“That’s enough!” Morrigan shouted over the unearthly sound. “This boy is with me. He’s under my protection. I won’t have you scaring the daylights out of him.” The banshee opened her mouth as if to protest, but Morrigan cut her off. “It’s not up for discussion.”
Moira slumped and plodded away to sulk in a corner.
“What was that?” Abel said. At least, he tried to say it. His voice had dried up.
“It’s just something they do,” Morrigan assured him. “Don’t worry about it.”
“But don’t they scream like that when people are about to die? So when you hear it…” Abel swallowed hard. “Am I going to—?”
“No, you’re not.” Morrigan put her hands on his shoulders. “I told her and I’m telling you, you’re under my protection. I’m not letting you die on my watch.” She tapped the side of her head. “Besides, if you were going to die, I’d have seen it. Premonitions, remember?”
“Like the eyepatch guy,” said Abel.
“Exactly.”
It did sound reasonable—at least, as reasonable as anything sounded these days. She’d know his life expectancy better than anyone.
But as he put on his dried clothes and walked out into the rain and the soggy leather car seats, the banshee’s wail still rang in his ears.
10
“No, Mrs. Willoughby,” the Reverend said into the phone. “I appreciate you calling, but Abel was here all night. It must have been someone else you saw out driving with that girl last night.” He waited a minute as the woman on the other end of the line railed on about something Cora couldn’t hear. “I understand completely. That’s why I’d never let my son do anything of the kind. You have a blessed day now.” He hung up before Mrs. Willoughby could say anything else.
“This is getting out of hand.” He used his handkerchief to dab the sweat from his forehead and offered it to Cora to dry her eyes.
They were in the Whittaker’s living room. Cora had come to him first thing in the morning and told him everything she’d seen the night before. And by everything, she meant the children running away, not the bloody Red Cap remnants or the wrecked bedroom. And she painted herself as a bereaved mother wandering about, weeping and wondering what to do. Not one mention of the preparations she’d been making to get her daughter back.
“You’re sure it was my son you saw?” the Reverend asked.
“I assure you, it was him,” said Cora. “The image of him and my daughter driving off together is burned into my brain. I’ll never forget it.”
The Reverend’s teeth ground together. “How could he do this to me? Running off with some strange girl like the prodigal son, off to fornicate and carouse. What will the congregation think of me now, raising a son like that?”
A sharp intake of breath across the room caught Cora’s attention. Dorothy Whittaker had been bringing herbs planted in mason jars downstairs and arranging them in the living room window. They were probably Abel’s—Cora would want to be close to her daughter’s possessions too. But now Dorothy clutched a jar of rosemary so tight her knuckles whitened, and she glared at her husband. At least one of them is concerned about that bastard of a son, Cora thought. As any good parent would be.
Aloud, she said, “I still don’t see why we can’t go to the police.”
“No!” The Reverend was at her side in an instant, clutching her hand. “Absolutely not. What Abel did was against the law, but if we get the police involved, and they aren’t discreet, and my congregation finds out…”
“I’m not pressing charges.” Cora threw in a deprecating laugh. Juvie would be too good for Abel.
“It doesn’t matter.” The Reverend looked around and lowered his voice to a whisper as though his congregation were listening through the walls. “People talk.”
“Of course.” Cora put a hand on his shoulder. “The last thing a man in your position needs is a scandal.” Not that she’d ever wanted the police involved; too many people poking around, too much chance that Morgan would be taken from her again. But she had to ask or risk suspicion.
The Reverend swallowed hard, but smiled. “Thank you, Mrs. Hammond.”
“Please, call me Cora.”
“It’s funny.” Dorothy spoke for the first time as she set the tea down on the table beside Cora. “Stealing a car seems so unlike Abel.”
“Oh, bless your heart, dear,” said Cora. “We never know what our children are capable of. No matter how lovingly we raise them, they may still stray down the wrong path in life. I never expected my darling Morgan to run away from me.”
