Morrigan

by Jonathan King

  Morrigan and Abel burst out of the woods onto another road—and heard a screaming whinny. “Get down!” Morrigan shouted, and Abel ducked as a spine whip swished and cracked over his head. When he stood, he saw the looming torso of the Dullahan astride a rearing horse with a matted black coat, burning coal eyes, and a mane that seemed to flow on its own graveyard breeze.

  “It’s got its old ride back,” said Morrigan.

  Abel clutched his necklace, but the headless rider reined in its horse and swung its whip around for another shot. Too much distance between them to ward it off safely.

  The spine snaked out, but Morrigan stepped in front of Abel, and the whip wrapped around her forearm. She grunted in pain, but then tugged as hard as she could. The Dullahan fell out of his saddle and hit the pavement hard.

  There was another screech, and they turned to see the Dearg-Due abandoning the truck and sprinting after them, red dress trailing behind her.

  “Now would be a great time for one of your small miracles, Abel,” said Morrigan.

  Abel offered up a quick prayer—and then it came to him, and he smiled. “Follow me.”

  This time it was Abel grabbing Morrigan’s hand and pulling her along down the streets as fast as he could. It wasn’t fast enough, though. The Dullahan was back on its horse, and the Dearg-Due was inhumanly fast. There was no way they could outrun them forever. But they didn’t have to.

  Pepper’s Mill First Baptist Church was right up ahead. There was a time when he’d resented that brick facade, but he’d never been so happy to see that white steeple reaching to heaven as he was now.

  “Holy ground,” Morrigan said with a grin.

  “From what you told me, I figured that would give them some trouble,” said Abel.

  They raced for the steps, but before they could get there, the spine whip lashed out one last time and popped Abel on the back, knocking him off his feet. The Dullahan charged, but Morrigan kicked out and caught the horse in the knee, and it stumbled, throwing its rider. Abel was back on his feet now, cross necklace held out, and the Dullahan scrambled away. Together, Morrigan and Abel backed up the stairs just as the Dearg-Due reached them. She set foot on the first step and screamed, staggering back and stomping her foot as though trying to put out a fire.

  “Holy ground, sweetie,” said Abel.

  The Dearg-Due wailed, but there was nothing she could do to catch her prey as they disappeared through the church doors.

  Abel collapsed on the thin red carpet, the adrenaline that had carried him through the chase fading away. His back swelled up and stiffened; he’d be lucky if he hadn’t torn a ligament or something.

  “It’s okay,” Morrigan said, peering through the windows in the door at the monsters outside. “They can’t get in here. We’re safe.”

  But as Abel stood and looked around at the hard-backed pews, the pale walls, the unlit electric chandeliers, and the stained glass dotted with the emotionless face of Jesus, none of it felt safe to him. None of it felt anything. It was a prison he’d lost all hatred for over the years, and now it simply was, passionless and dead.

  “Who’s there?” As if on cue, the prison’s warden stepped into the sanctuary, taking his place behind the pulpit by habit.

  Abel braced himself for the inevitable sermon. “Hi, Dad.”

  There was a pause. Then the Reverend asked, “What are you doing here?”

  It wasn’t the question he’d been expecting. Maybe “Where have you been?” or “What were you thinking?” or even “How dare you disrespect me?!” But this? Abel wasn’t sure how to respond.

  Fortunately, Morrigan spoke first. “We’re seeking sanctuary. The people outside want to kill us.”

  “Who wants to kill you?” the Reverend asked, hurrying down the aisle, but Morrigan stepped into his path.

  “I wouldn’t if I were you. Even from a distance, these people can be dangerous.”

  Now that his father was closer, Abel could see that something wasn’t quite right. The man had always been obsessive about his and his family’s appearance, especially in church. But today, his clothes were rumpled and his suit jacket was missing.

  “Did you sleep here last night?” Abel asked.

  “What if I did?” the Reverend asked, fidgeting like crazy. “A man can sleep where he wants. And you’ve got some nerve questioning me about my habits when you’ve been off who knows where.”

  “I just asked—” Abel started, but the Reverend pushed on, gaining confidence with his momentum.

