The Morrigan: Damaged Deities (5 page)

Back when Morrie led a lustier life, she had been a dominating presence, but had preferred it the other way in bed.  Her lovers before the Hound of Ulster had been keen on pleasing her and less on dominating her. 

Chulainn had been a take-charge kind of human, a trait she admired in him that had made it difficult to agree to the union with Dagda. 

But transactions between deities were more complicated than those between humans, their moral center a little less defined.

“Well maybe the Scot will be hot and break this silly dry spell of yours.” Bev offered, always the optimist.

“Unlikely, but it’s nice of you to be so thoughtful of me and my needs.” 

Morrie sat on the bed, looking around her small room with no decoration and very little furniture. 

Her life had become so simple.  No flare, no fuss.  Just the way she liked it, but she felt that was going to change somehow.

Morrie made a face.  She needed to change the subject before she grew too pouty. “You talk to Macy lately?”

“Yeah, bitch is as crazy as ever.”

“Did she have anything to do with that base bombing in Afghanistan?”

“You know she’s been loving that whole situation over there.  Enough bloodshed and battle to slake her thirst for two more millennium.”

“You’d think she’d get bored with the same conflict for over two thousand years.  How’s your work?”

“Gods, they’re ready to give me the key to the godsdamn city!  I don’t know why. Just because I know who’s going to die and am able to get to them right away, doesn’t mean I find them any less dead.”

Bev had been working as a first responder for several decades now, moving from city to city to hide the fact that she never aged. 

In their old life, Badb was the crow that foretold the dead.  Sometimes she would also appear as an old crone, washing the clothes of those who were soon to die—the image frightened the humans, which only made Badb find it that much funnier.  Back then the mortals were full of superstitions, some exceedingly absurd and Morrie’s mischievous sister took full advantage of that gullibility.

As the three sisters evolved for the modern world, Bev found the opportunity to use her gifts to help the fire and police departments of major cities, knowing right away where to find the dead as they lay in the rubble. 

She’d been a great asset in China after the earthquake and New York after the planes.  She now made her home in New Orleans after traveling there a few months before Katrina ravaged the city. 

Having fallen in love with the culture, the city, and its peoples’ resilience, Bev braved discovery and decided to stay.  She’d been there ever since. 

Fortunately for her, the folks of New Orleans still clung to their superstitions, celebrated them even, and seemed to find it completely acceptable that Bev looked like a perpetual 20-something.

“How are your conquests going?”

“The Fucking Pict won’t leave me alone,” her sister grumbled, hiding what Morrie knew to be her true feelings. “See if I ever make another man immortal.”

“It wasn’t like Taran wasn’t persistent as a human,” Morrie said, smiling. “He was a Pict, after all.  And you made him a werewolf.”

“That’s the only way I can make humans immortal!  I’m not like you!  Anyway, I can take care of him.  Just take care of yourself,” Bev turned serious. “We’ve been able to stay out of trouble for awhile now and I have a feeling that’s not going to last much longer.”

“I’ve been sensing that, too.  And I will, thanks.” Morrie slid her luggage off the bed, letting it hit the floor with a thud. “I’ll call you when I get there.”

“All right, love you.”

“Love you back, you old crone,” Morrie grinned at the phone.

“Goodnight, slutty Morrigan,” Bev murmured back, earning another scowl from Morrie before she hung up.

C
HAPTER
F
IVE

“What sort of man is this Hound of Ulster we hear tell of? How old is this remarkable person?”

Táin Bó Cúailnge

Kamden made sure the manor had been cleaned and swept for his arriving guest.  He had put both Lorna and their new hired hand, Danny, to work as soon as he had received Morrie Brandon’s email. 

It had been many years since he had a young woman’s company and that had ended in heartbreak so he wasn’t sure what to expect or how to act when the American arrived. 

But in the days following her reply that she would come, the horse at the loch had killed again. 

He had faced him down again last night, storms whipping his hair and clothes as the great beast stood on the muddy shore, his eyes blazing red in the dark.  Kamden took one step forward, reaching out his hand in hopes that he could somehow form a connection, but the stallion only disappeared into the waters. 

On more than one occasion Kamden had decided to write or call the trainer and tell her not to come—he didn’t want to risk her life at the monster’s hands. 

But he had an obligation; he needed this done.  It had been too long this time and if much more time passed, it would be too late.

T
he rain pounded the roof of the beat-up, brown pickup while it ambled along the bumpy and rutted road toward the estate. 

It was barely past noon, but the storm brought on darkness early, the thick cloud cover completely blocking out the sun. 

Face lifted to grey, stormy skies, Morrie sat silently in the passenger seat.  She couldn’t remember it raining so much in Scotland, but it had been a very long time since she’d been there and with more than two thousand years of memories since, the past could be a little fuzzy sometimes. 

The last time she had set foot on the island, there had been no distinction between it and Ireland.  That was why her legend permeated both countries—they had always shared her.

“The maister’s land roons fur sev’ral more miles yet,” Lorna, the pleasant housekeeper explained, motioning to the landscape with her hand. 

