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

by Lee, Tawnya

  “I don’t care about some war between vampires. I don’t care about witches. I don’t care about some sort of destiny to fulfill. I have no desire to be anyone’s savior, especially yours Breasal. All I care about is my children. To protect them, and make sure they are happy. Everyone else can go fuck themselves.”

  Moira turned, and without saying anything else, left the living room.

  Breasal and Seara looked at each other.

  “Well, I suppose that went as well as it could,” said Breasal.

  “Yes. And I can’t blame her. Not really. You’ve made a fecking mess of it all. You know, I’ve never been able to have children myself. There was a period of time early on when I mourned that. When I mourned not being able to hold a child that had formed in my womb. To hear the words mother and feel the pure love of a child. I can only guess that as intense and painful as it was to grieve the loss of never having children, it must be worse to have them and love them and continually fear losing them. And more still, to not be a regular mother to them. I don’t know how she’ll do it really. Her children will never have a normal life, should they survive.”

  “I know, I know. And when Moira found me in her home, didn’t all those thoughts go through my mind? Truly. Didn’t I stand over her children and whispered my apologies? But didn’t I have to do it? Didn’t I know if she saw me with them it would only increase the ferocity and passion she’d carry for all eternity? And didn’t it have to be done? Seara, do you know of anyone who could help us with her children?”

  Seara let her eyes roam over the living room. She paid close attention to the family photos displayed on the television set, and hanging on the walls. “I do. And I’ve sent a message to them. But the more we involve, the sooner the Tribunal will find out about her.”

  “I know. And we can’t stay here. We need somewhere remote to hide, yet somewhere with enough people nearby to hunt and stay hidden. We’ll have to go to Tyrie. Or at least nearby while we teach her to hunt.”

  “And from there?”

  “I don’t know.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  The Smell of Stale Beer and Burnt Flesh

  Moira wandered the cabin, waiting for daylight to wake her children. She sensed she’d be leaving the cabin soon, the likelihood of returning slim. As she walked from room to room, ghosts of days past haunted her. If she had any living relatives, she was unaware of their existence. As far as Moira knew, her twins and she were the last of her family. That knowledge, coupled with knowing she wasn’t human anymore, filled Moira with loneliness and dread to leave the cabin. This surprised her. There was a time when Moira wouldn’t step foot on the property. The pain of those days, while still remembered, seemed almost foreign to Moira now.

  There was one room upstairs she hadn’t ventured into since arriving. The TV and game room. As Moira thought of the room, white heat burned through her veins. She grasped the wooden banister, and moped up the steps. Echoes of celebrations and family drama floated through Moira’s mind. One particular day had always gripped Moira. It enslaved her, and had set her down a path, eventually leading to this moment.

  It was Independence Day weekend. Each year, Moira’s family gathered at the family cabin. Aunts, uncles, cousins, grandparents, friends and anyone else they could drag in would show up with various bowls of noodles, dips, cobblers and beans; shoot off fireworks and play dominoes, poker, or hearts--whatever struck their fancy. The pièce ‘d résistance was the huge pig Moira’s uncle would roast, starting the ritual 24 hours before anyone even showed. When it was over, most would pack up and drive home, but some, including Moira and her mother, stayed the night and spent the next day picking off leftovers before heading over to the lake for tube-rafting. For years, it had been a tradition that defined the very essence of summertime for Moira. Like opening a new pack of pencils the first day of school, ice cream after getting shots at the doctor’s, or opening just one gift on Christmas eve, the fourth of July at grandma’s was an important marker in the procession of time, defining moments of joy and the innocence of childhood. In an unstable world, it provided the stability Moira so desperately craved. It continued to be so until even that which was stable collapsed under her.

  Because Moira had not yet turned 15, her mother forced to leave the party at 10 and sleep upstairs on the couch in the TV room. Jealousy kept her awake, the laughter from below ricocheting at odd intervals, reminding her of the fun she was not yet allowed to have. It was stuffy and Moira had settled on a thin, slightly worn tank top to sleep in. Because of the humidity, her pajama bottoms had ended up cast off in a wad on the floor beside the couch. It was muggy and she wasn't worried about anyone stumbling in on her. Who would leave the fun downstairs?

