Moira's Song (The Moira McCauley Series Book 1)

by Lee, Tawnya

  Contents

  CTA

  Dedication

  Pronunciation Guide

  CHAPTER ONE The Turning

  CHAPTER TWO I'm Here

  CHAPTER THREE Na Fuilteacha

  CHAPTER FOUR We May All Be Dead

  CHAPTER FIVE The Law of Motherhood

  CHAPTER SIX The Smell of Stale Beer and Burnt Flesh

  CHAPTER SEVEN The Seer of Drogheda

  CHAPTER EIGHT A Whole New World

  CHAPTER NINE The Rebellion in a Bar

  CHAPTER TEN Sedric Brodie

  CHAPTER ELEVEN It's Time to Go Hunting

  CHAPTER TWELVE Let Nessie Have the Rest of Him

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN To Plan a Coup

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN Moira's Purpose

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN The Raven Stone

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN Tryst with a Nanny

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN Restless

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN Abandonment or Death

  CHAPTER NINETEEN Tara

  CHAPTER TWENTY The Morrigan's Cauldron

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE Down into the Darkness

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO Keita, Mistress of the Woods

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE Children of the Morrigan

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR They Are Connected

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE The Rebellion Attacks

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX I Am Your Queen

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN And So It begins

  CTA

  Coming Soon eBook

  Acknowledgments

  Bio

  Copyright-1

  Notes

  Blood lust. Rogue Vampires. Desperate love.

  Dive deeper into the world of Celtic blood-drinkers with Tribunal.

  Learn how to get your FREE copy in the back of this book.

  Also, enjoy a sneak peek at the second book in the Moira Series scheduled to be released in 2018.

  And if you enjoy Moira’s Song, please consider leaving a review on Amazon when you’re done!

  I dedicate this book to my beautiful sons.

  You are my stars, burning brightest in my darkest hours.

  Your love has led me here.

  And to Eire. Without your beauty or your people, I wouldn’t be here today.

  Pronunciation Guide

  To avoid angry emails and to respect the various Irish dialects, I’ll refrain from a pronunciation guide for all the Irish phrases used in Moira’s Song.

  However, to aid those who may wish to feel as if they are pronouncing names properly, here are a few suggestions for the names used within this book.

  Moira – “More-uh” or “Moy-ruh”

  Breasal – “Brĕsul”

  Seara – “Sarah”

  Dubhan – “Dove-un”

  Faolon – “Feel-un”

  Medb – “Mev”

  I believe the remaining characters have names you, the reader, are comfortable with already. Furthermore, to avoid even more angry emails regarding the pronunciation of Irish names, the author herself speaks with a Texan accent and can be accused of also not pronouncing American English properly.

  Carry on and happy reading!

  CHAPTER ONE

  The Turning

  The tumbler, beaded with sweat, sat on the coffee table. Ice cubes, now flimsy slits of glass, floated in the amber liquid, while a moat of water rimmed the outside bottom of the glass. Moira sat in the dark, shadows from the flickering candlelight dancing across the wall toward her face.

  Moira sipped her whiskey and closed her eyes. Poco played on her stereo; the shimmering intro of “Spellbound” wrapped her like a lover, caressing the wounds of her soul. When she couldn't face the world, when she'd rather hide, music was the friend she turned to for everything she never received from those she loved. It didn't judge her. It provided solace. Her balm of Gilead in 2/4 tempo. It bled for her. It cried for her. It raged for her. It soothed her.

  On nights like tonight, when she couldn't sleep, she would play her music and drink her drink until she faded away into her world of dreams. Most of the time she woke not remembering those dreams. Sometimes she would wake screaming, images of a night long ago when her innocence was wrested away clawing into her psyche. Those were the nights when she wished she never had to sleep again. When sleep was her enemy and dreams her prison camp. Fear and shame were never far from her, and at times she wondered as she stepped out on the streets in daylight, if people could guess the dark secret she carried inside.

