Morrigan by Jonathan King (cat reading book txt) 📕

“Oh, you poor man!” Cora kneeled beside him and kneaded his hand. “Imagine her treating you that way. You deserve better than that.”

“Why are You doing this to me?” the Reverend asked the heavens. “Why are You tearing my family apart? What did I do to deserve this?”

The heavens remained silent. In Cora’s experience, they always did.

“You’re in shock,” she said. “I’ll get you some water.”

She hurried to the kitchen, poked around the cupboards until she found a glass, and filled it from the tap. For a moment, she thought about slipping something into it, but decided against it. She needed his blood fresh and clean. Besides, there were better ways to keep him close. More fun ways. And the way things were going now, it wouldn’t be hard to talk him into it.

After all, she thought with a smile, even after all these years of motherhood, I’ve still got it.

She brought the Reverend his water, helped him sip from it, and then nestled onto the couch beside him, leaning on him more than was necessary.

“Now,” she said, “tell me all about it.”

Monday, October 28

11:49 AM

Hey, God. It’s me, Abel.

If a girl takes her clothes off in front of you and you don’t bounce your eyes, does that mean you’re going to hell?

Because I loved what I saw when Morrigan took it all off. Those curves, the muscles, the skin. Heck, even the scars were sexy. And all topped off by that beautiful face. I was so turned on I could hardly breathe…

Sorry, I forgot who I was talking to for a second. That got weird.

Don’t worry; we didn’t do anything. But I wanted to. And the way she looked at me when I stripped down, I get the feeling she wanted to too. Maybe I’m imagining it. Doesn’t matter. I’m not going to act on it. You know why. I shouldn’t even be thinking about it. But it’s getting harder to keep my eyes off her by the minute.

What does she see in me, anyway? She’s a goddess; she’s got all these crazy powers and skills, she’s immortal, and she’s gorgeous. She could have any man she wants. Why’d she pick me? I’m some naïve kid who grows herbs and acts the part of the preacher’s kid. What makes me think I’m anything more than a tool to set her free?

I need a clear head and a clean heart, God. And I need it fast. Before I do something I regret.

Thanks, God. Abel out.

11

Downtown Charleston was all pastels and palmetto trees and cobblestones that Redcoats and revolutionaries had traversed. Horses pulled their carriages through tunnels of oak and magnolia and past steeples as old as America. Abel drank in the atmosphere like the cool sea breeze blowing in his face. He half expected to see a tricorn hat around every corner, and the modern cars on the streets shocked him every time they drove by.

On the side of a bus they drove past was an advertisement for a ghost tour, promising terrifying but true tales of the restless dead. Abel looked over at Morrigan, who had the map in one hand and the newspaper in the other, a second ad circled several times in pen. “What about ghosts?” he asked. “I know gods and banshees and goblins exist, but what about ghosts?”

Morrigan didn’t lift her eyes, but her fingers crinkled the paper. “I’ve cared for the dead of a thousand generations, ushering each soul to its final rest. Usually, they go to their final rewards unscathed. Every hundred years or so, though, one resists, tries to go off on his own.” She closed her eyes. “I lose them in the in-between.”

“And that’s a ghost?” Abel asked.

“What you call ghosts, yeah.” A tear ran down her cheek. Abel wanted to wipe it away, but awkwardness kept his hands glued to the steering wheel. “At least with Hell you get some closure,” Morrigan went on. “Souls lost in that half-world linger there forever, always wandering, no final destination in store.”

“Sounds terrible,” said Abel. He thought of his grandmother on his father’s side, dead for five years now, and of the day he’d attended her funeral at Oakwood Cemetery. Some of his cousins had joked about how the cemetery was haunted, and Abel did some research. It was supposedly one of the most haunted cemeteries in the state, so prone to paranormal activity that it was called Hell’s Gate. The thought that there could actually be ghosts there, and that his grandmother could be forever lost between worlds, made his stomach crawl.

“It’s bad enough when souls slip through your fingers. It’s even worse when your hand isn’t there at all.” Morrigan consulted the map. “Take the next left.”

“What do you mean?” Abel asked, taking the turn.

“I mean that Cora has a lot to answer for,” said Morrigan, and it was clear she didn’t want to talk about it anymore. Abel let it drop.

They drove through a block of warehouses and unused railroad tracks and chain-link fences. Outside one was an iron sign ringed in neon fire with the name Inspired Metalworking cut out in Old English typeface.

“You’re sure your friends are here?” Abel eyed the corrugated tin roof and rusty truck bay doors.

“With that name,” said Morrigan, “it’s almost dead certain. Come on!” She vaulted the car door and practically danced to the nearest door, yanking it open on squealing hinges.

Abel hurried inside after her and coughed and choked on welding fumes. It thickened the air, dark as the soot-stained walls, and light shone through holes in the ceiling in hazy beams, illuminating scraps of metal hanging from chains. The placement was random, but it felt artistic, like the poems in Abel’s English curriculum, artful words with the meaning just out of mind’s reach.

The welder herself lay on her back in the middle of the floor, dressed in a bright yellow blouse and thick baggy overalls, arms and legs spread like a snow angel