  “You vanish without warning, you leave me having to explain your absence to everyone, and don’t even get me started on your poor mother. She’s been falling to pieces with worry, not at all herself. She’s been talking back to me, and even to the women of the church! The apologies I’ve had to make for her.”

  “I can imagine,” said Abel. He took comfort in knowing that his mother had gotten stronger, not weaker, without him.

  “And now you come traipsing back here with this young woman and some story about people trying to kill you, people you won’t let me see.” The Reverend’s eyes glinted behind smudged glasses. “You don’t fool me for a second. You’ve been off fornicating with this girl, haven’t you?”

  “I wish,” Morrigan muttered, wrapping her arms around herself.

  Abel felt his face catch fire like a furnace, and he wasn’t sure whose remark embarrassed him more. “People really are trying to kill us, Dad. Well, not people exactly. You wouldn’t believe me if I told you what they really were.”

  “I’ll bet,” said the Reverend. “If you’ve gotten her pregnant, I swear—”

  “You’re not listening!” Abel shouted. “You never listen!”

  “Don’t raise your voice to me, son,” said the Reverend, and for some reason he wasn’t using his pulpit voice. In fact, he’d gotten quieter, casting glances back toward his office.

  Abel followed his line of sight. “Is someone else here?”

  “What? No! Don’t change the subject.”

  But it was too late. Abel had already pieced it together. “It’s a woman, isn’t it?”

  “It’s your mother,” the Reverend said quickly. It was his turn to flush crimson. “I was comforting her because you ran away.”

  Morrigan narrowed her eyes. “His mother’s at your house. We just came from there.”

  “Oh my god,” said Abel. “You spent the night here with another woman.”

  “‘You shall not misuse the name of the Lord your God,’” said the Reverend.

  “No!” Abel shot back. “You don’t get to claim the moral high ground when you’ve been cheating on my mother.” The name of his father’s crime felt ripped from some deep part of him, some childlike part that still believed his father could do no wrong. “Who is it? Most of the church women are old enough to be my grandmother. Is it Miss Harcourt? Or Mrs. Thompson? You know she’s married, right? To one of your deacons? Or maybe it’s that widow who’s had her eye on you for a while.”

  “Miss Windermere? You think she…?” The Reverend caught himself smiling at the idea and shook his head. “This is ridiculous. I don’t have to answer your questions.”

  “Yes, you do! After everything you put Mom through, all the shame and the hypocrisy and the pressure to keep up appearances, you owe it to her to be honest for once in your life!”

  The Reverend’s face twisted in a rage Abel had never seen from him before. “I didn’t do anything to your mother that night that she didn’t want me to do. We spent seventeen years paying for our mistake, but by God, she wanted me. She respected me once. And now,” he said, jabbing a finger toward the office, “she’s the only one who respects me! And let me tell you, she wanted me.”

  “You make me sick,” Abel spat.

  “Don’t you dare talk to me like that,” said the Reverend.

  “No sir, Dad,” said Abel, and the last word came out like a curse.

  The silence stretched tense between them, like a tight-wound guitar string about
to break. Father and son stared each other down, while Morrigan looked from one to the other, a goddess terrified of what was about to happen.

  At last, the Reverend turned his back. “Get out.” It was barely audible, but the finality in his voice was unmistakable.

  “Believe me, I wish I could,” said Abel. “But like I’ve said several times—and maybe you’ll listen now—people are trying to kill us.”

  “Enough of that stupid story!” the Reverend shouted. “No one is trying to kill you. I’ll bet there’s no one even out there.” He strode toward the front doors.

  “No, don’t!” Abel warned, but too late. The Reverend swung open the door, and the strains of a lilting soprano wafted into the room, tugging at Abel’s soul.

  “Táim sínte ar do thuama

  Agus gheobhair ann de shíor mé…”

  “Dad, don’t listen to her!” Abel shouted, running after him and grabbing his arm. He forced the fog out of his mind, grasped for something else to focus on. “But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, faithfulness” … wait, I missed one … love, joy, peace… “Plug your ears or something!”

