Morrigan

by Jonathan King

  Abel pulled his sword from its scabbard, but he didn’t hold out much hope. Morrigan was much better with a sword than he was, and she hadn’t even slowed the creature down. As he watched, she drove her blade right through its gut. It swatted her away and then lumbered toward Abel, sword still skewering it like a charred kabob.

  “Oh crap,” said Abel.

  Staying put wasn’t an option anymore, and clearly, neither was fighting. He pushed himself to his feet and limped away, but his ankle shrieked with each step. The spine whip snaked out again, pinning Abel’s arms to his sides, and the Dullahan pulled him to the ground and dragged him backwards. The sword dropped from his hand. He raked the pavement with his fingernails, but it gave him no purchase against the monster’s irresistible pull.

  Morrigan jumped onto the Dullahan’s back, kicking and punching and scratching and pinching, but the Dullahan threw itself backwards and body-slammed her into the ground like a wrestler. The sword popped out of its body and flew into the air, slinging black blood as it spun. One fluid move and the Dullahan was back on his feet and catching it, bringing the hilt down hard on Morrigan’s forehead. She lay still.

  “Morrigan!” Abel shouted, and then regretted it as the biker turned his way. He wriggled out of the whip and tried to roll away, but the Dullahan dropped the sword and grabbed him by the collar of his borrowed shirt, dragging him back toward the motorcycle.

  A box of rotting oak bound in rusty iron was strapped to the back bumper. It drew and repelled the smoke and steam around it, in and out, in and out, as though it breathed.

  Abel struggled harder, but he couldn’t break free of the creature’s death grip. He could only watch as the Dullahan opened the box and reached inside. When it brought out the contents, Abel nearly vomited.

  It was the thing’s head, yellow and pocked with maggot holes and decay, like some blob of too-aged cheese. One side had fallen in where the skull had grown soft with rot. The skin was as leathery as the suit its body wore, the teeth black with rot, the hair coarse and wispy and tied back in an ink-black rattail. Worst were the eyes, yellowed and bloodshot with dots of pupils that leered at Abel.

  The Dullahan lifted Abel so that his feet dangled high above the ground, and in the other hand, it raised its grinning head. The withered nostrils inhaled, rattling the air in a throat that wasn’t, and the jaw lolled open wide as a coffin, ready to utter cold, dead words. Abel squirmed, frantic to free himself. Whatever came next, it wouldn’t be nice.

  As he thrashed, his cross necklace slipped from beneath his oversized shirt and hung waving in the air. The Dullahan head spotted it, and its speech turned into a wail of horror like a storm wind through a graveyard. Abel dropped to the ground, panting hard from fear and exertion, but he couldn’t help feeling confused. What was this monster so scared of? Surely not one little cross necklace. Still, he took it off and held it out in front of him as if to ward off a demon.

  The creature lurched back.

  “You don’t like this, do you?” A confident smile played at Abel’s lips and pushed back his terror. “Well, you’d better run off back to Cora, or . . . or I’ll wave it at you some more.” He feinted forward, swinging the cross at the monster as if to touch the head with the necklace. The Dullahan shrieked, stuffed its head back in the box, and thundered away.

  As soon as it was out of sight, Abel dropped to the ground, the adrenaline that had kept him going long gone, his ankle screaming. No idea how I did that. As usual. Thanks for the miracle, God. He held the necklace up to the light. And thanks for the gift, Mom.

  Pushing himself half upright, he dragged himself over to Morrigan and shook her to wake her. Part of him didn’t want to disturb her—she looked so beautiful lying there, wet hair splayed around her, lashes resting against her cheeks.

  He swallowed hard. Focus, Abel. Make sure she’s all right.

  “Morrigan, I need you to wake up, okay?” No response. He grunted in frustration. “I swear, given the choice between mouth-to-mouth resuscitation and slapping you, I’m going with the second one.”

  Morrigan squeezed her eyes tighter shut and groaned, reaching up to probe the growing bruise on her forehead. “That’s gonna leave a bump.” She eased her eyes open and peered at Abel. Then she shot upright and wrapped him in a tight hug. “You’re alive!”