She had been waiting at the train station with an extra umbrella for Morrie, her graying blonde hair tucked and pinned up in tight, neat braids.  Dressed in Wellies and a thick raincoat, MacLeod’s personal assistant and housekeeper looked more like a sheep farmer’s wife than the secretary to a shipping mogul. 

A flash of worry over where Morrie would be staying passed her mind when the train had pulled into the small remote town—recalling days of old when taverns offered cramped, cold rooms with small beds made of hay-stuffed mattresses, flea-ridden and dirty. 

But the welcoming smile and warm greeting eased those worries as Lorna helped Morrie lug her suitcase into the back of the truck’s cabin, taking her to stay at the manor.

On the ten-mile drive to the estate that had lasted nearly an hour due to the downpour, Lorna had filled Morrie in on her new boss, the mysterious and well-off Kamden MacLeod. 

Inheriting the family’s shipping business at the age of twenty-three, Kamden became one of the area’s youngest multi-millionaires.  But being a bit of a recluse, he had run the business from his home office for the last fifteen years, rarely making a public appearance. 

That hadn’t stopped the MacLeod family from sharing their fortune with the nearby village, funding the rebuilds of hospitals and roads.  The MacLeod family had a valuable and respected reputation among the little village just outside Inverness.

In her thick accent, Lorna rambled on more than Big Mike. 

Morrie frowned at the window, realizing that she actually missed the big cowboy.  She always marveled over the human friendships she managed to form—the few she had made.

“Th’ maisters hud a raw repairin’ ‘at fence,” Lorna pointed to the rickety wooden beams lining the road.

“Masters?” Morrie asked, turning to her.

“An’ Maister MacLeod got caught fur three hoors in ‘at bog chasin’ a heifer,” Lorna continued, ignoring Morrie’s question. “He was always gettin’ in o’er his head, but his heart was in the right place.”

Worrying her lip, Morrie wondered if she had just misheard Lorna—something easy to do with her thick accent. 

The woman obviously adored her boss, which was a good sign. 

Morrie gave up thinking too much about it and looked back out at the emerald mountains and hills drowning in the rain.  The Highlands held its own sense of mysticism; over the many years, it had never changed, even if its name often had. 

She let Lorna go on about “the master’s” mishaps and adventures, making him sound like both Clark Kent and Superman, until the estate appeared around a mountain bend, warm lights blinking through the downpour. 

Thick swaths of deep green ivy clung to the gray stone walls of the multi-story structure.  Light glowed behind the curtains of several of the downstairs windows and two of the three chimneys breathed smoke. 

It was then that it touched her like the soft feathering of fingertips down her spine—that feeling of the supernatural. 

As a goddess, Morrie could sense the presence of other magical beings, alerting her with a cover of goose bumps down her arms. 

And her skin tickled and tingled now.  The feeling was strong. 

Because she was a goddess, she gave off no such aura.  She could remain anonymous, walking among both human and lore without detection.

The land had a history enriched by the presence of legends, but it had been a long time since the creatures ruled the earth. 

With the introduction of the new god, the old ones lost favor and without worshipers to give them power, the gods eventually disappeared. 

Morrie and her sisters prevailed because war and sex were human nature.

But science and technology, religion and fear—all of these things pushed the supernaturals further and further into hiding.  When the legends witnessed what the humans did to each other, they retreated far into the shadows to avoid such fate.  Their presence was one that Morrie had not felt in centuries. 

Until now. 

Lorna turned off the dirt road to a less defined drive, the ride rattling Morrie’s teeth.  As they bounced and slipped down the muddy road, it grew stronger—the sense of
more
. 

It could mean Morrie’s assumption was right—the horse was not some sadistic anomaly of nature, but a creature of myth. 

That her sense of him touched her so near the manor could either mean the horse’s territory extended beyond its watery confines, or that the manor was its home.  It could very well be a kelpie she would encounter.

By the time they reached the front door—a rich, heavy wooden piece inset a rounded stone entryway—the rain had let up to a drizzle just in time to allow some afternoon sun to break through. 

It had always been like that in Scotland, the weather as fickle as the gods that once graced its land.

The front door opened, spilling warm light as a tall, lean young man ran out to greet them.

Morrie hopped out, eyeing the home thoughtfully before focusing on the man.  His face clean and free of facial hair, he smiled at her with gleaming blue eyes and deep dimples. 

“Mr. MacLeod?” she asked with a hint of confusion. 

The lad wasn’t what Morrie had expected. 

He was obviously younger than her, younger than Morrie looked at least, and had an easy way about him as he pushed his cap back, black curls falling loose, and offered her his hand.

“Danny O’Brien,” he answered, shaking her hand.  “The MacLeod’s grounds keeper.  Pleasure to meet ya, Miss Brandon.” 

Morrie forced a thin-lipped smiled.  She’d always hated the name Danny, it was the human name Dagda had used on occasion and she’d held it against every Danny she’d met since. 

It was unreasonable to do so, and Morrie knew it. 

 “Nice to meet you,” Morrie said before she turned to Lorna as the elderly lady tugged her bag out of the truck.

“Danny here’s Irish,” Lorna offered.  “Cam haur tae help out while he saves up fer university.”