by Kevin Hearne
[One more thing to ask the elemental?] I ventured.
“Right. Let’s find a likely spot down the trail to do that. I don’t want to linger here. I hope that officer who ran off is okay.”
I hoped so too. But the odds were probably not in his favor.
The Iron Druid did not share with the rest of us the calculus he used to decide where to commune with the elemental. His binding to the earth was a fact that I accepted but did not fully understand—not unlike the fact that many people on this planet rather enjoy raisins (or at least pretend to). Despite having never visited this area before, he seemed to know precisely where to go. After a brief walk downhill from the summit, he led us about a hundred meters into the bush until we found a spot that was well shaded and quiet, had some handy logs to sit on, and was completely hidden from anyone who might pass on the trail.
“We shouldn’t be interrupted here,” he said, which was apparently all that he wanted.
But interruptions did come: Ya-ping’s phone quacked at her. She was getting text messages from someone that made her huff impatiently and frown. Buck wandered off somewhere after saying he’d be back soon—I assumed to relieve himself. The dogs set up a perimeter and circled Connor while he dropped into a trancelike state. I was thinking about returning to the trail and venturing forward a bit more, following the hoofprints of Officer Campbell’s horse, when Buck tugged on my sleeve. I looked down and raised an eyebrow at him in query.
“Come with me,” he whispered. “Ye need tae see something.”
[Where?]
“A wee distance in the bush. Don’t worry, they’ll be fine. The hounds will make noise if there’s any trouble.”
[What is it? Thea?]
The hobgoblin’s lips and brows contorted in an effort to formulate an answer, when a simple yes or no would have sufficed. Finally he said, “I cannae explain. Ye just need tae see for yerself.”
He led me into the bush, which grew thicker and rougher, and the hill sloughed away toward the valley where Donnellys Creek ran. There were some thorny bushes mixed among the ferns that caught at my clothing. I saw a couple of brown snakes slithering away from us—I had no intention of provoking them.
Just as I was about to inquire how much farther, Buck stopped and pointed at a tree branch above our heads. A large, sleek crow perched there, and the hobgoblin said, “See?”
I was less than thrilled. [I’ve seen corvids before, Buck.]
“Look again, ol’ man,” Buck said. “That isnae yer average crow.”
[How’d you even know it was here?]
“She called tae me—in ma heid, I mean.”
That was curious. I was willing to give the crow another look. When I did, the crow’s black eyes abruptly glowed red, hinting at a volcanic bloodlust, and a cold thrill of fear raced down my spine. A woman’s voice, low and scratchy, entered my head.
Do you know who I am, mortal?
Addressing me as “mortal” was a pretty broad hint that the speaker was immortal. [No, but I do know you’re scaring the shite out of me.]
That is as it should be, the voice rasped, screeching at my sanity like nails on a chalkboard. Why do you not use your voice?
[I am cursed. But perhaps you already knew that?]
I did not, but I see it now in your aura. Ohhh…it is a most delicious aura of death. How delightful. I like you already, Aloysius MacBharrais. We must speak for a brief time, but I can see that this mental bond is wearing on you. I will take a shape that can speak aloud.
The crow hopped off the branch, spread its wings, and transformed on the way down to earth into the shape of a white woman—Thea, if I wasn’t mistaken. The SES worker whose body we never found. She was naked and didn’t care, neither slim nor overweight. Dark hair and naturally arched eyebrows over a long, thin nose, her lips obscenely red, like raw beef.
[I’ve seen you before. Thea?]
“You saw this body before,” she said, the voice still scratchy and decidedly lacking an Australian accent. “But I am not she who used to inhabit it. Thea Prendergast was slain along with most of her companions by the demon spawn. And just as her spirit was exiting this flesh, I entered it and took over. I am returned to this plane once more.”
[Returned?]