  Just as the sounds below began mixing with her dreams, Moira was jolted awake by the door swinging open. The sound sucked her awareness back into the room. Lifting her head off the pillow, she squinted into the darkness trying to understand what she heard, all the while her heart skipping tiny beats thumping with irrational fear.

  “Who is it?”

  “Oh, Moira--dude, I was just looking for the bathroom.”

  Jake. Her cousin’s 17 year old friend. Moira wasn't sure if she was just sleepy, but his words seemed a bit heavy and slurred.

  She also assumed he'd just leave, but instead he came closer to the couch and landed on the arm rest. A strong, fermented smell assaulted her. Jake was not sober. Icy pricks of fear stabbed Moira and suddenly she wished she had worn her pj bottoms after all. She sat up, trying to find some position where she would feel protected, but found none.

  "Damn, Moira. You look all hot in your tank and panties. Ever kissed a guy before?"

  As he leaned towards her, Moira tried to push him off and scream, but only minutes earlier someone had turned on the stereo. Even at her loudest, no one would have heard her through the blast of 'Sweet Home Alabama' thumping from below. He grabbed her wrists and held them down and laughed. Moira spit in his face and tried to angle herself around to knee him in the crotch.

  Jake slapped her.

  "Don't bother to try stopping me. I know you want it or you wouldn't have been in here looking all slutty. And if you breathe a word of this, I'll deny it. No one would believe you anyway."

  Moira froze. She couldn't process what was happening, what he was doing, why she couldn't feel anything. It felt as though she was drifting just above and slightly to the right, looking down at herself, at this horrible nightmare.

  Jake slipped his fingers down the side of her panties and pulled them past her knees. Moira, numb, felt helpless. No one could hear her. She struggled and began to cry. He climbed on her, holding her down. Her tears rolled down her cheeks.

  When Jake finished, he jumped up and zipped his pants, hissing, "If you tell a soul, I'll kill you." Jake left the room. Moira curled in a ball, stunned.

  Sleep eluded her. She laid in the darkness unsure if she would run into him if she left the room. Suddenly, she heard his voice coming from outside below the window.

  “Wait, man! I’ve got some fireworks here. Let’s shoot these off,” Moira heard him say.

  She ran to the window and looked down. Jake was standing there next to her cousin Brad. Fear and anger gripped Moira. As she watched Jake, she was consumed with wanting to see him die. She felt the anger build up and out like bile in her mouth. Jake was holding out a brown paper bag, standing next to Brad. Without warning, the bag exploded. Rockets burst, flying straight into Jake’s head, setting his hair on fire. Brad screamed as a second rocket flew into his own stomach. The screams of the two boys caused the family to pour onto the lawn.

  “Dear God!” her grandmother shouted.

  “Janice, get the water hose and put the fire out!” her uncle yelled as he flew through the door onto the yard.

  Janice, Moira’s aunt, had been standing beside the spigot. Janice turned on the water and Moira’s uncle grabbed the hose, dousing the boys with water. Moira could smell burnt flesh. Janice ran to h
er son, and dropped to the ground. She began to keen, holding him and rocking back and forth. “My baby! My baby! NO!”

  Moira didn’t have to guess. She knew Brad and Jake were both dead. She looked at the crumpled body of her attacker and felt shame. She ran from the room to the bathroom. She locked the door and stepped inside the shower.

  She scrubbed and scrubbed her flesh, unable to feel clean. Unable to get rid of the smell of beer and burnt flesh tormenting her. She sat on the bottom of the shower, soap suds in her hair, hugged her knees, and cried. She stayed there until her hands were pruned. She looked at her fingertips and closed her eyes. Opened or closed, all she could see were the burnt and broken bodies of the two boys, and Jake’s face as he violated her.

  Moira stayed in the shower until the hot water ran out. And then she stayed more. Eventually, she heard her mother banging on the bathroom door, calling her name.

