Morrigan by Jonathan King (cat reading book txt) 📕

hundred years of seeing everyone around me die and not being able to help them. How many wars were fought in that time? How many people from the country I love died alone and afraid, with no one to guide them home?” Her hands gripped each other, fingers entwining and pulling apart. “I should have gone back to the job now, but I can’t. I can’t face them, not after all these years.” She closed her eyes, squeezing out tears. “The Morrigan is supposed to be the promise that never fails. But I did fail. I failed them all. Because of her.”

Abel’s eyes burned. He felt her pain as his own. He opened his mouth, but no magic words came this time. So instead, he placed a hand on her cheek and wiped away her tears with his thumb. The warmth of her skin against his stirred his insides in ways he’d never thought possible, and then she turned to him, emerald eyes wide and bright with sorrow, and she looked so vulnerable and beautiful and human.

And then he was kissing her, and she was kissing him back.

Every inch of him came alive as Morrigan pressed against him, wrapping her arms around him and smudging his tattoo. Her warm breath caressed his face, his hands clutched her hair, her body crushed close to his. The air in his lungs became her scent, like a thousand green fields dotted with wildflowers, and he couldn’t draw in enough of it. Thought became muddled, and instinct took over.

“We should…” he managed.

“Yes, we should,” said Morrigan, fumbling for the hem of her tank top and dragging it up her body.

“I meant,” Abel interrupted, pulling her shirt back down and pushing her away, “we should take a step back here.”

Silence fell over the pair as they sat panting, trying to figure out what had just happened. Morrigan looked every bit as confused as Abel felt, maybe more so. Then she dropped her face into her hands. “Oh my god. I’m sorry.”

“No, I shouldn’t have—” Abel started.

“No, it’s me. I misread that,” said Morrigan, who was blushing bright red beneath her fingers. “I keep forgetting you’re not … like that.”

“I mean, it’s not that I’m against the idea ever,” said Abel.

“You don’t have to explain,” Morrigan stopped him. “You’ve still got your rules. I respect that. It’s just that…” She looked around the room, at everything but Abel. “I should, um, I should go to bed.” She stood and hurried to her bedroom, rubbing absently at the ink stain on her fingers.

Abel groaned and face-planted on the couch. Great, I blew that one. Good luck getting her to speak to you again after that. But he couldn’t give her what she wanted.

As much as he wanted it too.

Wednesday, October 30

12:02 AM

Hey, God. It’s me, Abel.

I think I blew it.

I was only doing what you told me, and what I had to do. But the way Morrigan reacted, how embarrassed and freaked out she was, I don’t know if she’s going to give me another chance.

She has to see, to understand I wasn’t ready. That I won’t be ready for a long time. Sex is a big step, and I’ve seen it go wrong, and I don’t want that for us. If this thing has a chance (and considering the age difference alone, not to mention the unequally yoked bit, it might not), it can’t repeat past mistakes.

I don’t want to lose her, God. But I’m worried I’ve shattered her expectations one too many times. Help her understand, God. Give her patience. And give me patience too, because if she does give me another chance and we really are cooped up together this long, I’m not sure how I’m going to keep my hands off her.

Thanks, God. Abel out.

21

The only light in the nursery was a spinning nightlight that made stars dance across the ceiling. A white-blond baby boy watched them from his crib, fussing a little but fascinated by the whirling lights.

He didn’t notice the snake slithering under the door until it shifted and grew to human form. Then his eyes focused on the woman standing beside his crib, looking down on him. He started to cry, but the woman picked him up and rocked him gently, singing an ancient lullaby, and soon the child was asleep.

Cora held the baby closer to her chest, as though his presence were a balm to the ache there. It had been too long since she’d had a child of her own to hold. Now this baby was stinging her heart right in the maternal instinct. She wanted to hold him forever, just like this.

Maybe that was the problem with Morgan. She’d brought the girl home when she was already an adult, several thousand years old. She’d missed the newborn stage, when they could have really bonded. The girl was too independent already.

Cora looked down at the child in her arms. Maybe she could start all over with him. She could run out of this house right now, take him to a new town, raise him as her own child from the start. Maybe he’d love her like a good son should.

But then there were his parents to consider. They might never stop looking for him; she would always have to be on the run. She could always kill them tonight in their beds. It would be cathartic. But if something went wrong, or if one day the boy found out…

Focus, girl, Cora told herself. You’ve got a job to do. Don’t let your emotions get in the way.

Newborn babies were powerful things, bursting with potential energy. Their parts could be powerful ingredients in especially dark spells.

Cora shifted the baby to one arm and pulled a dagger from a sheath at her belt. The steel blade glinted in the flashing nightlight. She held it close to the child’s head … and then very carefully shaved away the downy locks from his scalp. Then she gathered up the fallen