“I can’t imagine why she would,” Dorothy muttered.
Cora didn’t like very many people; in fact, she liked almost no one. But she kept a mental list of all the people she hated anyway, in order from most hated to least. After that snide comment, she moved Dorothy several spaces up that list, the smile still plastered to her red lips.
“I don’t understand why either of them ran away,” said the Reverend. “We had a fight, sure, but it was nothing to leave over.”
Dorothy laughed. “You really think it was just about last night?”
“Dorothy,” the Reverend warned, nodding subtly in Cora’s direction. “Now isn’t the time—”
“No, not while one of your precious flock is in the room,” Dorothy snapped. “If you’d paid less attention to them and more to your family, maybe he’d still be here.”
“That’s enough!” The Reverend stood and grabbed Dorothy by the arms. The rosemary jar dropped from her hands and shattered on the floor, spilling potting soil everywhere. His voice quieted, but it lost none of its intensity. “You will not question me in front of Cora or anyone else in this church. I am their leader; I can’t be seen failing to lead my own family. Abel’s already shamed me. Don’t you start.”
Dorothy stared down at the remnants of Abel’s herb garden and then lifted her gaze to meet the Reverend’s. The look in her eyes was one Cora had seen many times over her long life, from her victims, from knights and druids and saints, from the truly righteous looking on what they saw as tainted and twisted. It was pure disgust, and it was so often directed at her she’d thought it was made for her. But this time, it was aimed at the Reverend, a wife seeing her husband as lower than the lowest worm.
“Maybe Abel had the right idea.” Dorothy wrenched free of the Reverend’s grip and stormed out of the house.
The Reverend watched her go, shock on his face, and then he sank onto the sofa.
“Oh, you poor man!” Cora kneeled beside him and kneaded his hand. “Imagine her treating you that way. You deserve better than that.”
“Why are You doing this to me?” the Reverend asked the heavens. “Why are You tearing my family apart? What did I do to deserve this?”
The heavens remained silent. In Cora’s experience, they always did.
“You’re in shock,” she said. “I’ll get you some water.”
She hurried to the kitchen, poked around the cupboards until she found a glass, and filled it from the tap. For a moment, she thought about slipping something into it, but decided against it. She needed his blood fresh and clean. Besides, there were better ways to keep him close. More fun ways. And the way things were going now, it wouldn’t be hard to talk him into it.
After all, she thought with a smile, even after all these years of motherhood, I’ve still got it.
She brought the Reverend his water, helped him sip from it, and then nestled onto the couch beside him, leaning on him more than was necessary.
“Now,” she said, “tell me all about it.”
Monday, October 28
11:49 AM
Hey, God. It’s me, Abel.
If a girl takes her clothes off in front of you and you don’t bounce your eyes, does that mean you’re going to hell?
Because I loved what I saw when Morrigan took it all off. Those curves, the muscles, the skin. Heck, even the scars were sexy. And all topped off by that beautiful face. I was so turned on I co
uld hardly breathe…
Sorry, I forgot who I was talking to for a second. That got weird.
Don’t worry; we didn’t do anything. But I wanted to. And the way she looked at me when I stripped down, I get the feeling she wanted to too. Maybe I’m imagining it. Doesn’t matter. I’m not going to act on it. You know why. I shouldn’t even be thinking about it. But it’s getting harder to keep my eyes off her by the minute.
What does she see in me, anyway? She’s a goddess; she’s got all these crazy powers and skills, she’s immortal, and she’s gorgeous. She could have any man she wants. Why’d she pick me? I’m some naïve kid who grows herbs and acts the part of the preacher’s kid. What makes me think I’m anything more than a tool to set her free?
I need a clear head and a clean heart, God. And I need it fast. Before I do something I regret.
Thanks, God. Abel out.
