The Morrigan: Damaged Deities (7 page)

Morrie let Annabella sniff her hand, but the female seemed more interested in the other holding the oats, nudging around her arm. 

Laughing at the female’s persistence, she offered up the treat to the horse while Danny fed Banner.

“Are there no others?” she asked, nodding toward the empty stalls.

Danny shrugged.  “Not as long as I’ve been here, though they seemed to have been occupied once.” 

He brushed his hand on his jeans and turned to a small bench where several brushes lay. He picked up two and offered one to Morrie.  She took it and unlatched the gate to Annabella’s stall.

Murmuring soft soothing sounds to the horse, she rubbed her neck as she slipped inside next to the great beast. 

Like the male, she too had thick white feathering around her ankles and white tipped the ends of her mane.  While still stroking beneath her jaw, Morrie began brushing her haunches.

“Did they have to sell them off, then?” she asked Danny while he brushed Banner.

“Couldn’t say.  MacLeod isn’t exactly the chatty type and Lorna talks about everything, but what you want to know.” 

Morrie grinned her understanding, already well aware of the personal assistant’s verbose ways.  After seeing that the elderly woman served the role of housekeeper as well, and in a house that seemed to only be home to a laconic man, she thought Lorna was probably just in need of a companion.

“I don’t think so, though.  The man has more money than the Pope, from what I hear.”

Keeping a hand on the horse, Morrie changed sides.  “Have you heard of this horse by the loch?”

After a pause of silence, she looked up to see if Danny had heard her.  His peculiar expression told her he had.

“Aye,” he finally grunted. “Though I don’t believe all the silly nonsense that’s been said about it.  The folks here love a good witch tale, you know?  Is that why you’re here?”

Morrie nodded.  “He hasn’t bothered the Clydesdales?”

Danny made a face. “If he has, they’ve shown no sign of it and they take free reign of the land.” 

He patted Banner’s hide and stepped out, locking the gate behind him.  After a few more strokes, Morrie did the same.

“Think you can actually catch him?” he asked without much faith evident in his tone.

“I’m here to try,” she said. 

“With your reputation, I suppose if anyone can, it’d be you.”

Morrie frowned at the remark.  She handed him the brush and gave the horses one last look.

“Well, see you later.”

“Aye. G’night, Morrie.”

Stepping back outside, Morrie turned towards the direction of the loch, wanting to expand her senses, but knowing any use of magic would be like a sudden blip appearing on radar for other immortals.  It would alert anyone else privy to magic of her presence and she preferred to lay low. 

It was the magic of the gods that kept the immortals in power and her magic could bring them all back.  She rather liked living in supernatural isolation. 

So instead she listened to the crickets and frogs, Danny whistling an odd, cheery tune inside the stables, and the rustling in the trees beyond before turning back to the house when Lorna came out and announced dinner was ready.

Dinner with MacLeod had been painfully professional and polite.  He had seemed keen on keeping up conversation and Morrie had never been much of a talker.  When she asked about the other rooms and if he had any other family, he had pulled a Lorna and deftly changed the subject. 

Instead she learned all about the MacLeod family business, the small village nearby and how fishing and shipping faired this time of year.  Because business had been good, MacLeod shared the family’s wealth with the town and even made investments in a restaurant and hotel in Edinburgh.

Assuming she was a young, uninformed American, MacLeod gave Morrie a history lesson on the Highlands and Scotland and the estate, how it had survived several wars and occupations, rebellions and ransacks. 

All of this Morrie knew—she could give Kamden MacLeod a history lesson or two he didn’t know about his homeland—how the borders shifted with each occupation that arose, how Scotland and Ireland traded the shapes of their maps when both were called something else. 

How once the fey danced around the victory fires with men, when werewolves and vampires and shape-shifters traveled the terrain in packs by the thousands.  How sorcery and immortal magic shaped the course of history and legend, and how she had been in the center of it all, playing puppet master with her two sisters before she was used by a blue-skinned god who forever tainted her name. 

After having agreed to meet early in the morning to explore the loch, Morrie’d had enough of reminiscing and left MacLeod for bed. 

C
HAPTER
S
EVEN

“Those who ignore history’s lessons in the ultimate folly of war are forced to do more than relive them…they may be forced to die by them.”  Dan Simmons, The Fall of Hyperion

The roaring fire in the hearth had made the room stuffy and hot.  Slinking out of her jeans and shirt, Morrie padded over to the window in a tank top and panties and opened it, sighing at the cool air that rushed in. 

Staring out at the foggy night, she slipped her hand up the back of her shirt and unhooked her bra, pulling it out through the front.  The cool air brushed against her breasts, sending a shiver down her body. 

With the familiar landscape below, she pushed away ancient memories as she tossed the bra onto a nearby chair and stretched her arms over her head.

Leaving the window open, Morrie sauntered back over to the bed. 

It was huge compared to the minimalist twin she’d been sleeping in back at the ranch.  A grin showed how much she would enjoy sinking into its soft mattress and stretching out.

As she flipped back the covers, her bag began to buzz.  Digging inside, she fished out her cell phone, answering without looking at who called.