“I am the Morrigan of the Tuatha Dé Danann, Chooser of the Slain. I have much to tell you, but first you must swear to me that you will not tell anyone of my return, most especially Siodhachan Ó Suileabháin and his hounds. Your failure to honor my request will forfeit your life and your hobgoblin’s too.” Her eyes glowed red once more. “Do not think, hobgoblin, that you can escape me.”
Buck knelt and prostrated himself. “I do not, Morrigan, and would never think so. I swear I will say nothing of your return to anyone, but most especially the Iron Druid and his hounds.”
The red eyes turned to me.
“Well, mortal? What say you?”
The Iron Druid’s ending to the previous night’s story came back to me: Sometimes, the dead don’t stay dead.
The old treaty between humanity and the Tuatha Dé Danann was not written down for centuries. It was an oral agreement, renewed every so often and tweaked, between the kings of Ireland and those who became known as the Sídhe or the Fae. The Morrigan, however, was always an exception to the general rule that the Tuatha Dé Danann should stay off this plane. She was both a Chooser of the Slain and a psychopomp, who escorted souls to the afterlife. She had to be present to fulfill her function. And nobody even thought about suggesting to her that her movements should be restricted.
Until the nineteenth century, that is, when the first sigil agent was created and binding contracts began to be written. There was an effort at that time to pressure the Morrigan into signing the contract. Goibhniu, the god of brewing, plied her with ale. Manannan Mac Lir, a god of the sea who was also a psychopomp, told her he’d be signing, so that was no excuse. Brighid even called in a favor, and the Morrigan flatly refused on the grounds that it was not a service in kind but rather binding herself to rules she didn’t want to follow.
“I will return the favor if it is a favor, but this contract is tantamount to submission, and I submit to no one,” she reportedly said. To which Brighid threatened retribution from many other deities outside the Irish pantheon, because the peer pressure was intense; most gods wanted all the other gods off the earth before someone got photographed and became “the one true God” in humanity’s collective mind. It would be best for everyone concerned if people’s faith was never challenged by proof. This threat of Brighid’s—sign the contract or face the combined wrath of others—successfully brought many reluctant gods to the table, but the Morrigan would not be cowed. She smiled.
“If any deity wishes to battle me, I welcome them. I will either live free of all constraints or die.”
No one, it turned out, wished to pick a fight with a Chooser of the Slain—not even Brighid. So the Morrigan lived free until very recently, when she perished in battle against two other deities, apparently choosing herself to die.
Why she did that was a mystery. Why she’d want to come back was not hard to figure: She’d always been one who reveled in pain and misery. Paradise must have really pissed her off.
Ultimatums and absolutes are dangerous things, and on principle I avoid them. But refusing a goddess of death and battle is also extremely dangerous, especially when she’s made clear what a refusal would mean. But perhaps there was some wiggle room to winkle out.
[How long must I keep this oath?] I asked. [For my duties as a sigil agent would make a permanent agreement impossible. I will be required, eventually, to report your presence to other sigil agents at minimum, though I can delay that for a short while.]
“Sigil agents,” the Morrigan spat. “Brighid’s lever of control. They have never controlled me.”
[We have never attempted to con
trol you, since you never signed a contract. And I am not trying to control you now either. I am trying to honor your wishes without compromising my duties.]
“Very well. I can be fair. You will be bound by this oath for a week. The same applies to the hobgoblin. After that time, you may tell who you wish of my return. Now you must swear—aloud, and not on that device.”
Using my voice, I said, “I swear to tell no one, for one week, of your return.”
“I swear this also,” Buck added.
The Morrigan nodded once in acceptance. “Good. Now you may know what it is you face—the source of these creatures that slew this human whose flesh I now claim as my own: It is Caoránach, the Mother of Devils. She has escaped from the land beyond the veil in Tír na nÓg. She can summon forth her demon spawn with nine drops of her blood. You have met only a few so far, but more await you on the trail ahead.”
