Morrigan

by Jonathan King

  “Cora said she wants an empty world to share with you,” Abel interrupted before she could go too far down her warpath. “Whatever she’s planning, she needs an army to do it.”

  “Unless the army is its own goal,” said Brigid.

  Mac nodded. “The Sluagh Sidhe.”

  Abel lifted his glasses and squeezed the bridge of his nose. “Is everything we fight going to have an unpronounceable name? What’s a Slew-a?”

  “Pray you never find out,” said Morrigan. “Who knows how many souls she’s press-ganged into her army? And if she unleashes it on the world…”

  “Goodbye world,” Abel guessed.

  “The Wild Hunt will roam the earth, adding the living to its numbers until there are no more living left,” said Mac. “An empty world.”

  “But she’ll need a gateway to bring them into this world,” said Brigid. “She’s not going to go all the way back to Lough Derg, is she?”

  “Not every gateway is in Ireland,” said Morrigan. “There must be a few in this country as well.”

  Abel coughed. “There might be one pretty close by,” he said. “Anyone heard of Oakwood Cemetery?”

  Morrigan frowned at him. “Should I have?”

  “I only know about it because my grandmother is buried there,” said Abel, “and she could have picked a better spot. The place has a long history of vandalism, weird rituals, attempted suicides … and hauntings.” He paused. “It’s also known as Hell’s Gate.”

  “Sounds like a gateway all right,” said Morrigan. “Or at least a place where the veil is thin enough to break through. Especially with Samhain approaching.”

  Mac and Brigid shared a look. “Then she didn’t come to Pepper’s Mill to hide,” said the old sailor. “She’s been looking for the right place to bring her army through.”

  “And with the right spell, she can,” said Brigid.

  “Unless we stop her,” said Morrigan.

  “The truck’s too banged up to get us very far,” said Mac. “We’ll take Cora’s Mustang. That’s how we got here.”

  Morrigan put a hand on Abel’s shoulder. “Can you get us to the cemetery?”

  Abel nodded. “I’m a little fuzzy on the directions, but give me a map and I can do it.”

  “Great.” Morrigan handed him his sword. “Here. You need this more than I do.” She smiled at him. “It’s so good to have you back.”

  “Good to be back,” said Abel.

  Morrigan stood and pulled her own sword from the truck’s rear windshield. “Right, let’s go stop a Sluagh.”

  29

  The Halloween moon was a jack-o-lantern smile hanging low above Oakwood Cemetery, wide and glowing pale orange in a navy-blue sky. As Mac drove the Mustang and its passengers toward the cemetery’s stone wall and metal gate, he stopped the car short. Blocking the way were three police cars, blue lights flashing warnings to stay away. Several officers stood outside the gates, guns drawn, wanting to go inside but holding back for some reason.

  One of the cops holstered his gun and approached the gods. “I’m sorry, sir, but you’ll have to turn around. We have a situation here.”

  “We know,” said Mac. “We’re here to fix it.”

  “Not likely,” said the officer. “Turn the car around now.”

  Morrigan sighed. “This is going to take too long.” She stood up in her seat.

  The officer drew his pistol. “Sit down now, ma’am!”

  The air thickened again. Abel put his head between his legs and breathed as best he could as the wails and screams of the police filled his ears. He didn’t have to imagine what they were seeing; he’d seen Morrigan’s eldritch illusion once before, and once was enough. When the screams died away and the air turned cool again, he looked up to see an empty drive and abandoned police cars.

  “If only defeating Cora were that easy,” said Brigid.

  “If it were,” Morrigan said, drawing her sword, “it wouldn’t be any fun.”

  They left the Mustang and walked past the police cars and through the gate into the cemetery. An asphalt drive twined around the border of the graveyard, bounded on one side by hedges and a thick wall of trees. Inside was a patchwork of broken concrete walkways, browning grass and weeds, black iron fences, and the granite skeletons of tombstone after tombstone, all sprawling out beneath the shadows of the oaks and the magnolias and the watchful eyes of a stone guardian angel. The only sounds were their footsteps on dead leaves and the rattling and blare of a distant train; the creatures of the night were silent, as though afraid of drawing the attention of something evil. And it wasn’t the chill in the October breeze that raised pinpricks on the back of Abel’s neck. The air seemed alive with electric magic, threatening to burst forth in cursed lightning and deadly spirits.

