Morrigan by Jonathan King (cat reading book txt) 📕

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