“If she’s the mother, who’s the father?” Buck asked before I could reply. “Wot? That’s a legitimate question, in’t it? As in, a question of legitimacy? Are these legit devils or bastard devils?”
[I don’t think it matters.]
“Course it does! If the father is powerful, then the hellspawn might be powerful too, right? And that’s only the first question that popped intae ma heid. I have so many more. Like, how does this summoning thing happen? Does she dribble nine drops of blood on the ground or in a cup or wot? And where do the devils actually emerge? Do they rise from the bloody dust? Or is the ‘mother’ part of her title a literal thing, and she has a super-fecund, industrial-strength womb with a Slip ’N Slide birth canal so the demons splash out of there like a screaming boatload of kids at the water park?”
[I’m fine not knowing the answer to that.]
“The hobgoblin is surprisingly close. Caoránach is an oilliphéist—a great wyrm accustomed to water.”
“Oh, aye? I’ve heard of them. Sea serpents.”
“Aye, but one that can also move on land. She has four legs and talons. The demons are born in water. The blood she drops in the water accelerates their growth to full-grown monsters of varying kinds, and they walk out of the shallows.”
“That would mean,” Buck said, “that unless there’s a big lake around somewhere nearby, she’s shitting demons in the creek.”
“An apt comparison,” the Morrigan agreed.
“Oi, there’s a metaphor for evil, eh, MacBharrais? Industrial polluters are shitting demons in the creek. Clear-cutting forests? Also shitting demons in the creek. And if ye put almond milk in ma coffee, ye’re definitely shitting demons in the creek. Just say naw tae nut milk is my advice.”
[We should focus on the literal demons right now,] I said.
“Caoránach has been dead a very long time,” the Morrigan said. “There was no indication that she longed to return to this plane and, beyond that, no indication that she could even accomplish it. She has not been actively worshipped for many years, if ever she was, and her name practically passed out of mortal memory. When she disappeared from Tír na nÓg, I became intensely interested in how she managed to do it. One such as I could have returned at any time—there are many who still pay me my due rites and sustain my powers. But I had no desire to manifest as I had of old and thereby be confined to my accustomed roles. Caoránach showed me that it could be done a different way.”
[How?]
“Take over a body at the moment of death. The mortal spirit moves on to whatever hell or heaven it wishes, but the flesh can serve another.”
[But isn’t it the flesh that died?]
“It’s not a problem for one such as myself to heal it. This woman, Thea, perished of intense tissue damage and organ trauma. I repaired it. Of more concern is that, even at full health, this Australian woman’s body is nothing like my old one. The muscle tone is middling at best, and the organs are ravaged by age and a wide range of modern toxins. And aside from the dark hair, she looks nothing like I once did. I would change that over time with subtle bindings altering the genetics, except that this body is not bound to the earth. I am, for the moment, possessed merely of my ancient godlike powers but not the powers of Druidry. And while those powers include divination, thus far I cannot divine why Caoránach returned. Especially to this particular place. I cannot begin to imagine how an ancient Irish oilliphéist would have learned of Australia’s existence, much less determined that this was where she should stage a return to the living world.”
Movement in our peripheral vision drew our gazes downhill, where a familiar face suddenly floated over the bush, her camouflage dress blurring her shape otherwise. It was Gladys Who Has Seen Some Shite.
“Well met, Gladys,” the Morrigan immediately said, and executed a small bow. My jaw dropped. An ancient death goddess knew my receptionist on sight and was deferential to her? Who the hell was she?
“It is wonderful to see you again, Morrigan. It has been a long time.”
“Indeed.”
What someone like the Morrigan would consider a “long time” suggested that Gladys Who Has Seen Some Shite must be much older than she appeared.
“Do you plan to remain on this plane for a while?” she asked the goddess.
“I do.”
“Excellent. Let’s hope it works out better than last time.”
The Morrigan snorted in amusement. “Yes. Let’s.”
“You know who to contact if you wish to be rebound to the earth?”
“I do. You are kind.”