  Instead, the Reverend, swayed by music he didn’t know to resist, shook off his son and drifted like a sleepwalker through the door, down the steps, and into the arms of the woman in red. The Dearg-Due pulled him close and nuzzled his throat, winking at Abel.

  “Don’t you dare hurt him,” Abel growled, surprised to find he still cared.

  Morrigan pushed past him. “Stay here. I’ll get him back.”

  “Are you crazy? That’s two unkillable monsters against one girl.”

  Morrigan grinned at him. “I’ve had worse odds.”

  “Your sword is still in the truck. At least take mine.” Abel tossed her his sword, and she caught it, spinning it through the air to test the balance.

  “Thanks. Stay in the church. You’ll be safe there.” She turned … and froze.

  The Dullahan stood at the bottom of the steps, holding its yellow head high in its hand. Morrigan spun and shouted some warning, but all Abel heard was the creature’s voice, like the shriek of a rusty coffin lid and the cracking of an ancient tree, as the jaws creaked open.

  “Abel Whittaker!” it croaked.

  Something ripped apart Abel’s back, cutting deep and sending waves of piercing agony rebounding off every nerve down to his fingers and toes. It dug in, twisting, carving him up inside. Then it squished free, and an arm wrapped around his neck, dragging him back inside the sanctuary. Morrigan shrieked and rushed toward him, but the door swung shut on its own, trapping her outside.

  Abel panted for breath. His lungs were on fire, heavy and seeming smaller with each gasp. Through the fog of pain, he peered up at his attacker.

  It was Cora. Her hair, usually stiff and styled, was mussed as though she’d just gotten out of bed, and she wore nothing but a terrycloth robe of that noxious green she adored, now stained with his blood. Abel felt vomit rise in his throat, and not because of the color of her robe. She was the one his father had slept with.

  Cora smiled down at him. “Oh, don’t look so shocked, Abel. I’m a grown woman; I can make my own decisions. Your father isn’t the first man I’ve corrupted, and certainly not the first pastor.”

  “You can’t be here,” Abel mumbled. It was getting harder to control his movements. Everything was growing cold and numb.

  “Because of the holy ground thing? Honey, that may stop those two out there, but they don’t have my power or my charm. I’ve been in plenty of churches in my day, and they all welcomed me with open arms.” She picked him up and dropped him onto the altar, knocking over the flowers and the offering plates.

  “What are you?” Abel slurred.

  “I’m a mother.” Cora leaned over him until their chests practically touched and whispered in his ear. “And you’re the son of a bitch who took my daughter from me.”

  “Not your daughter.” Abel coughed, and blood dribbled from his lips. “Never yours.”

  Cora’s sickly sweet face twisted into a snarl, and she raised her knife high over his chest.

  The stained-glass window of Jesus’ resurrection smashed apart as Morrigan burst through it. She rolled to absorb her fall and then leaped again, ramming her shoulder into Cora and knocking her to the ground.

  Through fading eyes, Abel could see Morrigan reach to cradle his head, but he couldn’t feel it anymore. “Abel,” she said, and her voice seemed so far away. “I’m here. I’m getting you out of here. Just stay with me, okay?”

  Abel placed a clumsy hand on her arm. “’S a dream come true,” he joked, but he couldn’t manage laughter. Even the shallowest of breaths came harder now.

  “No it’s not!” Morrigan said. “So I dreamed you were going to die. So what? Prove me wrong! Live, damn it!”

  She kept talking, but it was all so foggy, and Abel was so tired. He couldn’t keep going. All the pain would go away if he just stopped.

  So he did.

  But even the silence of death couldn’t drown out the Morrigan’s scream.

  27

  Morrigan held Abel’s body close, smearing herself with his blood, feeling his waning warmth and unnatural stillness. They were familiar sensations by now, but they never stopped feeling wrong, now more than ever. He couldn’t be gone. Not him.

  “I’ll never understand why you were so attached to that boy,” Cora said, strolling up behind her. “He was only a mortal, and a pain in the ass to boot, bless his heart.”