11
Downtown Charleston was all pastels and palmetto trees and cobblestones that Redcoats and revolutionaries had traversed. Horses pulled their carriages through tunnels of oak and magnolia and past steeples as old as America. Abel drank in the atmosphere like the cool sea breeze blowing in his face. He half expected to see a tricorn hat around every corner, and the modern cars on the streets shocked him every time they drove by.
On the side of a bus they drove past was an advertisement for a ghost tour, promising terrifying but true tales of the restless dead. Abel looked over at Morrigan, who had the map in one hand and the newspaper in the other, a second ad circled several times in pen. “What about ghosts?” he asked. “I know gods and banshees and goblins exist, but what about ghosts?”
Morrigan didn’t lift her eyes, but her fingers crinkled the paper. “I’ve cared for the dead of a thousand generations, ushering each soul to its final rest. Usually, they go to their final rewards unscathed. Every hundred years or so, though, one resists, tries to go off on his own.” She closed her eyes. “I lose them in the in-between.”
“And that’s a ghost?” Abel asked.
“What you call ghosts, yeah.” A tear ran down her cheek. Abel wanted to wipe it away, but awkwardness kept his hands glued to the steering wheel. “At least with Hell you get some closure,” Morrigan went on. “Souls lost in that half-world linger there forever, always wandering, no final destination in store.”
“Sounds terrible,” said Abel. He thought of his grandmother on his father’s side, dead for five years now, and of the day he’d attended her funeral at Oakwood Cemetery. Some of his cousins had joked about how the cemetery was haunted, and Abel did some research. It was supposedly one of the most haunted cemeteries in the state, so prone to paranormal activity that it was called Hell’s Gate. The thought that there could actually be ghosts there, and that his grandmother could be forever lost between worlds, made his stomach crawl.
“It’s bad enough when souls slip through your fingers. It’s even worse when your hand isn’t there at all.” Morrigan consulted the map. “Take the next left.”
“What do you mean?” Abel asked, taking the turn.
“I mean that Cora has a lot to answer for,” said Morrigan, and it was clear she didn’t want to talk about it anymore. Abel let it drop.
They drove through a block of warehouses and unused railroad tracks and chain-link fences. Outside one was an iron sign ringed in neon fire with the name Inspired Metalworking cut out in Old English typeface.
“You’re sure your friends are here?” Abel eyed the corrugated tin roof and rusty truck bay doors.
“With that name,” said Morrigan, “it’s almost dead certain. Come on!” She vaulted the car door and practically danced to the nearest door, yanking it open on squealing hinges.
Abel hurried inside after her and coughed and choked on welding fumes. It thickened the air, dark as the soot-stained walls, and light shone through holes in the ceiling in hazy beams, illuminating scraps of metal hanging from chains. The placement was random, but it felt artistic, like the poems in Abel’s English curriculum, artful words with the meaning just out of mind’s reach.
The welder herself lay on her back in the middle of the floor, dressed in a bright yellow blouse and thick baggy overalls, arms and legs spread like a snow angel in soot, a welding mask over her face. She wasn’t moving.
She’s dead, thought Abel. Cora got here first.
He ran to her side, Morrigan close behind him, and reached down to check her pulse.
“I’m not dead,” the welder said in a lilting voice, and Abel nearly fell over backwards. “I’m lying here waiting for inspiration to strike me.”
“Since when has inspiration struck you and not the other way around?” Morrigan asked.
There was a moment of utter stillness, and then the welder sat bolt upright. Her hand flew up and cast aside the mask, revealing plump freckled cheeks, a shock of red curls done up in a blue kerchief, and green eyes rounded in amazement.
“Bless my soul,” she whispered. “Morrigan!” She leaped to her feet and squeezed the goddess tight, squealing in pure joy. “You’ve no idea how long we’ve been searching for you. We thought we’d never find you!”
“Good to see you again too, Breej,” Morrigan grunted.
“I’m gonna guess you two know each other.” Abel scratched the back of his neck, feeling left out.