  Mac carried Fragarach, Brigid toted her welding torch with the tank strapped to her back, and Morrigan bore her sword, three daggers strapped to her thigh, and an assortment of darts on the belt around her waist. Abel wasn’t quite sure where all those weapons had come from, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

  He tested his grip on his own sword. “I’m still not sure how comfortable I am with this thing.”

  “You’ll be fine,” said Morrigan. “It’s only for a last resort, anyway. I’m not letting you die again, not on my watch.”

  “Maybe you’d feel more familiar with your sword if you named it,” Brigid suggested.

  “I’ve been giving that some thought,” said Abel. “I’m kind of partial to the name Shamgar for a sword.”

  “Shamgar?” Morrigan asked.

  “One of the judges of Israel,” said Abel. “I think he killed a bunch of Philistines with an ox goad or something.”

  “Makes sense,” said Brigid. “You do have a talent for making use of unconventional weapons.”

  “Do you have one for those?” Mac asked, pointing ahead.

  A pack of Red Caps emerged from behind the tombstones, steel claws clenching and unclenching, teeth grinding, caps dripping blood.

  “Thirsty,” they hissed in unison, and stepped forward.

  “Yeah, I’ve got this,” said Abel. He moved to the front of the group and bellowed out, “‘Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast…’” He went on quoting 1 Corinthians 13, and with each verse, another Red Cap popped in a shower of blood, leaving only yellow teeth behind.

  “‘But the greatest of these is love,’” he finished, and the last Red Cap burst and sprinkled the grass at his feet.

  “Nicely done,” said Morrigan, putting a hand on his arm. “Nice passage, too.”

  Abel felt his face grow warm … but something still felt wrong. He sniffed the air. “If the Red Caps are all gone, why does it still smell like rotting meat?”

  Brigid followed her nose to the source, then whipped the kerchief from her hair and used it to cover her mouth as she kneeled by the grave. The dirt had been dug away, the concrete sealer ripped out and lying on the mounds of earth by the edge, and the casket left open. Inside was the decomposing corpse of an old man, missing his fingers.

  Morrigan stared in with disgust curling on her lips. “Desecrating the dead. Is nothing sacred to this woman?”

  “Considering she’s some sort of demonic monster, probably not,” said Abel. “From what I’ve heard, it’s not the first time someone’s stolen bones from Oakwood. But I doubt most people would go to this much trouble to get it.”

  “Part of her ritual to open the gateway,” said Morrigan.

  “We’re too late,” said Abel.

  “If we were too late,” said Brigid, “we’d know.”

  The shrill scream split the night, and the ground shook beneath their feet. Abel had never heard his father scream before, but it sure sounded like his voice.

  “Now we’re too late,” said Mac.

  They raced over the hill, toward the sound and the shaking, toward a crypt shaped like some Greek temple with gothic iron doors and stained-glass windows. The Dullahan waited
to one side, spine whip curled around its shoulder, and the Dearg-Due stood off to the other, hand in hand with a heavily dazed Reverend, blood dribbling down his neck. Cora herself stood atop a makeshift altar of borrowed tombstones, dressed in a seafoam pantsuit, wreathed in green fire, and chanting incantations at the crypt doors. She held a cow’s skull filled with blood and hair and finger bones in her hands, and over this she muttered,

  “Bone of elder long since dead,

  Blood of man of God, fresh-shed,

  Hair from newborn’s golden head,

  Sprinkled on the ground ghosts tread.”

  “No!” Morrigan shouted, and she flung one of her knives at Cora.

  The Dullahan’s whip lashed out and intercepted the blade, smacking it out of the air. The two monsters stepped between their boss and her attackers, and the Reverend, no longer supported, dropped to his knees and vomited in the dirt.

  Cora turned and flashed a smile at Morrigan. “You came! I’m so glad. I so wanted to share this with you.” Her eyes moved to Abel and narrowed. “Didn’t I kill you?”