  Tonight she was simply restless. An undefined energy kept her awake. The twins, Derek and Tristan, were asleep in their crib. She had only her cat and her drinks to keep her company. Eyeing the bottle of Jameson, she contemplated a refill when a panicked cry made her jump. Every hair stood on end as her stomach clenched. She raced to the nursery and stopped in the door frame, dumbstruck. A dark figure stood over the crib, casting shadows on her two sons. Tristan smiled while the stranger traced half-moons with his finger across the boy’s forehead. Derek lay beside his brother and cried.

  “Get the fuck away from my kids,” Moira said through clenched teeth. Her lips pressed together; her nostrils flared.

  The stranger turned slowly, eyes glittering in the dark. Moira sucked in her breath when she saw his face. He had jet black hair and pale blue eyes. His porcelain skin seemed to catch and reflect the moonlight pouring through the window. She was simultaneously repulsed by and attracted to the man. Something in the way he looked at her made him seem inhuman--he couldn’t be. The word vampire floated through her consciousness as if he put it there. But it was ridiculous. This was real life, not some horror movie. And here was a stranger with his hands on her child. She glanced around the room and looked for a weapon. She wondered how long it would take her to reach the ceramic lamp on the nightstand just inside the room.

  “I wouldn’t bother if I were you. About as useless as tits on a bull.”

  The man grinned. VAMPIRE. With each syllable he spoke, the word rattled inside her brain. Her body, electrified with fight hormones, became tense and reactive. She leapt toward the lamp, but before she could make it half-way the stranger was standing in front of her.

  “Amn’t I here for you, lass? Can’t you feel it to be true? And here I am after speaking sweet nothings to your páistí.1 You plan to throw a lamp at me? Think it’ll stop me, do ya?”

  Moira tried to sound brave.

  “I don’t give a fuck who you came for. You need to leave.”

  She needed to control the situation. To protect her children. Her brain dropped into survival mode. She slowed down, looking for solutions, weighing all possible alternatives. The lamp, a heavy book, even her own fingernails--anything she could use to attack.

  “Moira.”

  A slow, rapacious smile passed over his mouth. The hint of a sharp canine disappeared as his lips closed. He glided toward her and brushed red ringlets of hair from her face. His touch was like ice, sending shivers through her body.

  “Get your hands off me, you fucker!” Moira yelled.

  She pushed his hand from her face. Raising her fists to her chin, she assumed a fighting stance. The man laughed.

  “Got a bit a spice in ya. But don’t be baring your teeth if you can’t bite.”

  He grabbed her wrists as she screamed and kicked, aiming for his shins, wriggling to get away. Her boys, mirror images, bounced up and down as they hung onto the crib bars, tears coursing down their cheeks. They wailed.

  Moira looked at them and tried to yank free, but the stranger’s grip was preternaturally strong.

  “Bígí ciúin,”2 the stranger said, his voice cold.

  She stopped. Her breath was ragged, her forehead sweaty
. The stranger was calm, barely seeming to breathe at all. Derek and Tristan stood in silence, wide eyed and panting, and watched their mother.

  Moira realized this man was controlling her, controlling her sons. She wanted to rail against him, to hit him, to bite him, but all she could do was stand silent, unmoving. He loosened his grip and held both her hands. She glanced at her sons in the crib. Their little faces were red. Derek’s hand covered Tristan’s. Tristan’s other fist was raised in the air, pumping, open and close, open and close, gesturing for his mother. As she watched them, she breathed in and exhaled slowly.

  Her muscles relaxed.

  “What do you want from me? And how do you know who we are?”

  “And haven’t I been watching you since you were a child? You were a special baby, born for a special time.”

  The stranger began tracing lines down her arm, caressing her with the back of his hand. She was frightened and repulsed, but curious, as she saw genuine affection flicker in his eyes.

  “And don’t you know how special you are, Moira? You come from a long line of witches. It skipped a few generations, true, but I knew it was you. You carried the mark.”

  He traced an invisible line from her collarbone to the back of her neck and circled the strawberry birthmark that blossomed there.

