was the cry of the banshee, and it set every hair on Abel’s body on end, sent his stomach spiraling, filled him with a dread he’d never dreamed possible.