Morrigan pulled away. “Abel, this is Brigid. She’s the goddess of inspiration and something of an aunt of mine. Breej, this is Abel Whittaker. He’s the reason I’m here today; he set me free from Cora and took care of her guard monsters and drove me down here to boot.”
Brigid lunged forward and wrapped Abel in a hug that threatened to splinter his rib cage. He wished he could go back to feeling left out.
“Oh, you dear boy,” said Brigid. “Bless you a thousand times over for bringing our darling girl back to us!”
“Anytime,” Abel wheezed. The welder goddess smelled of smoke and molten metal, and, more faintly, of dandelions and fresh-cut grass.
Brigid let go, leaving Abel doubled over and trying to force air back into his lungs. “But how did you find us?” she asked.
Morrigan held up the newspaper and pointed to the circled ad.
“Ah,” said Brigid. “I’d forgotten. We have a standing advertisement in the paper. Even if it didn’t catch your eye and bring you here, the more people we draw here, the more likely we’d find someone who’s seen you. It’s why I created this.” She waved a hand at the hanging menagerie.
“You made a bunch of pieces of scrap metal?” Abel asked.
“Depends on your perspective, now doesn’t it?” Brigid winked at him and grabbed his shoulders from behind, steering him to a spot on the floor and turning his head to face the shards. They fit together perfectly, like a jigsaw puzzle or a smashed vase, into an exact 3D likeness of Morrigan’s face.
“Wow,” said Abel. “That’s cool.”
“I know,” said Brigid, barely containing a giggle of pride. “Took a lot of work and more than a few missteps, but I finally got it just right.”
“Wouldn’t it have been easier to draw a picture, though?” Abel asked. “Or was it just the challenge to see if you could do it?”
“That certainly didn’t make me want to craft this any less,” Brigid admitted. “But it was more strategic than aesthetic. It had to be subtle, in case someone from Cora’s side visited us.”
“Cora doesn’t seem like someone who would have many people on her side,” said Abel.
“She has her share of spies,” Morrigan told him. “Like that biker we passed on the way here.”
“You weren’t followed?” Brigid asked.
“If he’d followed us, he’d be dead,” Morrigan assured her, and went on. “She’s got more than a few monsters in her employ too, not just those Red Caps. And she’s got spells and power to bind a goddess and hold her captive. That’s someone to be wary of.”
“And someone we couldn’t leave you with,” said Brigid. “We’ve been searching for you for centuries, ever
since we learned you’d disappeared.”
“You keep saying we,” said Abel.
“Me and my cousin mac Lir,” Brigid explained.
“Manannán’s here too?” Morrigan’s eyes lit up.
As if on cue, the door opened and in walked a sea captain straight out of a seafood commercial, from the cap perched atop his wrinkled face to the navy coat and wool sweater rubbing against his snowy beard, along with a pair of heavy rubber boots.
“Breej, do we know whose car that is out—” he started, and then he saw Morrigan, and his crinkled eyes began to sparkle. He dropped his duffel bag and held his arms wide for her to run to.
“Darling Morrigan!” he cried, hugging her at least as tightly as Brigid had. A tear trickled from the corner of his eye. “I knew you couldn’t stay away forever.”
“Not when I have such a wonderful uncle to come home to,” said Morrigan.
“This is Abel Whittaker.” Brigid nudged Abel forward. “He helped Morrigan escape from that horrible Cora woman.”
“Then we’re in your debt.” The old sailor shook Abel’s hand, squeezing hard. It was a rough hand with nicotine-stained nails. “Manannán mac Lir, Lord of the Seas and Inventor Extraordinaire, at your service.”
“Good to meet you, Man … Manann…” Abel tried, but his tongue tripped all over the syllables.
“Just call me Mac,” the captain said with a good-natured laugh. “It gets me farther around these parts.”
“Have a seat, Morrigan.” Brigid threw a tarp over a soot-covered armchair in the corner. “You have to tell us all about your thrilling escape.”
“And how your young champion lent his aid,” Mac added, clapping Abel on the back.
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