  “I knew you were the one. Your mother and grandmother were utterly normal. But not you, Moira. You’re special.”

  Moira blinked, wondering if the stranger was insane. Witches? Special? Mark?

  “No, I’m not crazy, Moira. And you are most definitely a witch. And although you haven’t realized your full powers yet, I know for certain you’ve used them.”

  Moira wondered if she would wake up and realize she’d had too much Jameson the night before. She listened to his words, his voice soothing. A very slight Irish lilt hid beneath the timbre of his voice. Rhythmic. Enchanting. Memories, like flashes of old movies, flickered through her mind. She recalled the family friend. The one who hurt her. His body mangled. She blinked and focused on the stranger.

  “You’re not plastered either, I assure you. No, I’ve been watching you since birth. I’ve been following your family for thousands of years, waiting for the one to fulfill the prophecy. That one is you, Moira. And tonight, I’m going to help you fulfill it.”

  Moira glanced past him toward the window. The full moon shone through the sheer curtains. She looked back at the stranger.

  He pulled her close and lowered his mouth to her neck. She saw the twins behind him. They too were entranced, watching the stranger hold their mother. They had stopped crying and were breathing in unison as they stared at their mother. She glanced towards the sheers fluttering in the breeze. A crow settled on the window pane, observing, silent.

  The stranger breathed in her scent, savoring it. “Moira,” he whispered. She could feel his breath on her shoulder as he spoke her name.

  “If you’re a vampire, don’t I have to invite you in?”

  “Moira, Moira, Moira.” The stranger made a tsking noise. “And don’t they only tell you that in fairy tales to make you feel safe at night? And vampire doesn’t quite define all that I am.”

  He kissed her shoulder and moved his mouth slowly up to her ear, stroking her hair. Confusion swirled through her. She was lost in his scent and touch.

  He bit into her neck and began to suck the blood from her vein. The longer he drank, the more Moira wanted him to drink. She grew weaker with every sip he took, yet she yearned for him to consume her. Her body craved his. She arched her back, pressed into him, and moaned. For a brief moment, she forgot about Derek and Tristan. She forgot her Jameson. She forgot about her nightmares and her shame and her guilt. She wanted him! She loved him!

  The stranger drank until she was nearly lifeless. Her skin was clammy and pearlescent white. He watched her, as he held her in his arms. Her beauty struck him. The waxy pallor of death colored her cheeks. The perfection of her lips, her eyelashes, her high cheekbones--she was exquisite.

  He bit his own wrist, drawing blood, and placed it over her mouth.

  “Come on, Moira. Drink the drink of everlasting life. Partake of my blood and become mine in eternity.”

  She tasted the saltiness of his blood on her tongue. Her mouth watered yet she felt too weak to move.

  “You can do it. Taste it. Moira. Taste and see it is good!”

  Moira opened her eyes, and looked at him. She sucked on his wrist, the blood filling her mouth. Her veins alternated ice and fire. With each drink, she became stronger. She drank harder, panting, wanting nothing more than to take him the way he had taken her.

  After many minutes, he pushed her away. He breathed heavily through half-parted lips, as impassioned and aroused as she.

  “It’s time to sleep now. Oiche mhaith, mo chara.” 3He tapped her lightly on the head, and she slumped over, unconscious.

  He placed her gently in the rocking chair beside the crib. Stroking her hair, he hummed to her softly. The crow cawed, flapped its wings, and flew back into the night. The stranger kissed each little boy on the head, and leapt through the window. Derek looked at his mother and began to cry.

  CHAPTER TWO

  I'm Here

  Sunlight pushed through the curtains. Derek and Tristan lay tangled together in the crib. Derek sucked his thumb in his sleep.

  Moira stirred, sensing the intruding light. Chirping birds lay just outside her realm of consciousness. Sunlight flickered through the branches of a tree just beyond the window. Its rays bounced across her arms. She gasped, sat up, and grabbed her forearm. The white flesh of her arm prickled and turned a bloody pink.