My level of what-the-fuck had, over the past few minutes, ramped up steadily. It had started out on one end of the scale, which was like a mildly bemused Seth Rogen, half asleep in a hammock and wondering how his drink had disappeared because he’d forgotten that he drank it, and quickly accelerated to the other end, which was like a teenager watching their parents peel off their faces to reveal that the reason they acted like aliens sometimes was that they’d been aliens all along. I mean—the Morrigan was back from the dead! And she was telling someone that they were kind! And that someone was my receptionist, who was obviously much more than Canadian!
“Does my aura appear to be divine in this new flesh?” the Morrigan asked, and Gladys Who Has Seen Some Shite cocked her head to the left.
“No, it doesn’t. You appear to be human! Well, ain’t that a hoot?”
I thought it a hoot that she could see auras. I’d had no idea.
The Morrigan pressed the point. “So I could appear before the Iron Druid and he would not know who I am?”
“Well, not by your aura, he wouldn’t. He might figure it out some other way. You kinda have a speech pattern there, you know, and it’s nothing like a friendly Australian emergency volunteer. It’s more like taking a handful of sharp quartz rocks and wrapping them in cheesecloth made of an Old Irish accent and then dragging them across a sheet of glass. I gotta be honest with ya now, it’s a pretty big hint that you might be a Chooser of the Slain. That and whenever you do your glowing-red-eye thing.”
“I understand. I may be able to mimic this woman’s former voice. The patterns are still in her brain. Let me attempt it now.” She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, then opened them again and spoke in a completely different way. I hadn’t heard Thea speak before her death, but I had no doubt the Morrigan was pulling it off. All the sandpapery scratchiness was gone, as was the hint of doom that vibrated like a subwoofer in the brain, and what was left was a melodic contralto with a soft Australian accent. “I am not sure if there’s an appropriately Australian colloquialism to say at this moment, but perhaps you could help me out, Al?”
I typed out something that would sound utterly ridiculous in my speech app’s stilted English accent. [I gotta bail on this arvo, mate, I’m flat out.]
The Morrigan repeated it like a proper Australian. “I have no idea what that means, but I gotta bail on this arvo, mate, I’m flat out.”
&nb
sp; I nodded in approval, and the Morrigan actually grinned like a normal human might do.
“Excellent. Anything else?” she asked Gladys Who Has Seen Some Shite.
“Yes. Clothes. You should start caring about the fact that you don’t have any. Humans these days try not to be naked.”
Humans? Was my receptionist not human? I supposed that the chances of that were, at this point, vanishingly small.
“Ah, yes,” the Morrigan said, looking down. “An excellent reminder. I believe I can recover the clothes she was wearing earlier. When I shifted to a crow, I obviously had no need of them.”
[Both of you can see auras,] I said. [Can you tell who might have cursed me by looking at mine?] Brighid had taken a look at my aura some months ago and had been able to see the curses but not identify the source, except to say that it was masterfully done and quite likely the work of a deity.
“If you wish me to do you a favor, mortal,” the Morrigan said, “you will owe me one in return.”
[Forget I asked,] I said. There was no way I was getting myself into another deal with her. I was already living under a possible death sentence for the next week. [Gladys, are you able to tell me anything about them?]
“Oh, sure,” she said, nodding.
[What? Why haven’t you said anything before?]
“You haven’t asked me until just now. All you ever wanted was for me to answer the phones and greet people in the office and put out some Danish in the break room. Look, Mr. MacBharrais, those curses were laid on you at the same time, and they’re interlocking. But they’re two different curses, ya know. So I don’t know who did it or how, but it was cast in tandem.”
[Tandem?]
“Yep. Two people had to do that together. Each one of those curses represents a whole lot of if/then equations, ya know. Maybe an omniscient type could have done it alone, but an omniscient type probably would have smote you with lightning or something if they were that mad at you. They wouldn’t bother with this curse business. Smiting is a very big deal to them.”
