Morrigan

by Jonathan King

  Abel groaned and face-planted on the couch. Great, I blew that one. Good luck getting her to speak to you again after that. But he couldn’t give her what she wanted.

  As much as he wanted it too.

  Wednesday, October 30

  12:02 AM

  Hey, God. It’s me, Abel.

  I think I blew it.

  I was only doing what you told me, and what I had to do. But the way Morrigan reacted, how embarrassed and freaked out she was, I don’t know if she’s going to give me another chance.

  She has to see, to understand I wasn’t ready. That I won’t be ready for a long time. Sex is a big step, and I’ve seen it go wrong, and I don’t want that for us. If this thing has a chance (and considering the age difference alone, not to mention the unequally yoked bit, it might not), it can’t repeat past mistakes.

  I don’t want to lose her, God. But I’m worried I’ve shattered her expectations one too many times. Help her understand, God. Give her patience. And give me patience too, because if she does give me another chance and we really are cooped up together this long, I’m not sure how I’m going to keep my hands off her.

  Thanks, God. Abel out.

  21

  The only light in the nursery was a spinning nightlight that made stars dance across the ceiling. A white-blond baby boy watched them from his crib, fussing a little but fascinated by the whirling lights.

  He didn’t notice the snake slithering under the door until it shifted and grew to human form. Then his eyes focused on the woman standing beside his crib, looking down on him. He started to cry, but the woman picked him up and rocked him gently, singing an ancient lullaby, and soon the child was asleep.

  Cora held the baby closer to her chest, as though his presence were a balm to the ache there. It had been too long since she’d had a child of her own to hold. Now this baby was stinging her heart right in the maternal instinct. She wanted to hold him forever, just like this.

  Maybe that was the problem with Morgan. She’d brought the girl home when she was already an adult, several thousand years old. She’d missed the newborn stage, when they could have really bonded. The girl was too independent already.

  Cora looked down at the child in her arms. Maybe she could start all over with him. She could run out of this house right now, take him to a new town, raise him as her own child from the start. Maybe he’d love her like a good son should.

  But then there were his parents to consider. They might never stop looking for him; she would always have to be on the run. She could always kill them tonight in their beds. It would be cathartic. But if something went wrong, or if one day the boy found out…

  Focus, girl, Cora told herself. You’ve got a job to do. Don’t let your emotions get in the way.

  Newborn babies were powerful things, bursting with potential energy. Their parts could be powerful ingredients in especially dark spells.

  Cora shifted the baby to one arm and pulled a dagger from a sheath at her belt. The steel blade glinted in the flashing nightlight. She held it close to the child’s head … and then very carefully shaved away the downy locks from his scalp. Then she gathered up the fallen hair and tucked it into a pouch.

  A heart or a liver might have been a more effective ingredient, but this was a child, and Cora was a mother.

  She set the baby back down in his crib, leaving a light kiss on his forehead. Then she shifted back into snake form and slithered under the door and out of the house.

  Cemetery located, she thought, marking it off her mental to-do list. Child’s hair gathered. Cow’s skull stripped of flesh and organs and ready to use. Finger bones—well, the cemetery will give me a good supply of those. And holy man’s blood?

  There was a buzz from her pocket as she turned back to human. She checked her phone to see a midnight message.

  I know it’s late, but I need to talk, and you’re the only one I can talk to, it said.

  Cora grinned. The blood wouldn’t be a problem. The Reverend Whittaker was in her back pocket. All that was left was to get revenge on that bastard son of his and then go to the cemetery on Samhain night and work the spell. After that, she and Morgan could be a mother and daughter at last, and no one would ever come between them again. Because they’d all be dead.

  Cora wasn’t a snake anymore, but there was still a slither in her step as she headed home for the night.

  22

  “Sleep well?”

  Brigid’s voice jarred Abel from sleep to find he was still on the couch, dressed from the waist down, his shirt on the floor where he’d left it the night before.