  Moira snapped to the present. She walked to the window and looked to the ground below. No crumpled bodies lay mangled on the grass outside, but Moira swore she could hear the voices of the two boys accusing her. Moira thought of other family members. Her mother, grandmother, and uncle. No one believed her when she tried to talk about her rape. They accused her of attention-getting. Her aunt accused her of seducing Jake and then feeling guilty. Over the years, their disbelief and judgment added to the bitterness in Moira’s soul. She thought of how everyone in her family had died within the last 18 years. Car accidents, illness, freak storms. Acts of God. All explanations given at the time of death. But Moira knew better now. They weren’t acts of God. They were acts of Moira. She had done this. She had killed her family whether she did it consciously or not. She had wanted them dead, and the universe fulfilled her wish.

  Guilt crushed her chest. She would’ve never actually lifted a finger to kill any of them, but she knew she was guilty just the same. This truth trickled through her veins and rested in the deepest part of herself. She thought of her two boys. How could she be a good mother? She was a murderer. And a witch. And now a vampire. A fuilteach, whatever the hell that was. What good could she do for them?

  I can’t let anyone hurt my children. I have to be better. I have to do something. Moira’s thoughts echoed through her. Moira loved her boys. Vampire or not, her motherly instincts were alive and well. She would tear her flesh from her own bones, stand in the sunlight so she could burst into flames, impale herself on Vlad’s stake if it meant a better world for her children. Whatever I have to do, for my children’s sake, I’ll do it, Moira thought to herself. Glancing back at the room one last time, she hit the light switch and shut the door.

  Moira walked down the steps and entered the living room. Seara and Breasal stood looking out the window toward the very spot her cousin had died. Moira was suspicious. Regardless, she’d made up her mind.

  The pair turned and looked at her.

  “I’ll do what needs to be done. But only for my children. I couldn’t care less about your impending civil war. You pissed me off, Breasal, but I don’t have much choice right now. My only priority is my boys. The Tribunal can go to hell.”

  A raging energy flooded Moira, as if molten steel was being poured from the top of her crown through her spine to her feet. Every inch of her surged with fury.

  As Moira spoke these words, a deafening sound filled the air. On the lawn, a flock of crows had gathered. In the trees, on the telephone lines, they numbered in the hundreds. Moira stood, grounded to the spot. The lights of the cabin flickered three times, then shut off. Seara gripped Breasal’s arm as they watched electricity outline Moira’s aura, a greenish, silver hue floating off her. The lights turned back on and in the same moment, the electrical outline disappeared. Moira’s red hair now had one solid strip of white running from the left side of her part all the way to the tips of her hair. Her eyes blazed with fury, and the caws of the crows were punctuated by the crying of her boys in the nursery.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The Seer of Drogheda

  An old woman with a gnarled, leathery face sat cross-legged in front of a fire in a damp, dark cave. Tufts of white hair sprouted out from her liver-spotted scalp. She was emaciated, mere skin on bones, her knuckles gargoyle-esque and pearlescent, her fingernails thick and yellowed. She dressed in rags, a once emerald shawl, now tattered, covered in grime, and thread-worn, wrapped around her shoulders. She peered into the fire with silvery-green eyes, their ferocity in stark contrast to her diminutive frame.

  Logs and sticks of various sizes burned and crackled, plumes of smoke curled and crawled through the air, twisting around the old woman and pooling at the top of the cave. Her shadow bounced against the cave walls. Celtic swirls were chiseled into the ceiling and wall behind her. Chicken feathers and bones, cleaned and yellow, lay to her right. A cauldron smoldered to her left, an acrid incense wafted up, joining the snake-like plumes of smoke from the fire. In front of her sat a bronze chalice, filled with wine, and a small crescent-mooned-shaped cake.

  The fire continued its hissing, as she gazed into its depths. She started the chant under her breath, “Show me goddess / what is done / by your power / Three, two, one,” repeating it nine times, each time faster and louder until she was bellowing.

  “Ayeeiiii!”

  Her shriek filled the air. She thrust her hands up, and continued to shout in an insular Celtic tongue. Opening her eyes, her pupils had disappeared, replaced with a milky, rheumy film.