  “For now,” Abel choked, “but the way you’re squeezing the air out of me…”

  “Sorry.” Morrigan let go. Her brow wrinkled. “Did you say something earlier about mouth-to-mouth?”

  “Maybe later,” Abel said as they helped each other to their feet. “Headless Horseman’s gone.”

  “Thank goodness for that. How’d you get rid of it?”

  Abel held up his necklace. “I warded him off with the sign of the cross. Which sounds crazy, even compared to the things I’ve seen these last couple of days, but it worked.”

  Morrigan rolled her eyes. “Why didn’t you tell me you had gold on you? We could have ended this so much sooner.”

  Abel frowned. “It wasn’t the cross?”

  “Well, with that thing’s black heart, I’m sure the religious imagery didn’t hurt, but it’s mostly the gold. Dullahans hate the stuff. No one’s bothered to ask why.”

  “That might have been a good thing to mention earlier.” Abel straightened his glasses. “You know, ‘Hey Abel! The monster that’s chasing us hates gold. You wouldn’t happen to have any, would you?’”

  “Sorry, I was busy trying to keep you from getting dropped to the pavement during a high-speed chase,” said Morrigan.

  Abel dropped his eyes. “You’re right. Thanks for saving my life.”

  Morrigan shrugged. “I didn’t do that much. You saved yourself again.”

  “By accident.”

  “Still counts.” Morrigan glanced at the gods. “I’m gonna check on Brigid. You get Mac.”

  “On it.” Abel limped to the truck and patted Mac’s bearded cheek. “Come on, big guy. We need you.”

  Mac came to, coughing and gasping for air. “Drowning! I’m…” His eyes focused on Abel’s face, and he calmed down. “Sorry about that, lad.”

  Abel clapped him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry about it. I’m just glad you’re still with us.”

  “It’ll take more than a dark faerie with a fancy whip to put me down,” said Mac.

  “You say that now,” said Morrigan, towing along a staggering Brigid, “but that thing plowed through the three of us gods like we were children. We’ve got to get out of here before it comes back.”

  “Couldn’t I just wave my necklace at it some more?” Abel asked.

  “Only for so long before it figures out a way to separate you from it,” said Morrigan. She cocked her head at the sound of distant sirens. “Besides, the cops will be here soon, and there’s no way anyone’s going to be able to explain this to them. Plus there’s still the Dearg-Due and whatever else Cora has sent after us. The sooner we get to the safe house, the better.”

  18

  “See,” said Abel, “when you said safe house, I kinda assumed it wouldn’t be a tourist attraction.”

  He and the gods had driven down the coast to John’s Island, hidden the truck in the woods, and walked—Abel on a freshly healed ankle, thanks to Brigid—down a gravel road toward a sign that read ANGEL OAK – OPEN, with the business hours underneath.

  “That’s what makes it perfect, dear heart,” said Brigid. “Cora would never think to look for us here.”

  “And even if she did, she couldn’t attack us here without exposing herself,” Morrigan added.

  Abel nodded to a couple walking ahead of them. “But won’t all the people around defeat the purpose of hiding? Any of them could be working for Cora.”

  “Don’t worry, lad,” said Mac, lifting his eyes to the skies. “They won’t be here much longer.”

  Before the couple could pass through the chain link double gate, a large man in a polo shirt came out to meet them. “Sorry, folks. We’re closing up. Got
a big storm moving in.”

  Abel turned to look at Mac, who chuckled in time with a distant roll of thunder. “Blowing in from the sea, lad.” Mac winked at Abel.

  “Not bad,” Abel said as tourists trickled through the gate and back to their cars. “But how do we get in now?”

  “Watch and learn.” Mac shook out his heavy coat by the lapels, and a cold mist wafted out, first in tendrils, then in clouds that wrapped around them. Abel wasn’t sure what shocked him more, the sudden fog or the fact that no one noticed it forming. Where they’d drawn an odd look or two from passing tourists before, now no one looked their way.

  Mac grinned. “I always keep a mist of invisibility in my coat in case I need to hide from an enemy.”

  “Or in case you need to sneak to the pub for a night of drinking,” Brigid added.

  Mac cleared his throat. “The safe house is this way.” He led them through the tourists toward the park. Abel reached out, tempted to touch someone to see their reaction, but Morrigan grabbed his hand.