  “Yeah, you did,” said Abel. “I’m still kinda mad about that, to be honest.”

  Morrigan drew her sword. “It’s over, Cora. This whole perverse charade, it ends now!”

  Cora shook her head. “You still don’t understand, do you?” She held the cow’s skull high. “This is for you, Morgan!”

  Morrigan cried out and charged, but she was too slow. Cora dashed the skull to the ground at the base of the crypt, scattering blood and bone fragments everywhere.

  The inside of the crypt lit up with a green flash and then turned so dark the stained glass lost its color. The doors rattled and shook, beaten by a thousand fists and the sound of a million horrific screams and wails. Then they burst forth in a wave of intense cold: a cloud of gray rags with spindly arms, skull-like faces, and glowing lava eyes.

  “Behold!” Cora cried, arms raised to the sky now filling with spectral hordes. “The Wild Hunt! The Sluagh Sidhe!”

  Abel couldn’t get enough air into his lungs as the sky turned into a massive upside-down whirlpool of lost souls. Lightning and flame passed between them; their groans shook the ground and their shrieks split the trees and tombstones.

  Then the Wild Hunt peeled off toward the ground. Morrigan threw Abel to the ground and covered him with her body, but the Sluagh weren’t interested in him. Back toward the entrance, a SWAT team had arrived and, together with the police who had gotten their courage back, were storming the cemetery. They tried to backpedal as the spirits shot toward them, but there was nowhere to run. A spindle arm pierced each of their bodies, lifting them into the air, and with the sound of flesh searing and rending at the same time, two dozen new souls were torn free to join the horde.

  As the Sluagh whisked away, Abel clambered out from under Morrigan and ran to the nearest cop, but the officer only stared at the sky with fear-widened eyes, smoke rising from the grisly wound in his chest.

  “He’s dead,” Abel said. “They’re all dead.”

  “Worse than dead,” said Morrigan. “Trapped in a cycle of torment, never at rest.”

  The Reverend stumbled past Abel and kneeled beside the dead policeman. He reached out with a trembling hand and touched the man’s cheek. “He’s cold already,” he said softly. “How can he be cold already?”

  “Dad…” Abel put his hand on his father’s shoulder, but the Reverend jerked away.

  “I didn’t mean—I never meant—how could I let this happen?” He looked up at Abel with tears in his eyes. “This is my fault. My blood did this.”

  “Yeah, and you’re still bleeding. We need to get you taken care of.”

  “I’ve been taking care of myself for years, and look where that got me.” The Reverend stared at his son. “It could have been you on the ground, cold and dead. It could have been your mother. It still could be.” He looked up at the darkened sky, transfixed. “The world’s so much bigger than I thought. And all these years I only cared about being respected…” His face grew hard. “We have to stop them.”

  “It’s too late,” said Morrigan. “There’s nothing we can do.”

  “Nothing?” Abel asked.

  “They’re already dead,” Mac explained, “so they can’t be killed. Nothing stops them, and nothing slows them down. The only hope people have now is to get inside and keep their doors shut.”

  “But I have people to break down doors for me,” said Cora, gesturing to her two minions. She stepped down from the altar and approached Morrigan. “Soon there won’t be a human being left to die on this planet. They’ll all be circling the globe forever. And do you know what that means?”

  “It means you’re a sick pervert who relishes death for death’s sake,” spat Morrigan.

  “It means,” said Cora, taking Morrigan’s chin in her hand, “that we can finally be together, just the two of us. I did this for you, Morgan.”

  “What?”

  “Remember all those times you begged me to set you free, because you felt a sense of duty to these people to care for them in death? Now you don’t have to. With no one going to heaven or hell, they don’t need you anymore. You can finally be with me without feeling guilty. There’s nothing coming between us anymore.”

  Morrigan’s mouth fell open, and her eyes sparked with emerald fire of their own. “You have no idea what comes between us,” she snarled. She pointed her sword at her faux mother. “Now call them back.”

