Morrigan

by Jonathan King

  “You’ll still be weak from the blood loss,” said Brigid, handing him a rag that smelled suspiciously like fish, “but at least you’re not bleeding out anymore.”

  “Thanks.” Abel rubbed at the blood on his neck, and then his clothes, but they were stained an indelible red once more. “I don’t suppose we could go back to the banshee at the laundromat and get this stuff cleaned?”

  Morrigan looked away, and Abel changed the subject. “So, vampires, huh? Should I be worried about Frankenstein’s monster next?”

  “Don’t be stupid,” Morrigan snapped. She took a breath and tried again. “That was the Dearg-Due. I’ve run into her in the past, but now she’s on Cora’s team.” She shook her head, and Abel admired the way her hair wrapped around her face. “You could have been killed.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “No, it’s not your fault. Her song gets in people’s heads, messes with their minds, especially men. You’re not a jerk, just an idiot.”

  “Thanks…” said Abel.

  “But I should have stopped you,” Morrigan went on. “I didn’t see her face until she was leaving with you. If I had recognized her sooner, if I’d been paying attention…”

  “I didn’t know you cared.”

  Morrigan stared at him with an unreadable expression. “You don’t know me at all.”

  “It’s just, the way you looked at me back in the pub, I saw how disappointed you were,” said Abel. “I wanted to show you I could be the capable guy you thought I was.”

  “You don’t have to impress me,” said Morrigan. “I’m not one of your church deacons or widows in the singles ministry. You don’t have to be perfect or meet all my expectations.”

  “I know I don’t have to impress you,” said Abel. “But I want to.”

  Morrigan cleared her throat. “Well, you did clear a room of Red Caps in a matter of seconds when I couldn’t.”

  “You keep saying that,” said Abel, “but it was an accident. I had no idea what I was doing.”

  Brigid chuckled. “Abel, back in the early days of Ireland, when the first settlers were almost entirely female, the one male among them turned himself into a salmon to escape. How? Nobody knows. But he did.”

  Abel looked at Morrigan to see if they were joking, but there wasn’t any laughter in her smile, only honesty. “Nobody knows how magic works,” she said. “I don’t know how I do any of the things I do. But I do them anyway.” She clapped a hand on his shoulder. “You fit right in.”

  Abel smiled, but the smile faded. “Hey, how did that Dearg-Due know where to find us?”

  Morrigan’s eyes narrowed. “Cora must know where we are. I don’t know how, but she knows.” She turned to Brigid. “It’s not safe at your shop.”

  “I’m sure it’s safer than you think,” said Brigid.

  Abel pointed down the street. “I’m not.”

  The shop was on fire. Flames snaked through the windows and the holes in the roof, withering the nearby grass and sending heat rippling off the corrugated metal.

  “Cora,” Morrigan muttered as they pulled up in front of it.

  Mac stuck his head out the window. “You want me to put it out?”

  “Thanks, dear heart,” said Brigid, “but I’ve got it.” She hopped down from the truck bed and stepped toward the inferno. She flexed her fingers in little warmup stretches, and then threw out her arms, inhaling. Jets of orange flame peeled off from the building and formed itself into a ball in the circle of her arms, growing denser and brighter as she siphoned off more fire.

  Abel slipped down into the truck bed, shielding himself from the heat and the smell of smoke and seared metal as best he could. Even Morrigan and Mac turned away. But Brigid stood unwavering, clothing blowing in the hot wind but unsinged, not a drop of sweat running down her face, her eyes glowing with reflected firelight.

  The last of the flames slipped through the window and into the fiery ball. With a swing of her arms, Brigid tossed it upwards, discharging it into the sky. Abel thought briefly of the pillar of fire leading the Israelites in the wilderness. No wonder the ancients had thought Brigid was a goddess.

  Then it was done. The shop lay still and dark and quiet except for the tick of cooling metal.

  Brigid turned to Abel, panting, and shrugged. “See? No idea how I did that.”

  Abel and the gods climbed out of the truck and sniffed the air. “Smell that?” Morrigan asked.