  “Not really,” Abel said, rubbing his cheek where the couch’s rough fabric had left crisscross patterns. Strange dreams danced half-remembered through his head as he slipped back into his shirt and followed her into the kitchen.

  “To tell you the truth,” said Brigid, “I’d rather expected to find Morrigan out here with you.”

  “She went to bed hours ago,” said Abel.

  “Without you?”

  Abel felt his face grow hot. “Uh, yeah. That’s generally how that works.”

  “Not with two people who look at each other the way you two do.” Brigid threw sausages into a frying pan, then turned on her blowtorch and held it under the pan.

  “Right. That’s not happening.”

  “Why not?” She nodded to a carton of eggs on the counter. “Make yourself useful and fry those up, would you?”

  “Plenty of reasons.” Abel searched the cabinets for another pan and started cracking eggs into it. “For one thing, she’s a goddess and I’m a teenage human.”

  “All the gods are basically human,” said Brigid, turning the sausages, “with a few extras thrown in. And besides, unions between gods and mortals are as old as … well, as the gods. Most kings of Ireland got their start being bedded by sovereignty goddesses a dozen times their age. There’s nothing shameful about her desire for you. Or your desire for her, either. Quite the opposite, really.”

  Abel switched on the stove burner. “I’m no king.”

  Brigid winked at him. “Not yet, dearie.”

  Abel rolled his eyes and went back into the cabinets. It took him a little while, but he finally found the herbs he was looking for. He sprinkled them onto the eggs. “Doesn’t matter. It’s not happening now, anyway.”

  “Because of your upbringing? I know people of your faith tend to be strict about sex.”

  Abel cleared his throat. This was getting more awkward by the minute. “That’s part of it, yeah. But there’s more to it than that.”

  Before he could explain, or even decide if he wanted to explain, Morrigan’s bedroom door opened and the war goddess emerged, rubbing hands across her tired eyes and tangled hair.

  “Oh, dear heart,” said Brigid, shutting off her torch. “As rough as the two of you look, it’s a shame you didn’t sleep together. All of the payment, none of the pleasure.”

  Abel squeezed his eyes shut. “Can we please not talk about this anymore?”

  “Like I said, dear, nothing to be ashamed of,” said Brigid.

  “No, it’s okay,” Morrigan said quickly. “If you don’t want to talk about last night, Abel, we won’t talk about it. Okay?”

  Abel frowned. There was something weird about the way she was looking at him, like she was afraid he’d drop dead any minute. “I mean, if it would help—”

  “Whatever you want,” said Morrigan. She glanced at the pan. “I can take over the eggs if you’d like.”

  “It’s okay,” said Abel. “I’ve got it covered.”

  “What would you like to go with them?” Morrigan asked. “Toast? Waffles? Pancakes? Hash browns?”

  “Do you know how to cook any of that?” Brigid asked.

  “How hard can it be?” Morrigan turned back to Abel. “Are you a coffee or tea drinker?”

  “Coffee,” Abel said, and then stopped himself. “Look, this is nice and all, but you don’t have to do it. You didn’t do anything wrong last
night. You have nothing to make up for.”

  “I thought we weren’t going to talk about that,” Morrigan said, putting a filter in the coffee maker.

  “If it’s bothering you—” Abel started.

  “It’s not.”

  “Then what is it?” Abel asked. “You’re fussing over me like I’m dying or something.”

  The jar of coffee overturned in Morrigan’s hand, and she swore as she hurried to clean up the spill.

  “Wait, am I dying?”

  Brigid gasped, and her hand flew to her mouth. “Morrigan, no!”

  Morrigan closed her eyes and nodded, leaning back against the stove. “Last night, I saw you die, Abel.”

  “In one of your dreams?” Abel asked. “Like with the biker?”

  “Exactly. And it’s not the first time, either. The night before, at Brigid’s, when I couldn’t sleep? That’s why.”

  That must be why she’s been extra protective of me lately, Abel thought. “Well, maybe it was just an ordinary dream. Last night, I dreamed you turned into a crow and literally bit my head off, but that doesn’t mean it’s going to happen.”

