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

by Lee, Tawnya

  “You won’t feed until you feel you can leave your children alone. Don’t I already know what a protective ma you are? Haven’t I said I’ve been watching you? Your maternal instinct is even more heightened now that you have changed. A vampire’s true nature is only magnified once they turn. The murderous murder more. The compulsive become arithmomanics12. You became even more protective and maternal. We can secure a proper nanny for the twins, but it may take a few days. So much to take in and learn. Be patient with it, a stór.”13

  Moira’s eyebrows creased together. She leaned forward in her chair.

  “Why? Why did you do this to me? You fucking took everything away from me. I can’t take them swimming. I can’t take them to the park. Hell, I won’t even get to go to their graduation, unless it’s a moonlit ceremony. They won’t have a goddamn mother like other kids. It’s fucked up.”

  Moira gasped in pain, grabbing her stomach. Waves of electricity passed through her, leaving her white and breathless. Kali hissed; the hairs of her tail formed a big poof. She took off down the hall. Breasal looked down at his hands and clasped them together, index fingers straight, touching each other. He tapped his fingers together, then looked at Moira.

  “I’m sorry about the, um, growing pains. Like I said, it soon goes away. And you’re right. It’s a fecking mess. But you are special. I had to do it,” he said in a soft voice.

  “Moira, there is so much of your heritage you don’t know. You aren’t, and never would have been, normal. The blood of a very ancient line of witches runs through your veins. For generations, this blood has remained dormant. The gifts women in your family bore have long been forgotten. But you--this age--it’s all come together. It was prophesied long ago that you would not only resume as head of a powerful lineage of witches but would join the blood fae also. For centuries, our kind has remained in the shadows. Scattered to the four winds. Tensions between factions have been building. More fiercely Celt in death than Celt in life. And you--you are the one destined to unite and free us. Our Saoirse.”14

  “As it stands, witches and blood-drinkers mix like priests and presbyters in a whore-house. And the fuilteacha are at each other’s throats as well. Two factions with very different philosophies, on the verge of destroying our world and our kind. It’s complicated.” Breasal paused.

  He focused on the photos adorning the television. His mouth was set. His jaw clenched. After a few moments, he continued.

  “It’s a complicated political situation between the prevailing powers and those who would like to see change. Power, the quest for power, isn’t just a human condition. It impacts vampires as well. I will say this, and I say it with all carefulness. There are those who did not want you to become a blood-drinker. They don’t even want you to know the little I have told you. Just as I have sought you out to ensure the prophecy, they will seek you out to destroy any chance you have to succeed. But I’m not alone. As old and great as I am, I could not have followed your family this far, watched over you so well, without help. And because I’m not alone, you’re not alone.”

  Moira sat, staring at her feet. If she hadn’t witnessed the changes in her own body, she would’ve dismissed him as a crazy fuck. She laughed at the idea of being anyone’s hope for peace. Until now, she’d been a single mom, working at a deli, living in a single-wide in Bastrop, Texas. Not exactly next in line for a Nobel prize.

  You’re not alone. There had never been a time in her life when she hadn’t felt alone. Alone as a child. Alone as a teen. Alone as a single mom. She’d never felt part of a tribe, a community. She never felt she belonged anywhere. And here was this stranger telling her she now had a group of someones--vampires of all things--she’d never met who wanted to help her.

  “How do I know you’re telling me the truth? And why me? You keep talking about this prophecy as if it were written in stone next to a burning bush. But who prophesied? When? What did they say? How the hell do I know it’s not a bunch of bunk? And if I’ve always been a witch, why didn’t I know?”

  “As for truth, I suppose there’s no real way for you to know what I’m saying is true. At least not yet. The proof of the pudding is in the eating. You have no choice but to trust me. Who else do you have?” Breasal paused. “Maybe I should explain a little more about what we really are, and how you fit in. Your lineage, and the prophecy.”

  “Modern society has an interesting perception of a witch. You have the cackling, green-hooked-nose woman riding on a broom, or the wrinkle-her-nose and get everything done in seconds version from TV. Neither of those are accurate. Then there are those who spellcast. They are not privy to enhanced abilities, but they do use magick. They are the housewife, bored with what modern religion offers, and curious to learn the elements and energies of stones and herbs and candles. They are witches by trade. They have little altars in their homes and light their candles and cast their circles. This is not you. You come from an ancient lineage of women who at times have dabbled in magick but mostly are imbued with special abilities. The ability to control the elements, to control the physical realm with thought or touch. The ability to see into the future. The ability to manipulate human thought and coerce others to do their bidding. This is the lineage of which you were born.”

  Moira winced and held her side.

  “Goddamn that hurts.”

  “Yes, the growing pains. I’m sorry for that.” Breasal waited for her pain to subside.

  “Legend says your kind was born from Lilith. Dear Lilith who was demonized for knowing she was not subservient to man. Many of the things attributed to her are such because man was not happy with a woman of such strength. She refused to be on bottom. She was born to dominate. There is also the Morrigan. A fierce and powerful goddess, shape-shifter and triple threat. It is possible these two myths are related, but we have no assurances.”