  “Defeats the purpose of hiding, wouldn’t you say?” she asked.

  Abel stuck his hands in his pockets. “Couldn’t resist.”

  Angel Oak Park was fenced in with chain link and carpeted with golden brown leaves, and it held a rustic-looking cabin, port-a-potties, picnic tables, and the most sprawling tree Abel had ever seen. Limbs snaked out in every direction, some bending down to the ground, others supported by wooden posts. Abel could feel the weight of it like a living thing, a slumbering ancient monster that was somehow more real and alive than any other tree around it.

  “You never could resist an oak tree, could you?” Morrigan asked Brigid.

  “They’re a favorite of mine, I’ll not deny it.”

  “Waste of a ship’s timbers, if you ask me,” Mac muttered.

  Abel raised his hand. “I’m sorry. Are we staying in the tree?”

  Brigid winked at him. “Exactly.” Her fingers lightly brushed the bark, and it split away to reveal steps leading up inside the trunk and into the branches. Only, as Abel climbed the stairs, he found himself not in the tangle of limbs he had seen from the outside, but in an oak paneled living room furnished in golden brown shag carpet, a musty brown couch and recliner, a coffee table that seemed to grow out of the floor, and a large flat screen TV. Above them hovered lights that shimmered and ducked like oversized fireflies, buzzing around a ceiling that seemed to undulate like leaves in the wind. Doors led off to a kitchen, a large walk-in closet, and several bedrooms.

  Abel gaped at the room that shouldn’t exist. Then he shrugged. “You know what? I’m just gonna roll with it. I’ve seen so many weird things this week, anything that’s not trying to kill me gets a pass.”

  “Well, you won’t have to worry about any more attacks on your life,” said Mac. “In Breej’s safe houses, you’re as secure as if you were on holy ground.”

  “I tried building a safe house in a church once,” said Brigid, “but the organ shook it all to pieces.”

  Abel flopped down onto the couch and stretched out, nestling among the cushions. The fabric was scratchy and smelled of mildew and mothballs, but after the day he’d had, it felt like the mattress at a five-star hotel. “Not bad. I don’t think I’ll mind staying here a couple of days.”

  “Couple of days?” Mac asked. “Cora’s not going to give up her search after a couple of days. We could be here months, even years.”

  “Years?” Abel and Morrigan asked at the same time.

  “If that’s what it takes to keep you two safe, yes,” said Mac.

  Abel sat up. “But we can go other places, right? A night out, that kind of thing? We’re not actually going to be stuck in this tree for years, right?”

  “Depends on how long we’re safe here,” said Mac. “If Cora discovers us, we’ll have to move. Until then, we stay put.”

  Morrigan turned to Abel. “It won’t be that long. I’ll find a way to kill Cora, and then we’ll be free.”

  “You’ll do nothing of the kind,” Mac declared. “I told you I wasn’t helping you with any suicide plan, and I meant it.”

  “Mac, she’s a grown woman—” Brigid started.

  “—who got half-killed today,” Mac finished. “As did I, as did you. So until she calls off her hunters, which from what little I know of her won’t be for a very long time, we’re all staying put.”

  “It won’t be a very long time,” said Morrigan. “It’ll be forever. Cora doesn’t give up, not when she really wants something. I was her prisoner for two hundred years; I know what she’s like. She doesn’t let go, and she doesn’t forgive.”

  Abel fell back on the couch and pressed his palms against his forehead. All this struggle to be free, and he’d only traded one prison for another.

  “It won’t be that bad here,” Brigid said quickly. “We’ve got food and drink to last us for years, and a large wardrobe—I’m sure there’s something in your size you can change into instead of wearing Mac’s old clothes.” She motioned to the TV and grinned at Morrigan. “And this tree gets cable and Wi-Fi, which means you can catch up on everything you missed the last two hundred years.”

  “While I spend another two hundred as a prisoner,” Morrigan said, glaring at Mac. “Again.”

  “I’m gonna spend the rest of my life in this room,” Abel murmured.

  “Don’t say that!” Morrigan said, sharper than Abel thought necessary. “It’s not going to happen.” She whirled back to face Mac. “Standing by and doing nothing is not an option. You hear me? I can’t do it!”