  “It doesn’t work that way with me,” said Morrigan. “I don’t get dreams; I get visions. Every time I dream of someone, they’re dying. And every time I dream of death, it happens.”

  Abel tried to hold on to his doubt, but he could hear the certainty in her voice, the finality of the grave. “But you can stop it, right? You know how it’s going to happen. You dream that part. All we have to do is avoid it, right?”

  “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell myself, but I’ve tried before,” said Morrigan. “So many times. So many people I cared about. But they’re all dead. I couldn’t save them, no matter what I did. If I dream someone’s death, it comes true. Always.”

  Abel nodded. “How do I die?”

  “Are you sure you want to know?”

  “No, but tell me anyway.”

  Morrigan’s gaze dropped to the ground. “You get stabbed in the back. I can’t see who does the stabbing, but that’s how it happens.”

  Brigid turned away to hide her tears.

  “How much—” Abel’s voice broke, and he cleared his throat. “How much time do I have left?”

  “I don’t know,” said Morrigan. “Sometimes it happens that day, sometimes a week or a month later. If we keep you locked up here, we could put it off long enough for you to live out a natural lifespan.” She smiled. “I guess Mac was right after all.”

  “Was I?” Mac asked, wandering into the kitchen. “Oh good. What about?” He sniffed the air. “Is something burning?”

  Abel looked back at his pan to see the eggs turning black. “Oh crap!” He hurled the pan into the sink and doused them with water.

  “I’m sorry,” said Morrigan.

  “It’s fine,” said Abel. “I guess burning food runs in the family.”

  “I wasn’t talking about the eggs.”

  Abel gripped the edge of the sink. “I just … I need a minute.”

  He hurried out of the kitchen. Behind him, Mac asked, “What did I miss?”

  Abel didn’t hear the explanation over the buzzing in his own head. He was going to die. It was inevitable. A goddess had told him so, and one he trusted to be right. What was he supposed to do with that? I mean, sure, he knew where he’d go when he died, but that didn’t mean he was eager to get there right now. He was young; he had so much left to do, so much life left unlived. Until now, it had mostly been survival. Now it was too late to live.

  But she did say it could be put off, maybe for years. Maybe if I just stay here…

  But that was still only survival, another form of prison. Maybe death was the only freedom he could look forward to.

  Doesn’t mean I have to like it.

  Something broke through the white noise in his brain. It was singing, again. But this wasn’t the Dearg-Due’s flytrap voice with honey-sweet melody. This was a hymn, sung badly off-key:

  “Pass me not O gentle Savior

  Hear my humble cry

  While on others Thou art calling

  Do not pass me by.”

  And the voice was familiar and somehow foreign at the same time. In fact, it sounded like…

  Abel raced down the stairs and opened the secret door. A woman had been leaning against the Angel Oak and now toppled backward into the entrance. A bottle in her hand clattered to the wood floor, spilling tequila all over. The woman’s eyes gazed upside down at Abel through a matted mess of brown hair, slowly focusing, and then they widened.

  “Abel?” The woman said. “Honey, is that you?”

  “Mom?”

  23

  “Abel,” Dorothy Whittaker said, trying to push herself to her feet. “My sweet—oof—sweet boy.”

  “Mom, what are you doing here?” Abel grabbed her arm, pulled her upright, and steadied her, closing the door behind her.

  “You ran away. Why shouldn’t I?” Dorothy asked, sounding like a petulant teen even to Abel. “I couldn’t stand being alone with that man one second longer.”

  “Abel?” Morrigan called down the stairs. “Who is that?”

  “It’s my mom,” Abel said, helping her stumble up the stairs to the living room where the gods waited. “She needs help.”

  “I see where you get your skill at holding your liquor,” said Mac.

  “Oh, hello, lovely people,” said Dorothy. “Morgan, wasn’t it? We met. I was in much better condition then.” She started giggling.

  “What’s she doing here?” Morrigan asked. It was more accusation than question.