“Hi, Bev,” she said, sinking onto the bed and slipping her feet beneath the covers, her eyes almost rolling back as she did so. 

Egyptian cotton—how had she survived the ranch for so long?

“Well?” Bev asked, the sounds of the jazz music and rowdy drunks loud in the background.

“Well, what?” Morrie stretched her legs out, leaning back.  She sighed into the comfort of the soft sheets and mattress.

Making a sound of annoyance, Bev asked like it was obvious. “You fuck the Scot?”

“Christ, Bev,” Morrie hissed to her sister’s laughter. “No, and I won’t anytime soon.  He’s not exactly my type.”

“You have a type?” Bev asked. “I mean, besides politically advantageous?”

“Actually, I don’t know if I have a type, but if I did, this guy wouldn’t be it.  He’s a bit rigid.  And young.”

“Young?
Hey, buddy
!” Bev called out to someone on her side of the phone. “I said heavy on the whiskey—
heav-y
. I could piss drinks stronger than this one.”

“Isn’t it a little early to be drinking?” Morrie smiled at the phone.

“Early? This is New Orleans, darlin’, it’s never too early to drink.  Anyway, young is not a problem, but you should send Macy to him, then. She loves them rigid.”

“Is everything sexual to you?”

“Hello—sex goddess!  Well, that’s odd.  I thought for sure my dream would come true—they’re rarely wrong and it’s been so long since I’ve dreamed of one of us.”

Morrie thought about MacLeod’s eyes—they weren’t the dark brown she’d seen. 

But Bev’s dream could still come true, just not here in Scotland, not with the Scot. 

She wasn’t about to concede the point, either way.

“I’m fine, though, thanks for asking,” Morrie said, unsuccessfully stifling a yawn.

“All right, I can take a hint.  Happy horse hunting, little Morrie,” Bev said. 

Morrie told her good-bye, then shut off her phone and snuggled down for the night.

K
amden paced the floors.  Doubts plagued his thoughts and his thoughts wouldn’t cease.  A sense of unease stirred within him of a storm to come. 

Once again, he wasn’t sure if bringing the horse trainer here was such a good idea. 

He didn’t think she could undo the sins of a bloody legacy.  She was such a wee thing and the horse had killed so many already.  He couldn’t bear to have her blood on his hands as well.

That it had come to this point was entirely on his shoulders.  He thought if he kept his nose in the books, focused on the now fully self-functioning business that maybe it would go away. 

Moments of adversity had always been met with careful consideration, planning, and researching every fine detail; that’s how Kamden operated. 

His brother had always been the one to run headlong into any situation, not matter how hairy. Kade approached life with unmitigated passion while Kamden was always more thoughtful.

But this was different.  This was something he didn’t know how to deal with.  And he couldn’t let what had happened five years ago occur again. 

That was when he lost Kade…for good, he feared. 

With a long groan of defeat, Kamden sat down on his bed, burying his face in his hands.

There would be no sleep tonight. 

T
he horse cried out in the distance. 

Morrie sat up with a start—she’d been dreaming of the strange man with dark eyes again, but then she dreamed of the horse, too, waking when she realized his cries were real. 

A palpable silence hung over the house and the rest of the land, the wind just barely rustling the curtains, but she could hear him, far off.  She could almost feel the pounding of his hooves against the earth.   And if she closed her eyes, she could see him.

With a jolt of excitement, she tossed the covers aside and rushed over to the armchair with her pile of clothes.  Shoving her legs into her jeans and pulling her flannel shirt on over her tank top, Morrie thrummed with an excited anticipation she thought long dead. 

Tip-toeing down the stairs and long hall, Morrie carefully tugged her rain boots on at the backdoor and lifted her coat off the hook.  Knowing her eyesight would help her in the dark without the aid of a flashlight or lantern, she left empty-handed, easing the door closed and stealing out into the night.

Eager to meet the killer horse, hoping her efforts wouldn’t be in vain, she ran across the yard toward the line of trees that stood between her and the lake.  It was a little over a half mile away, but she could jog it without tiring. 

The cold air burned a path through her lungs and adrenaline coursed through her veins, speeding her heart and her step. 

Morrie entered the dark spaces of the woods, the moonlight cut off by the canopy of leaves overhead. 

After about ten minutes of walking, she could smell the water in the distance, the earthy scent of mud and life. 

The toads had silenced their trumpets the closer she drew to the other side of the tree line.  No cricket made a peep. 

The sound of her footfalls sloshing against the mud and grass stood out in stereo. 

She wasn’t afraid.  She liked the idea of the hunt, the thrill of the chase and the triumph of breaking a creature as great as a horse, if that’s all he was. 

While in human form, she could feel physical pain, her bones could break.  It was the limitations of man against beast that she enjoyed, had sought so futilely those many eons ago while gracing the immortal battlefields and only found when she took this small, fragile cast.

A rustle nearby tickled her ears, silencing her thoughts. 

She slowed her steps, spying the murky waters wearing a heavy mist before her.  Hidden just inside the tree line, she scanned its shores for signs of life.