Morrigan by Jonathan King (cat reading book txt) 📕

The banshee dipped her head and placed her long fingers against the washing machines, and they started on their own, no coins required.

“That’s more like it,” said Morrigan.

It was hard to tell with those horrible red orbs, but Abel was pretty sure the banshee rolled her eyes.

He lowered himself into one of the plastic seats and shivered. Even in the hot room, the plastic was cold against his bare skin. Morrigan stared at him, and he crossed his arms and legs, aware of how exposed he was.

“Will you relax?” Morrigan said, scoffing. “I’m not going to take you here and now.”

Abel pushed that image out of his mind and forced his limbs apart.

Morrigan shook her head, but a gentle smile crossed her lips. She kneeled to dig through a laundry basket and pulled out two white terry cloth robes. She tossed one to him and slipped into the other.

“Thanks.” Abel wrapped the robe around himself and relaxed.

“Don’t mention it.” Morrigan flopped into the seat beside him.

Their hips touched, but Abel didn’t pull away. His elbow brushed her side, and he felt the ridge of a scar beneath the robe. “So what’s with the scars?” he asked.

“I’m a war goddess. You don’t go to war without taking a few wounds.”

“No, but I mean, you can turn into a bird. Can’t you make your scars go away?”

Half a dozen emotions flashed across Morrigan’s face so quickly Abel couldn’t register them all. “I did, when I was young and vain and new to these powers. I made my body flawless, scar-free. I erased every cut.” She gazed out the window at the empty parking lot. “It wasn’t until centuries later that I realized the longer you live, the more you forget. My greatest achievements made it into stories and songs, sure, but so many of the smaller battles are gone forever. They made me who I am today, and I can’t even remember why or how.”

“So you brought them back.”

“For a while. But they weren’t real, just fabrications. It wasn’t the same, wasn’t earned, wasn’t me.” She opened her robe a little and ran her fingers across the scars on her abdomen. “So I started over, blank slate. Everything you see is the last two or three thousand years.”

“That long?” asked Abel. “I’d have thought you’d have more.”

Morrigan’s smile turned bitter, and she rubbed her smooth forearms. “I did.” Her emerald eyes blazed. “She got rid of them.”

“Cora?”

“Said she didn’t want to attract attention, make anyone think she was abusing me. Ha!” It was halfway between a laugh and a spit. “So she cast some spell, and they vanished. Gone. I’ll never get them back.”

Abel nodded. “You lost part of yourself.”

“She took it from me.”

“But she left you these.” Abel put his hand on a particularly nasty scar on her thigh, then drew it back as he realized what he was doing.

“Oh, she called that her mercy,” Morrigan sneered. “I begged for every one of them. And she has the gall to call me her daughter.” She held her head high. “My real mother bore her scars with pride until her last day in battle. She knew what they meant. She never would have taken them away.”

“Tell me about her,” said Abel. “Your real mother, I mean.”

Morrigan finally smiled again. “Her name was Errimas. She was the greatest warrior our people ever knew. Many are the songs of her victories.” Her smile faltered. “Which is good, because that’s the only way I remember anything about her. She died millennia ago. This was the woman who raised me, taught me to fight with courage, live with integrity, die with honor, and I can’t even remember the sound of her voice or the color of her hair.” She looked at Abel, tears shining in her eyes. “Is that terrible?”

Abel hesitated, and then, gently, delicately, put an arm around her shoulders. “It’s not. Sad, yes. Terrible, no.”

Morrigan nodded and stared at the floor.

They stayed that way for a long time, Morrigan lost in thought, Abel losing feeling in his arm. Finally, he pulled away and cleared his throat. “I should check on our clothes. Bet they’re about ready to be dried.”

“Moira will take care of that,” said Morrigan.

Abel stood. “I know, but, um…”

Morrigan chuckled. “Getting awkward again? Fine, go.” He started to walk away, but she grabbed his arm. “Hey, Abel? Thanks.”

Abel shrugged. “Anytime.”

He was staring at the washing machine timers, willing them to go faster, when he felt a chill on the back of his neck. He turned to see Moira peering down at him, gaze burning its way into him like acid.

“Can I help you?” he asked.

The banshee leaned closer and cocked her head. Something like a gale billowed through her hair and dress, but the air was still as ever. Then her cracked lips parted, followed by her blackened teeth, and then a wail rolled over her tongue and broke over Abel.

It was a wail like nothing he had ever heard, full of creaking bones and dying breaths and the winter wind through bare tree limbs. It was the sorrow of a mother or a lover or a child parted from the one person they loved most. It was the cry of the banshee, and it set every hair on Abel’s body on end, sent his stomach spiraling, filled him with a dread he’d never dreamed possible.

“That’s enough!” Morrigan shouted over the unearthly sound. “This boy is with me. He’s under my protection. I won’t have you scaring the daylights out of him.” The banshee opened her mouth as if to protest, but Morrigan cut her off. “It’s not up for discussion.”

Moira slumped and plodded away to sulk in a corner.

“What was that?” Abel said. At least, he tried to say it. His voice had dried up.

“It’s just something they do,” Morrigan assured him. “Don’t worry about it.”

“But don’t they scream like that when people are about to die? So when you