  “She is coming! She is coming! Beware the cailleach fuilteach!26 She comes! Take her children if you dare. Your life might end, so beware!”

  The woman collapsed sideways, knocking over the wine goblet. The red liquid splashed onto the cake, soaking it a deep, blood red.

  A tall man with pale blonde hair, ice-blue eyes, and nearly translucent pale skin stepped out of the shadows and knelt in front of the old woman. He gazed down at her, a chill sweeping his body. He had long arms and legs, slender but thick in the wrists and ankles. He rose to his feet and stooped over in the small cave. Dust and debris showered down as his head bumped the ceiling. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out three gold coins, walked around to the woman, and placed them beside the wine-swollen cake.

  “Agnes, I must go.”

  The blonde man tapped the woman’s shoulder. She roused, and sat up slowly, stiff with age, her eyes no longer filmy white, but silver-green once more.

  “Thank you. And tell no one I was here. I beg of you,” the man said.

  Agnes looked the man in the eye before glancing at the gold coins near her feet. She felt the tension of his body, his fear coiled in his solar plexus.

  “I’ll tell no one. But you--you have a greater burden to bear. You must tell everyone, Paul.”

  “I doubt they’ll listen. I must go now.”

  “I pray they listen to you then. Death and destruction is sure if they don’t.”

  Paul nodded to Agnes, walked to the cave entrance, and turned to face her.

  If I can, I’ll warn the others before it’s too late. Let’s hope they listen, he thought to himself.

  Agnes held his stare. “Paul, be well.”

  His eyes softened and he smiled briefly. “Agnes, be well.”

  He turned back around and walked out of the cave. The stars glittered over the Boyne River; a low fog settled on the banks. Drogheda in County Louth was just east of the cave entrance, and Paul could hear the low hum of the town as it settled in for the night.

  Minutes later, Paul landed on a grassy slope near Dowth, one of three mounds of Brú na Bóinne. He glanced left and right before heading to the entrance of the mound. The mound itself stood 15 meters high and stretched 85 meters across. Though less known than the famous Newgrange, it was nonetheless an impressive monument. Kerbstones, decorated with circles, partially surrounded the mound, though many were buried or partially so. Paul walked to the Dowth north entrance. Bars covered the entrance, preventing public access to the passageway. He tapped quickly three times, followed by two taps, on the b
ars of the entrance. A voice beyond the gate whispered, “Name and position.”

  “Paul, File of the Tribunal.”

  A mist rose from the ground, and the bars began to shimmer, then fade. Once they disappeared, Paul walked into the passageway and nodded his greeting to the gatekeeper, Ian. Once he was inside, the bars reappeared.

  The gatekeeper was almost as tall as Paul, but much more stocky and broad. His skin was also pale, but not quite as translucent as Paul’s. He wore a patch over one eye and had a broadsword strapped to his back. His visible eye had no iris and was a solid filmy blue color. It reminded Paul of Agnes as she was prophesying over the fire, but the gatekeeper’s eye condition was constant. Most fuilteach enjoy full recovery of any illness or physical defect after they turn. This was not so for the gatekeeper. However, what the gatekeeper lacked in physical sight, he made up for in telepathic and telekinetic abilities. He was a supernatural lie detector and could identify a fellow blood-drinker by smell and sound alone. Paul did not know this blood fae’s story, but he had witnessed his abilities previously.

  Last year, a blood-drinker named Raul, of the rebellion, attempted to trick his way into Dowth, the Tribunal headquarters. He wore sheepskin and covered himself in the urine of a ewe to throw off his scent. He lowered his voice, and attempted to speak in a deep, baritone sound, posing himself as the Taoiseach of the Tribunal, Richard Herst. Herst had a deep, baritone voice and had recently spent time with sheepherders in Ireland. The gatekeeper was not fooled. Ian lifted his index finger and flicked it one time. Within seconds, an iron arrow shot through the darkness into Raul’s heart. He fell to the ground in pain. Ian opened the gate and, with only a word, rained fire down onto the rebel’s head. Although Paul had been on the grounds and not actually seen the event, Raul had broadcast a telepathic message informing everyone of the incident to all inside.