  Rushing to the window, she shut it, and closed the drapes. The dark of the room calmed her, and the redness of her skin receded. Moira looked down at her children. She stroked their backs as flashes of last night burst into her thoughts.

  She caressed Tristan’s blond ringlets, curling up at the nape of his nape. Eyeing the strawberry mark visible through his hair, she frowned and pulled her hand away. She stood, watching the boys for a moment, her brow furrowed.

  She left the room and softly shut the door behind her. Walking into the kitchen, she passed another window, the sun beating through its panes. Her pain was immediate. She closed the blinds as quickly as she could and stood, rubbing her elbow, while she stared at the stained Formica countertop.

  VAMPIRE.

  The word slithered across her consciousness. Surely not, she thought. Last night had to be a dream.

  Vampire doesn’t quite define what I am.

  The words mocked her, settling in the room like a dense low fog. Images of the stranger, his words, his touch, their intimacy tumbled her through.

  She sat down at the kitchen table. It felt insanity to even consider she had seen a vampire, much less she could be one now. But she knew it. Instinctively, she knew it to be true. She had lived it. It was no dream. The sunlight burning her skin wasn’t her imagination. She had drunk the devil’s blood and was paying the price.

  More from habit than from needing caffeine, Moira stood and made a pot of coffee. While it brewed, she leaned against the counter and stared into the center of the room. She noticed the smell was more intense than usual. Pouring herself a cup, she sat back down at the table and stared into the brew, noting the ripples her breath caused. She inhaled the aroma. While the scent was pleasing, she had no appetite for food or drink. She lifted the cup, closed her eyes, and inhaled again. She sipped her coffee. Within seconds, she spewed it across the room. Her stomach wretched in protest.

  “I guess that’s what happens when vampires try to drink coffee,” she muttered. Grabbing the mug, she tossed the rest of her drink down the sink and flipped off the coffee pot.

  Moira had no idea what actually happened to her last night. She hoped the changes were temporary, or even psychosomatic, but instinct told her she was SOL.

  She knew she couldn’t stay in her single-wide with the twins for much longer. If she couldn’t make it in the sunli
ght, she wouldn’t be able to do normal mom things, cheering at T-Ball games or taking the kids to school. Life as a single mom had been hard. Being a vampire, if that’s what she was, would make it more difficult.

  There was no way she could avoid sunlight at her job at the deli. She knew she’d have to call in sick to work. It would buy her some time to figure things out. She also had to call the daycare and let them know the twins wouldn’t be in for a few days. Best to avoid anyone until she could figure out a plan.

  After taking care of the phone calls, she sat, perplexed. Where would she go? She knew she couldn’t handle sunlight but didn’t know if it was permanent--or even the only symptom she would have. She felt utterly alone. Who in the world could she ask? The stranger? She didn’t even know who he was, or where he’d come from, or how she’d contact him. She couldn’t count on anyone but herself to figure this out.

  She knew if she confided in anyone, anyone at all, she would be reported to child services for being a nut job. No one would believe her. She may even be forced to undergo a psych evaluation. Her children could be taken from her. No. It was best to keep this to herself. At least until she knew what she was up against. She decided the best thing to do was get away. She opened the bank app on her phone and checked her balance. Great. One paycheck away from starving. She’d have to abandon everything and start over, but with what money?

  Thankfully her car was paid for, albeit it was a bit of a death trap. For all she knew, she could fly or teleport or something. But for now she was driving where she needed to go. The only thing of consequence she owned beyond her beater car was a log cabin in the woods of Arkansas. She inherited it when her mom died last year. She hated the cabin. The stench of a wretched childhood clung to its walls. The last time Moira was there she’d had a panic attack and vowed never to go back. But it was isolated. And for now it was all she had.

  Moira heard the boys stirring. She walked to their crib and stroked their hair as they rubbed the sleep from their eyes. “Hey, babies. Good morning,” she said in a hushed sing-song voice. “I sure wish your daddy was here.” She sighed and grabbed two clean diapers. “Come on;let’s get you changed and ready for the day.”