  “You listen to me,” Mac said, but broke off when he heard a clattering in the kitchen. He stomped off to investigate. Silence for a few moments . . . and then a string of profanity worthy of the saltiest sailor, making Abel wince. A chorus of higher-pitched voices joined in, matching curse for curse, and then a dozen chubby little men no higher than Abel’s ankles, wearing patched red coats and scraggly red beards on their glowing red cheeks, darted through the living room and out the front door in a cacophony of broken bottles and empty cans.

  Mac reappeared at the kitchen door. “Clurichauns in the kitchen! The bastards went through our whole store!”

  Abel and the goddesses rushed past him to look at the floor and open refrigerator and pantry shelves splattered with wine and beer and dotted with crumbs and torn packaging. It looked like an army of rats had gone through the place and picked it clean of anything edible.

  Brigid sighed. “Looks as though I’m going shopping.”

  Morrigan cast a lingering glance at Abel, like she wanted to say something to him. Finally, she said, “I’m coming too.”

  “What did I just say?” Mac asked. “Cora is looking for you—”

  The world snapped sideways, and Morrigan was no longer young and beautiful. Now she was an elderly woman, bowed almost double and pinched to sharpness and sagging in wrinkles. “I’m sorry, dearie,” she croaked, pulling an aged shawl tighter around her shoulders, “what were you saying?”

  Mac fumed. “Morrigan…”

  “Cora isn’t looking for this form,” said Morrigan. “I’ll be safe for an occasional excursion, as long as I don’t get too close to her or her agents.”

  Brigid shot Mac a puppy-eyed look. “Please, Mac.”

  Mac sighed and rolled his eyes. “Sure, why not? Get yourself killed. Why should I care?”

  Brigid squealed and wrapped him in a hug. “I knew there was a heart in there. I’ll get changed.” She danced off to the closet.

  Morrigan took Abel by the shoulders and looked him in the eye. So many things about her had changed, but those emerald eyes were still the same. “I will make this right,” she said, her voice quavering. “I promise.”

  Tuesday, October 29

  11:12 AM

  Hey, God. It’s me, Abel.

  I’m trapped again. I risked so much to be free, and now I’m back in prison.

  At least at home, I could go outside sometimes, even if I had a curfew or places the Re
verend wouldn’t let me go. At least I had more than four walls to look forward to. At least there was a chance of escape. At least I never had to fear for my life (which you’ve saved like twice now, so thanks).

  At least I had Mom.

  I miss her, God. If she were here right now, she’d be giving me a hug, telling me it would be okay, finding a way to make the situation fun even though she’d feel just as trapped as I do. She had such strength, endured so much. I didn’t realize how much I depended on her until now. Now I don’t have anyone.

  Don’t get me wrong, I like the gods. Brigid is cool, and Mac’s just doing what he thinks is best to keep us all safe. I definitely like Morrigan; maybe more than that. And I’d trust any of them to save my life. But I don’t know that I trust any of them with this. Not yet. They’re friends, but they’re not family. Not like Mom.

  I need to get out of here. Or I need someone to be worth staying for. Or I need … something I haven’t even thought of yet. I have to believe you’re already working on it, though. You’ve got this under control.

  And now I’ll repeat that to myself until I believe it.

  Thanks, God. Abel out.

  19

  The next few hours passed with mind-numbing lack of speed. Abel flipped through channels on the TV for a while, but it only made his brain feel fuzzier than it already was. He watched the lights buzz around the ceiling, wondering if they were electric or magical. For all he knew, they might be literal fairy lights. But he could only speculate for so long before boredom took over again.

  Mac had slammed the door to his bedroom long ago, but the rest of the safe house was wide open, so Abel went exploring. There was the kitchen, of course, which he spent some time cleaning up because he might as well. There were several bedrooms besides Mac’s, functionally identical besides a portrait in one of a young red-haired man about Abel’s age dressed in tartan and armor. Past boyfriend of Morrigan? Or more likely he’s related to Brigid, since it’s her safe house. Wonder how? He spent some time in the walk-in closet finding a shirt in his size and then playing dress-up with some more bizarre accessories, including a beat-up fedora, a kilt, and a twelve-foot scarf. But even that lost its charm after a while.