  “She was outside,” Abel explained. “I think she finally left my father.”

  “And just happened to bump into us when she’s got a whole massive country to move around in? That’s some coincidence.”

  “Maybe someone told her where I was,” Abel suggested.

  “That’s what worries me,” said Morrigan. “You let her into our safe house without checking to see if anyone was nearby, didn’t you?”

  “I was a little distracted,” said Abel. “It’s my mom, after all.”

  “Which makes her the perfect bait.”

  “I’ll watch the door,” Brigid said, slipping past Abel and Dorothy down the steps.

  Morrigan grabbed Dorothy and patted her down, more roughly than Abel thought necessary. “No tracking charms, no weapons. Doesn’t mean she’s clean, though.”

  “I know how we can be sure,” said Mac, bustling to his room.

  “Abel, what are they doing?” Dorothy wailed.

  “Will you guys stop?” Abel asked. “This is my mother.”

  “No, it’s your life,” said Morrigan, “and we’re trying to protect it.”

  Mac reemerged with Fragarach in hand, slipping it neatly under Dorothy’s chin.

  “Whoa, whoa!” Abel shouted. “No one’s holding my mother at sword point. Put that away or so help me—Hey! Let me go!”

  Morrigan had wrapped her arms around him, pinning his hands to his sides. “Not until we know for sure.”

  Fragarach began to buzz, and Dorothy squirmed.

  “Who sent you here?” Mac asked.

  “No one sent me…” said Dorothy. “Came of my own free will … I don’t feel good…”

  “How did you know your son was here?”

  “I didn’t … looking for somewhere safe … Abel, sweetie, make him stop!”

  “I’m telling you, she doesn’t know anything!” Abel cried. “Let her go!”

  Mac looked at Morrigan. “She has to be telling the truth.”

  “We can’t be too careful,” said Morrigan. “Ask again.”

  “The sword doesn’t draw out lies.”

  “I’m telling you,” said Abel, “If you don’t let us go, I’m going to—”

  Dorothy vomited all over the sword and the floor.

  Mac grimaced and shook the puke from Fragarach. “Ugh! My sword!” He glowered at Morrigan. “Happy?”

  Morrigan sighed and
let Abel go. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t take a chance.”

  Brigid came back up the stairs. “There’s no one outside. No monsters, no spies, no Cora.” She looked at the puddle of vomit and then at Dorothy. “Oh, you poor dear. Let’s get you cleaned up.”

  Dorothy reached for her son. “Abel…”

  Abel grabbed her and hugged her tightly, muscling past the urge to gag on the odor of vomit and tequila. “It’s okay, Mom. They’ll take care of you now. They just want to protect me.”

  “And we’ll protect you too,” said Brigid, leading her to the bathroom. “You’re welcome to stay here as long as you want.”

  Morrigan looked ready to object, but Mac scowled at her.

  “Don’t push this,” he said. “I know you want to keep him safe. So do I. But bullying the poor woman isn’t the way.” He frowned at his sword and headed back to his room. “If you need be, I’ll be cleaning and disinfecting this.”

  Morrigan stared down at the puddle of puke, and then at Abel. “There are paper towels and bleach in the kitchen. We can clean this up.”

  Abel glared at her. “You know she grew up in Charleston? Her parents still live here. That’s probably why she came back here. So she happened to bump into our safe house. So what? I can see things more impossible than that just by looking around the room.”

  “By your standards,” said Morrigan. “Not by mine. This feels wrong.”

  “Because it is wrong,” said Abel. “She’s broken. He finally broke her.”

  Morrigan cocked her head. “Your father?”

  “I’m amazed she endured him for this long,” said Abel.

  “I know he’s strict,” Morrigan began.

  “It’s not just that,” said Abel. He rested on the back of the couch. “Mom was only a couple of years older than I am when she met the Reverend. He was the pastor of her church and an older man, and she admired him for both. She thought he was so mature, so respectable, and he ate up her respect. They got way too close. And then they…” Abel cleared his throat. “You know. And that’s when I was conceived.”