Morrigan by Jonathan King (cat reading book txt) 📕

demon with long fingers as perfect for strumming the golden strings as for strangling babes in their cribs. If she stroked the strings, she still heard his dying shrieks.

So many children, dead or gone. Most slain before the dawn of history, almost all forgotten by time. The few people did know were only half-remembered, shadows under the bed, movements in the corner of your eye, bogeymen and nightmares forgotten upon waking. But in the dark days, they had ruled as kings and monsters and gods. No mother could have been prouder.

Then there were the others; the ones who had left, had stopped loving her. The ones who had grown so powerful they felt she held them back. The jealous ones, the bitter. Some had even turned on her because they thought her evil. These had no memorial in her house. Not because she hated them, but because it hurt too much to remember.

She left the room and wandered into Morgan’s bedroom. The walls were painted black. Cora found it morbid, but Morgan liked it. Better than the pink Cora had forced on her in their first real home in America, back in the fifties. Piles of books, magazines, and newspapers sat in the corner. The bed was unmade, because of course it was. Cora could never bring herself to punish Morgan for such a small infraction. A few forgotten broken toys peeked out from under it, where they’d been thrown after being received. Morgan had never appreciated her gifts; she always wanted knives and swords and other weapons, but those were unacceptable for a child, especially one prone to matricide. Cora had even gotten her a signed AC/DC poster a few decades ago, when Morgan had spent a whole week listening to “Back in Black.” She’d pictured it hanging on the wall, bringing character to the room. Instead, Morrigan had crumpled it up and hurled it back at her. The one time she’d paid attention, and it had been literally thrown in her face.

She couldn’t take another rejection. She couldn’t lose one more child. She would get Morgan back and win her love, no matter what it took.

Her cell phone rang, and she picked up. “Hello? Cora speaking.”

“Just what the hell have you got me into?” came a voice from the other side.

Cora frowned. It was one of her spies, the biker with the eyepatch. “I beg your pardon?”

“You paid me to keep an eye out for your runaway daughter. Fine. No problem. You want me to burn down the place where she’s staying? You got it. But when you start dealing with people who suck the fire right out of the building or armies of attack crows or swords that make you say things you don’t want to, you better start explaining. Ain’t no money gonna make me mess with the paranormal.”

“You found her hideout, then?” Cora asked.

“Yeah, I found it. I could give you the address, if I thought she’d stay there long enough. And don’t ask me to hold her there, because it ain’t happening.”

“That’s all right. I’ve got another agent coming to you. He’ll take care of it. I assume you’re at the rendezvous point?”

“Yeah, and he better have my money. This bitch isn’t worth my time.”

Cora’s eye twitched. “I beg your pardon?”

“Look, I know you love your little girl, but she’s a pain in the ass. She almost killed me!” There was a noise on the other end of the line, and the biker swore. “That’s your agent on the horse?”

“Yes sir, that’s him.”

“But where’s his—”

“Be a dear and put him on the phone,” said Cora.

“How?”

“Just do it.”

Silence. And then a strange whispering sound, a little like breath, a little like wind rattling through dead trees.

“Kill him,” said Cora.

Silence again. Then the biker’s screams, dying into a rasping gurgle. Then the snap of vertebrae.

Cora listened to it all with a satisfied smile. No one talks that way about my daughter. No one.

The whispering sound returned.

“Find them,” said Cora. “Bring Morgan home. And as for that slimy son of a preacher … do what you do best.”

The whisper-wind came in soft bursts that almost sounded like laughter.

16

Brigid had given Abel snack cakes to raise his blood sugar (Abel chose an oatmeal cream pie), made him take an iron pill with a gallon of Gatorade, and run him a hot bath in a candle-lit bathroom. Now he sat in the warm, soapy water, relaxing and listening to the distant sounds of the gods packing up. Bangs and thumps gave way to an argument between Mac and Brigid about bringing along a scrap metal deer sculpture. Abel smiled and settled deeper, letting the water caress his skin and soothe his tense muscles.

He had to admit, he liked the attention Brigid had been paying him, even if it was too motherly for someone who wasn’t his mother. Maybe that was just the way she was. Maybe it was her way of showing him how much she thought of him. Maybe, even though all he’d done this afternoon was almost get killed, she and the others respected him again.

Abel frowned. There was that word, respect. He could picture the Reverend now, demanding it. And he could imagine that desire getting the man into the same kind of trouble his son had been in today. Guess we’re more alike than I thought, Dad.

He had to stop caring what these people thought of him. So why did he care so much? Why did he need their approval? Especially Morrigan’s. Was it just because she was strong and beautiful, or was there more to it than that?

The water and dim light dulled his senses, and he dozed thinking of Morrigan, of her emerald eyes full of concern, of her berserker frenzy over him, of the touch of her skin and the smell of her hair. For a moment, he thought he felt her against him in the tub, but when he opened his eyes, no one was there.

Abel drained the bath and