  They all nodded.

  “Gasoline,” said Mac.

  “Somebody set this fire,” said Abel.

  “Not with magic either,” said Brigid. “This was a good old fashioned arson.”

  Abel combed through his memories for a suspect. “What about that eyepatch guy you said was spying on us?”

  “We lost him,” Morrigan said. “I’d have noticed if he followed us this far.” Something down the street caught her attention. “Like I noticed that truck a couple of times…”

  Abel followed her gaze to a nondescript eighteen-wheeler parked on the side of the road a few blocks away. Its back doors hung wide open, and as they watched, the roar of a starting motor echoed from the depths. The burly figure of Eyepatch on his motorcycle burst out of the shadows, down the ramp, and right past them. Morrigan snatched at him as he passed, but he swerved away, nearly mowing down Brigid in the process.

  “Switching vehicles,” Morrigan muttered. “Oh, he’s good.”

  “He’s getting away!” Mac shouted, lumbering toward his truck.

  Morrigan grinned and raised a hand to the skies as the biker turned a corner. “He’ll be back.”

  The motorcycle’s rumble faded away to almost nothing … and then it grew again, joined by something else, something that sounded like the caws of a thousand birds. Then he came back around the corner, swerving and screeching across the road, and mired in the midst of a tornado made of crows, all diving and pecking and scratching.

  Morrigan ran toward the bike, and the crows parted before her as she flew into the air. Her foot connected with the man’s face, knocking him out of his seat and onto the road. She flipped and landed crouched in the middle of the street. Abel hop-skipped out of the way as the bike flipped onto its side and scraped to a halt where he’d been standing.

  The biker pushed himself up, and now Abel had a good view of the familiar face, eyepatch and all. Only now, it bled from the attacks of the crows winging their way back to the skies.

  Morrigan grabbed him by his leather jacket and shook him—not an easy task since he was almost as big a man as Mac. “You set that fire, didn’t you? I should feed the crows your other eye.”

  Eyepatch spat in her face, but she dodged, and it landed on the pavement with a pathetic splat. Morrigan drew back her fist to strike him, but Mac loped forward and grabbed her arm.

  “Allow me, darling,” he said, gently pulling her off the biker. Eyepatch tried to crawl away, but Mac planted his boot on the man’s chest and pulled a sword from inside his coat, tucking it beneath the man’s beard and against his throat.

  “Has that been in there the whole time?” Abel asked Brigid.

  Brigid smiled. “You’d be surprised what he’s got up his sleeves.”

  The sword started to hum, a drone that buzzed in Abel’s brain even at a distance. He couldn’t imagine what it was doing at close range, but Eyepatch went rigid.

  “Who sent you?” Mac asked, drawing out each word to an almost hypnotic length.

  The biker pressed his teeth against his lips, holding back the answer crawling up his throat, but it came out just the same. “She calls herself … Cora.”

  “And what did she tell you to do?”

  “Watch the girl … and report back so she could find her. Destroy any … safe places. Makes sure she … came home.” Eyepatch’s good eye found Abel. “And make sure the kid … dies. Slowly. Painfully.” He laughed. “She was really clear about that last one.”

  Abel shuddered. Again with the killing me. Why is that such a thing with this
woman?

  Morrigan lunged forward, but Mac held her back, sheathing his sword and wrapping his arms around her. Eyepatch ran, eyes watching the skies in case the crows came back.

  “He’s getting away!” Morrigan shouted.

  “It’s okay,” said Mac. “He’s not worth it.”

  “I’ll kill him and that witch both,” said Morrigan. “He can’t threaten Abel like that.”

  “Didn’t you say you dreamed about him?” Abel asked. “That your dreams were death premonitions?”

  Morrigan stilled, and a smile crept over her face. “You’re right. He did die.”

  “You didn’t kill him?” Abel asked, worried what the answer might be.

  “No, I’m pretty sure it was something else,” said Morrigan. “But it was terrifying. Painful.”