  “Early in the dawn of man, in the summer of 400 BC, there was a woman named Banba living in what is now Ireland. Banba was strong, and proud, a member of the Bó Aire class of her tuath, or tribe. Those of the Bó Aire class enjoyed a high status as property owners, commanding large herds and renting out to farmers to run their own cattle and lands. She was widowed at an early age and had four young daughters. Through sheer strength of will and personality, she ran a large farm and increased her herd to more than three hundred head of cattle. She exported milk and cheese to nations and cities beyond her walls, which was unusual for her time. She had respect, but was greatly envied. Many men of her day attempted and failed to gain Banba’s affections. Banba was only concerned for the welfare of her daughters and believed that in building an empire of wealth, she could protect them and secure their future, and their children’s future. As her daughters grew, they too were sought after. Many men hoped that by marrying her daughters, they would enjoy her wealth and increase their own standing in the tuath --the tribe. One such suitor had been rejected by both mother and daughter. His name was Cillian. Cillian desired Kennocha, Banba’s eldest daughter. Kennocha was intelligent and beautiful. But Kennocha was in love with a clansman named Bodb. Banba, happy with her daughter’s choice, married her first daughter to Bodb. After their marriage, Cillian was fired up with jealousy and anger. His heart was black. He began stalking Kennocha’s movements, noting when she was alone. And for all his stalking, his anger and jealousy grew, a dark poison pooling in his chest. He discovered she spent each Thursday alone wandering the fields outside Emain Macha,15 sitting with her favorite heifer. Kennocha loved the cow and even named her. She would call her cow to her, petting her and feeding her special treats. One such day, Cillian followed her to the fields, snuck up behind her, and struck her over the head with a rock. While she lay unconscious, he raped her, then struck her multiple times with a rock to her head until the blood drained from her body. He left her there to be discovered by Bodb.”

  “It is said that when Bodb found her, three hundred crows had gathered around Kennocha. Kennocha’s prized heifer stood beside her bellowing loudly. Bodb,
mad with heartbreak, tore at his hair and fell to the ground crying. The sound of his tears was echoed by the cawing of the crows. It raised such a noise that Banba herself came running to the field to discover the cause. When she saw her child, lying mangled on the ground, an anger so fierce rose in her chest her own cries could be heard over that of the crows. Banba picked up her daughter and set out for her home.”

  “As she walked home, she saw three ravens, sitting side by side, in the middle of the road. Something about the ravens made Banba stop in her tracks. Her eyes widened and she clutched her daughter tight. So tight, in fact, that her palms began to cramp. The ravens began to shift and morph into a beautiful woman with long, flowing hair and menacing, dark eyes.”

  “Banba dropped to her knees. She knew she was standing in front of the Morrigan, the goddess who received Banba’s prayers and offerings each night. Banba cried and pleaded to her. ‘Please grant that my daughters will never again be subdued by man. Let my eldest child overcome death itself. And let this strength be passed from generation to generation.’”

  “The Morrigan granted her wish, but not as Banba would have liked. Banba wanted Kennocha to live again as she was before. But the goddess, in her wisdom, knew that once a life had been rent from its body, it could never return in the same form. Instead, she turned Kennocha into a baobahn sidhe, a blood-drinking fairy that only roamed at night, feasting on the blood of men. Because Kennocha had been denied the joy of motherhood, the Morrigan gave her the power to create her own kind so her strength may be passed down generation to generation. For the living daughters, she blessed them with a portion of her own power and made them witches. So from one family, came both baobhan sidhe, or vampire, and witch. Moira, you have the blood of Banba in your veins. This is your family story.”

  He gave her time to adjust to his words before continuing. Moira sat still. The tension in the room was heavy. Moira looked at Breasal, searching him for lunacy. She saw only calm, deliberate truth. She nodded at him to continue.

  “Moira, not only do you have the blood of the witch daughters, but because I created you as one of Na Fuilteacha, you now have the blood of Kennocha. I was one of her first blood fae children. You are the culmination of all that Banba asked from the Morrigan. You are the fulfillment of The Morrigan’s promise to Banba.”

  Moira felt she could not breathe. The hairs on her arm stood on end. She had no idea who the Morrigan was, and yet electricity crawled up and down her spine in testament to the power and truth of Breasal’s story.

  “I... What does this really mean? The fulfillment of the promise?”

  “For generations, we have been scorned. The witch has been burned at the stake, persecuted through the ages. The vampire feared and abhorred. Our stories told knee to knee.16 Granted, man has always slaughtered the innocent, but it was our kind they were after. The witch. The vampire. We are evil in their sight. Monsters. They are both fascinated and enamored of us, all the while hunting us down in fear.”

  “We were intended to be the very essence of strength. Strength in the shadows, strength in darkness. The witch strong in her control of the elements and power over man. The vampire, victor over death. What mankind calls evil is actually the testament of a mother’s love beyond the grave, and to all her descendants. Instead, jealousy of our power and misunderstanding of our ways led to our being persecuted and rejected. Instead of being seen as pillars of strength, we are seen as something to be feared and reviled. To them we are evil incarnate.”