  Cora chuckled. “Oh, honey, even if I wanted to, I only gathered them. I don’t control them. They’re on the hunt for souls, and nothing’s going to distract them from that.”

  Abel watched as the Sluagh streaked away like a nuclear missile, only far more horrifying. He had a sinking feeling that Cora was right. Nothing could save the world now.

  Then, behind him, he heard a pulpit voice ring out across the graveyard. “Listen to me, brothers and sisters!”

  Abel turned to see the Reverend, shaky but standing, at the door of the crypt. Backlit by green flames, he looked every bit the fire-and-brimstone preacher he was, even in his rumpled and torn clothes. His face was lifted to the heavens, and he called out again to the Sluagh.

  “You want lost souls? Take mine! You can have it!”

  “Dad, no!” Abel shouted, but it was too late. The Wild Hunt had already heard him and turned back toward the cemetery.

  “Looks like someone has a death wish,” Cora said with a laugh.

  Abel ran toward his father, trying to block the Sluagh with his body the way Morrigan had protected him with hers, but Morrigan grabbed him from behind and wrapped her arms around him, holding him fast.

  “Let me go!” Abel shouted.

  “It’s all right, Abel,” said the Reverend, meeting his eyes. “Tell your mother I’m sorry. Tell her I made this right.” His gaze moved to Cora and caught fire with rage. “And as for you, Ms. Hammond, I’ll see you in hell.”

  He threw out his arms and dropped backward into the fire-filled crypt. The Sluagh Sidhe rushed after him, clawing for his soul, and followed him down through the gateway they came from. The crypt doors slammed shut. The night air grew still.

  Abel’s father was gone.

  30

  Abel tore from Morrigan’s arms and ran to the crypt doors, desperately trying to pry them open, but they were rusted shut, as though they’d never been open. He spun to Morrigan. “Why didn’t you let me stop him?”

  “It was his choice,” said Morrigan. “He saved every life on this planet. You should be proud.”

  Abel shook his head, wiping away the tears. I don’t care. For one minute I finally had a father, and now he’s gone and I want him back. But he knew she was right.

  Cora stood speechless, mouth agape, staring at the doors where her army had vanished. Then she straightened her shoulders. “Well, I guess we’ll have to try again next year. Samhain’s the same every year, and I’ve got plenty of time to collect fresh ingredients.”

  “No, you do
n’t.” Morrigan drew her sword. “Because you’re not leaving this cemetery alive.”

  “Afraid I’ll have to agree with the lass,” said Mac, pointing Fragarach at Cora. “The world isn’t safe while you’re in it.”

  “And what kind of gods would we be if we didn’t protect the world?” Brigid asked, firing up her torch.

  Cora gave an incredulous chuckle, her eyes never leaving Morrigan. “You’re serious, aren’t you? You really want to kill me? Your own mother? After I took you in, cared for you, gave you everything, like a mother should—this is how you repay me?”

  Morrigan flushed red, and her emerald eyes narrowed to lasers. “I have never wanted any part of you. You teach your children to fill the world with hatred and violence and despair. You rip me from my homeland, from my family, because you can’t stand to be alone. You take away my powers, my scars, my name. You murder the boy that I love and think it’s no more important than squashing a beetle. And now you try to condemn the people I’m sworn to protect to a fate worse than death. There is nothing good in you, nothing I would want to align myself with. And no matter how many times you say it, you’re not my mother. You’re nothing but a power-mad, manipulative, murdering piece of shit.”

  This time, Cora did cry. Her tears dropped to the cemetery soil and sizzled like boiling water. She dropped her gaze. “I was really hoping you’d see things my way. That you’d love me, like you should. But I guess you’re just another child disowning me.” She looked up again, and her eyes glowed red. “I swore I’d never let that happen to me again, and I meant it. I’m sorry, Honey. I’ll always love you. But you’ve got to die.”

  The transformation was horrifying, even after the spectacle of the Sluagh. Cora began to grow and twist and stretch and bulge, her pantsuit ripping apart to make way for massive limbs and wings and skin that turned swamp green and hardened into scales. Her head rose higher and higher, stretching into a reptilian shape crowned with a ring of horns.