  I’m not sure I like who you are when you get vengeful, Abel wanted to say, but he was smart enough not to say it out loud. And he couldn’t really complain. In this case, it was vengeance in defense of his life. As for Cora … well, at this point, even Abel had trouble arguing for non-violence.

  “At least he was harmless enough,” said Brigid.

  “He burned down your welding shop,” Abel pointed out.

  Brigid shook her head. “Poor eejit, thinking fire would do any harm. As though a fire goddess like me wouldn’t ward her home against unfriendly flame first thing.” She pushed open the door to show all her furnishings and belongings intact and undamaged, even the extra propane tanks in the corner. The only change was the stench of burned gasoline.

  “Still,” said Morrigan, “we can’t stay here. Cora knows we’re here now. She’ll be sending something more effective to finish us off if we stay.”

  “One night at least,” said Mac. “It’s late, and we’re all tired. We can get a fresh start in the morning.”

  Morrigan nodded. “It’ll take her time to regroup. But we leave at first light.”

  “Good thing I’m an early riser,” muttered Abel.

  Monday, October 28

  7:27 PM

  Hey, God. It’s me, Abel.

  So today’s been kinda weird.

  It started out with goddesses and Red Caps, and now we’ve got immortal welders and sea captains, not to mention siren vampires. I almost died. Morrigan saved my life. I should be grateful, but I keep asking myself why she did it. Maybe that shows what I think of myself.

  Sorry about the thing with the Dearg Due, but I wasn’t in my right mind. Not an excuse, I know, but I’m sure you understand. Now that I know how her magic works, I won’t let her trap me again. And I’m sure not letting any woman near my neck again. Except maybe Morrigan…

  Sorry. Doing it again.

  But it seems like she cares about me. I still don’t know why, but I like it. Is it wrong that I’m falling for a pagan goddess? I’m not converting or anything, but by golly, she’s wonderful. And not just physically. There’s a heart there, and I’m finally seeing it.

  And I’m realizing how much Cora hates me for taking her “daughter” away from her. She’s really not going to stop until I’m dead. Now I’m really worried about that banshee wailing at me.

  We’re going to a new hideout tomorrow. Keep us safe as we go. I’d hate to run into a dragon or something along the way.

  Thanks, God. Abel out.

  15

  Sometimes, when Cora got lonely, she’d unlock one of her many guest bedrooms and stand there, looking at all the things her children left behind. A horn from her second-born daughter, a serpent with the prettiest green scales you’d ever seen. A cave painting of a blood sacrifice her fifteenth son had painted; she’d plucked it from the rock with her bare hands. And then there was the harp of her youngest, a squat demon with long fingers as perfect for strumming the golden strings as for strangling babes in their cribs. If she stroked the strings, she still heard his dying shrieks.

  So many children, dead or gone. Most slain before the dawn of history, almost all forgotten by time. The few people did know were only half-remembered, shadows under the bed, movements in the corner of your eye, bogeymen and nightmares forgotten upon waking. But in the dark days, they had ruled as kings and monsters and gods. No mother could have been prouder.

  Then there were the others; the ones who had left, had stopped loving her. The ones who had grown so powerful they felt she held them back. The jealous ones, the bitter. Some had even turned on her because they thought her evil. These had no memorial in her house. Not because she hated them, but because it hurt too much to remember.

  She left the room and wandered into Morgan’s bedroom. The walls were painted black. Cora found it morbid, but Morgan liked it. Better than the pink Cora had forced on her in their first real home in America, back in the fifties. Piles of books, magazines, and newspapers sat in the corner. The bed was unmade, because of course it was. Cora could never bring herself to punish Morgan for such a small infraction. A few forgotten broken toys peeked out from under it, where they’d been thrown after being received. Morgan had never appreciated her gifts; she always wanted knives and swords and other weapons, but those were unacceptable for a child, especially one prone to matricide. Cora had even gotten her a signed AC/DC poster a few decades ago, when Morgan had spent a whole week listening to “Back in Black.” She’d pictured it hanging on the wall, bringing character to the room. Instead, Morrigan had crumpled it up and hurled it back at her. The one time she’d paid attention, and it had been literally thrown in her face.