  “Part of this is the fault of Banba’s witch daughters. After they heard news of their sister’s passing and had been blessed with gifts by the Morrigan, they rose together in anger. They found Cillian and dashed his head against a stone and threw his body in the ocean. In murderous rage, they caused blood and ash to rain from the sky. The sun darkened, and for nearly eighteen years, the land that is now Ireland faced drought and famine. Because of this, many warlords arose, and tribes that once lived peacefully fought each other for food and power. Banba lost her cattle and wealth, as did many others. The people blamed Banba’s daughters. The way of the witch was from then on cursed and despised, instead of valued as the gift from the goddess, as it was intended to be. But isn’t that the true way of man, to always be fecking stuff up?”

  “Over time, we suffered. We hid. We grew mad in the shadows and committed atrocities, impaling cities, bewitching villages. We lost our way and those who would have us cower in fear, rose to power. They preyed on the fear of our kind and used it to their benefit.”

  “For the vampire, the tales of Countess Bathory and Vlad the Impaler overshadow and even further incriminate us as workers of iniquity. As always, it’s the smallest group that is the loudest. The squeaky wheel gets the grease, as Americans would say.”

  “But amn’t I giving the big picture? It’s difficult to sum up thousands of years of history in the course of one night, one hour. The important thing to know is there is a faction who wish to restore our strength, to rule over mankind, to be free. That faction wishes to overthrow those who govern us and to command a place of dominance on the earth. As vampires, we too have laws and customs. We have learned to govern ourselves for the protection of mankind and for our very survival. We have leaders, the Taoiseach,17 Brehon,18 and File,19 whose job it is to enforce and uphold civility. They are the Tribunal who watch, guard, and rule over Na Fuilteacha. Those desiring revolution believe we should stand free, stop hiding, stop protecting a race of people who would destroy us all if they could. The rebels seek to create anarchy and overthrow the Tribunal.”

  “Where do you stand in all this?” Moira asked.

  Breasal glanced toward the ceiling. He clasped his hands behind his head, and answered.

  “I believe that hiding our nature, lurking in the shadows with shame, can be harmful. To not stand in the proverbial light of day and declare ‘I am Breasal. I am a vampire’ is stifling. To always be hidden, as if I am evil for something I was born into... it isn’t right. Maybe I’m too soft, but I think this hiding is what twists our hearts and makes us dark, not the fact we are vampire and witch. It cloaks us with shame, and that shame cripples and enslaves us from within. And yet, I fear the rebellion will attempt to course correct too severely. If left unchecked, they could obliterate nations of men without so much as a blink. This too is wrong! I must feed on the blood of men to live, just as a lion must feed on the zebra. This doesn’t make the lion evil. And I refuse to believe it makes me evil either. But I must not use my powers and my hunger as a justification to commit genocide. I believe this is what the rebellion is capable of without proper guidance. Total annihilation of the human race, and utter chaos for our own kind.”

  “But you can’t just announce to the world you’re a vampire and expect to be left alone. They’ll hunt you down and kill you out of self-preservation,” said Moira.

  “You’re right. This is true. And therein lies the dilemma. Vampire and Man. From the roots of self-preservation we become foes. So I relate. I relate to the desire to be open, to not hide, to be free. And I relate to the desire to not become prey, not disturb the status quo. Pretend and mingle and fit in. Live as I please. It has worked for thousands of years. It can continue to work. But modern vampires are impatient. They want to feed in the daylight, so to speak, and are willing to fight for this at any cost.”

  “But this is all generalities. Again, it’s hard to fit several thousand years of history into one small conversation. What most interests you is the prophecy. So, let me explain. In the year 1590, the North Berwick witch trials were just underway. A woman, Anna Koldings, confessed to using witchcraft to wreak havoc with the King’s ships. One tragic result was the torture and death of Agnes Sampson.”

  “Agnes was a healer and midwife. Many depended on her use of medicinal herbs to cure their families of fatal illness. Before the accusations, she was well-liked and respectable. But the entire world had been seized by this craze to accuse and burn witches. Once she was named, she was
never safe. Agnes was tortured. She was chained to a wall and forced to wear a witch’s bridle. The witch’s bridle was particularly heinous. It was a metal mask with four prongs forced into the mouth, two on the tongue and two on the cheek. Anytime she spoke, it was pure agony. The slightest movement would gouge her tongue, slice it open. They threw a rope around her neck and left her. Unable to sleep or eat for days, she finally broke down and confessed to their list of crimes. They then tied her to a stake and burned her for witchcraft.”

  “The problem was Agnes was no witch. Most of the women and men accused were not actual witches. There may have been some who practiced magick, who spellcast. But none were born a witch. None had the blood of Banba. But there was one in the city, Anna Kavanagh. Anna was a Banba witch, and your ancestor. She loved Agnes. Agnes had been her neighbor, and had delivered several of Anna’s children. When she heard Agnes had been tortured, she fell into a catatonic state for several weeks. She ran fever, and many whispered that the witches were taking revenge for the witch trials on Anna.”