  With a cry, Morrigan was on top of her, clawing at her eyes. “You killed him, you witch!”

  “Morgan, baby, I need you to calm down.” Cora gave her a shove that sent her into the chandeliers and crashing back down to the pews. “Come with me. I promise I won’t be mad.”

  “You’re insane,” Morrigan spat, coughing and holding her ribs.

  “That’s no way to talk to your mother,” said Cora, rising to her feet.

  “You’re not my mother!”

  “Children don’t get to choose their mothers.” Cora climbed to the pulpit and leaned back against it like an empress surveying peasants. “And honey, you got the mother of them all. Every shadow that haunts this world came more or less directly from my womb. I nurtured and raised them all, made them into dark gods feared by the masses.” She walked to Morrigan and brushed the hair from her face. “I birthed them all, but I chose you. You should feel honored.”

  Morrigan was hardly ever terrified, but now a chill ran down her back in rivulets. Ancient memories stirred in her mind, memories of a horrific monster even the gods dared not cross, the mother of all things evil. Caorthannach.

  “You haven’t been as obedient as I’d hoped,” said Cora. “But I blame myself for that. It’s my first time adopting, you know. I haven’t gotten it all right. But you’re still my daughter. That’s all there is to it. And I hope, in the coming centuries, we can put it all behind us. No judgment, no bitterness, no comparison. Just the two of us and the world at our feet. What do you say?”

  Morrigan doubled over and fought the urge to vomit. Everything about her captivity was that much more twisted now that she knew the truth. Being made the foster sister to a legion of horrors, Cora’s possessiveness, and all that on top of killing Abel and thinking it wouldn’t affect Morrigan.

  There were no words. All she could do was scream.

  “Morgan,” Cora began, taking a step back.

  “Stop calling me that! That’s not my name.” Morrigan stood tall. “I am the Morrigan, goddess of war, queen of phantoms, keeper of the dead. Not your prisoner, not your plaything. Not. Your. Daughter.”

  Cora’s eyes widened, and for a second, Morrigan could have sworn she saw tears. Then the older woman’s face hardened.

  “Baby, I love you, but you don’t get to talk to me like that.” Cora nodded at Abel’s corpse. “Remember what the bastard said about honoring your mother?”

  The memories rushed back: the remark about Abel being a
trained dog, her disappointment at the pub, every time she’d ever belittled him or gotten mad at him or made him feel less. Another soul she’d failed, only this one had a name and a face and a pair of nearsighted brown eyes that would haunt her through eternity.

  Morrigan surged forward with a cry, but Cora opened her mouth wider than any human being ever should. A spout of green flames shot from deep in her throat, igniting the carpet, the pews, and the ceiling.

  “I’m sorry, Morgan, but this is for your own good,” said Cora, cracking her jaw back into place. “Honestly, it should be embarrassing that you have to be put in timeout at your age.”

  The blaze swept through the church with supernatural speed, blocking off every exit. Morrigan wasn’t worried for her own safety; she’d survived worse fires than this. But the flames were already rushing toward Abel’s body, and that would be one desecration too many. She flung herself over him, shielding him as best she could. Smoke stung her eyes, and she could feel the heat scorching her skin. The searing breeze bore the taste of poison, but she clung to Abel all the tighter.

  Then there was a whirling roar, and the fire spiraled away from the church’s charred remains, leaving the two teens untouched. Opening her eyes, Morrigan saw a figure standing in the doorway, hands raised and directing the flames out into the atmosphere.

  When the last trace of green fire was gone, Brigid slumped against the blackened doorpost. She mopped her forehead, leaving a trail of soot. “Gods preserve me, but that was the toughest blaze I’ve ever handled. Something deathly wrong with those flames.”

  “That would be me,” said Cora.

  Brigid’s eyes narrowed. “Let me guess; you’re the witch who kidnapped our Morrigan.”

  “Not just a witch, Hon,” said Cora.

  “We should kill you now,” said Brigid. “Then Morrigan and Abel would finally be safe.”

  Cora glanced at Morrigan, still hunched over Abel’s corpse. “Yeah, about that…”