  She couldn’t take another rejection. She couldn’t lose one more child. She would get Morgan back and win her love, no matter what it took.

  Her cell phone rang, and she picked up. “Hello? Cora speaking.”

  “Just what the hell have you got me into?” came a voice from the other side.

  Cora frowned. It was one of her spies, the biker with the eyepatch. “I beg your pardon?”

  “You paid me to keep an eye out for your runaway daughter. Fine. No problem. You want me to burn down the place where she’s staying? You got it. But when you start dealing with people who suck the fire right out of the building or armies of attack crows or swords that make you say things you don’t want to, you better start explaining. Ain’t no money gonna make me mess with the paranormal.”

  “You found her hideout, then?” Cora asked.

  “Yeah, I found it. I could give you the address, if I thought she’d stay there long enough. And don’t ask me to hold her there, because it ain’t happening.”

  “That’s all right. I’ve got another agent coming to you. He’ll take care of it. I assume you’re at the rendezvous point?”

  “Yeah, and he better have my money. This bitch isn’t worth my time.”

  Cora’s eye twitched. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Look, I know you love your little girl, but she’s a pain in the ass. She almost killed me!” There was a noise on the other end of the line, and the biker swore. “That’s your agent on the horse?”

  “Yes sir, that’s him.”

  “But where’s his—”

  “Be a dear and put him on the phone,” said Cora.

  “How?”

  “Just do it.”

  Silence. And then a strange whispering sound, a little like breath, a little like wind rattling through dead trees.

  “Kill him,” said Cora.

  Silence again. Then the biker’s screams, dying into a rasping gurgle. Then the snap of vertebrae.

  Cora listened to it all with a satisfied smile. No one talks that way about my daughter. No one.

  The whispering sound returned.

  “Find them,” said Cora. “Bring Morgan home. And as for that slimy son of a preacher … do what you do best.”

  The whisper-wind came in soft bursts that almost sounded like laughter.

  16

  Brigid had given Abel snack cakes to raise his blood sugar (Abel chose an oatmeal cream pie), made him take an iron pill with a gallon of Gatorade, and run him a hot bath in a candle-lit bathroom.
Now he sat in the warm, soapy water, relaxing and listening to the distant sounds of the gods packing up. Bangs and thumps gave way to an argument between Mac and Brigid about bringing along a scrap metal deer sculpture. Abel smiled and settled deeper, letting the water caress his skin and soothe his tense muscles.

  He had to admit, he liked the attention Brigid had been paying him, even if it was too motherly for someone who wasn’t his mother. Maybe that was just the way she was. Maybe it was her way of showing him how much she thought of him. Maybe, even though all he’d done this afternoon was almost get killed, she and the others respected him again.

  Abel frowned. There was that word, respect. He could picture the Reverend now, demanding it. And he could imagine that desire getting the man into the same kind of trouble his son had been in today. Guess we’re more alike than I thought, Dad.

  He had to stop caring what these people thought of him. So why did he care so much? Why did he need their approval? Especially Morrigan’s. Was it just because she was strong and beautiful, or was there more to it than that?

  The water and dim light dulled his senses, and he dozed thinking of Morrigan, of her emerald eyes full of concern, of her berserker frenzy over him, of the touch of her skin and the smell of her hair. For a moment, he thought he felt her against him in the tub, but when he opened his eyes, no one was there.

  Abel drained the bath and toweled himself off. Mac had left him one of his nightshirts, a red-striped monstrosity like the ones worn in cartoons, and it was far too big on him. The neckline exposed most of his chest, and the sleeves and hem drooped and dragged and made movement nearly impossible. He rolled up the sleeves as tight as he could and lifted the hem above his feet, feeling awkwardly like a bride going down the aisle.

  It was dark outside the bathroom, all silent and still as the gods slumbered. Except—he leaned toward the door, straining to hear—a faint rhythmic clanging came from somewhere in the shop.