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

by Lee, Tawnya

  Moira closed her eyes and started the awareness meditation again. When she could feel her essence, she imagined the river of energy covering her like a blanket.

  She opened her eyes. “Did it work?”

  “Well let’s try again. I wasn’t trying to break your barrier. I won’t attempt to feel out your thoughts without your permission.”

  “Okay.” Moira closed her eyes again and tried once more. She wondered if she was able to shield or not.

  “Right now you are imagining the blanket and wondering if this works,” Seara said.

  “That’s a pretty obvious guess!”

  Seara laughed. “Yes it is. But don’t I happen to be right?”

  The two practiced for another forty-five minutes. By the end, Moira was successfully blocking Seara’s intrusion into her mind.

  “I’m tired. I need to stop. I’m feeling weak.”

  “Yes, Breasal should be back soon with fresh blood. Let’s stop for now and wait until you’ve had something to eat.”

  “Thank you, Seara.”

  “You’re welcome. You’ll want to continue practicing this. From this point, you can practice shielding while intruding. Or alternately, you can fool someone into believing they’ve read your thoughts. Only the most aware blood-drinker will realize what you are doing. Essentially, you shield while focusing on the opposite of what you hope them to know. This is very challenging. I’d recommend you try it only with people you trust, and only start with information you don’t mind people knowing.”

  Breasal materialized in the living room, carrying an unconscious man in his arms.

  “Is he dead?” Moira asked.

  “No, no, no. Just knocked out a bit. This is why we can’t just fly using our natural powers while carrying your children. Most humans can’t handle it. They lose consciousness from the shock of it. I wouldn’t want to try it on the boys unless absolutely necessary.”

  Moira smelled the man’s blood and heard his pulse drumming in her ears. She could feel her essence begin to tremble and heighten inside her body. Moira wondered what it would be like to taste her first human. She’d worried, or believed rather, that her mortal sensibilities would override any need or desire she would have for the dark crimson fluid. But this wasn’t the case. Instead, her mouth watered. She could barely wait for Breasal to lay him down on the couch. It took every bit of will she had not to push the two blood-drinkers out of her way.

  Breasal laid him on the sofa and bowed. “My dear, after you.”

  Moira held the man in her lap, lifting his head with her hands.

  “Moira, you will sense his arteries. If you try, you can even hear his blood pump through his body. The carotid artery may be the fastest way to drain him. But seeing as how this is your first time, I recommend you start with the wrist.”

  Moira lowered his head onto her lap and picked up his left arm. She brought the wrist closer to her and paused. She heard the thomb-thomb of the blood pulsing, and could smell the viscous liquid just below the surface.

  She bit into his skin and began to suck the warm blood. As she drank, she became light-headed. It felt as if she were floating, the warmth spread throughout her body. She felt her strength surge.

  Breasal tapped Moira on the shoulder. “It’s best if you stop there. You can always have another man, but I don’t want you to overdo it on your first time. You might just kill him if you aren’t careful.”

  Moira stopped and laid back onto the sofa. She let the warm ooze of blood trickle down her chin. Moira felt so content while drinking her first mortal meal she didn’t care who the man was. As she watched Seara, and then Breasal dine, she began to wonder. Whose life did they just consume? Who was his family? Would anyone miss him?

  Breasal finished the man off, and looked at Moira. “This man had no family. He was a hobo. Do you feel less guilty than if I told you he had five children? Do you value his life by how many people loved him? Or is every life worth saving, worth considering?”

  Moira felt the white heat burn within her again. Before she realized it, she had him by the neck, lifting him up against the wall, nearly four feet in the air. Moira didn’t realize it but she was also hovering off the ground. “You did this to me. You did! And you fed me? You made me a murderer!”

  She let go of the older blood-drinker and stood next to him eye to eye, her face red.

  “I did not. And won’t you be needing to let go of your mortal sense of right and wrong? Our world doesn’t work that way. I didn’t make you a murderer, Moira. I changed you, gave you the essence you learned about today. You have always consumed other living beings. I simply changed the prey. You have to get over this. You have to or you will be tormented for all of eternity. Stop playing victim. Stop chastising yourself for being what you are.”

  Breasal and Moira stood facing each other, breathing hard, jaws tight, fists clenched. Seara sat on the couch, alert and calm.

  “He’s right, Moira. You may choose whom to kill, or how often. There are ways to limit your impact. But, it’s no more immoral for us to feed on a human than it is for them to eat a hamburger.”

  “You can sip on many humans throughout a night, if you are disciplined enough to stop, and if you have enough options. Or you may simply choose to select the weak, the immoral, and feast on them. But if you focus on the fact you are killing humans, you waste energy. We can’t drink the blood of other animals. Not long-term. Doing so can you make you ill. It won’t kill you, but it may as well.”

  “What happens when you feed on something besides a human?”

  “Well, if it’s just the once, nothing. Maybe a stomach ache or headache if you have too much. But over time? You experience memory loss, fatigue, confusion. It may even alter your powers. Make you violent or aggressive,” Breasal answered.

  “Does this mean I can’t eat normal food? Can I still drink? Or will that also make me sick?”

  “It’s not just our senses that are heightened. We can still taste drink and food, but too much and we get sick. And certain things you will find your body immediately rejects, like caffeine. The drug has a heightened effect on us immortals. But lucky for us, a jar of whiskey or pint of Guinness does us no harm. Is fearrde thu Guinness.”30 Breasal’s eyes sparkled as he laughed.

  Seara walked over to Moira, took her hand, and led her back to the sofa. Moira felt the warmth, the comfort, the delicious feelings she first felt when Seara held her that first evening.

  “You’re right,” said Moira. “It’s pointless to fight what I am.” Her conscience eased slightly, but she glanced at Breasal and couldn’t help but feel bitter toward him.

  “What do we do with the body?” Moira asked.

  “That is an important question,” Breasal said.

  “We have to be good at covering up the evidence, for the safety of our kind,” Seara said.

  “Yes,” said Breasal. “And we must be careful about being seen. So sometimes we choose a victim then dump the body in an entirely different country.”

  “You may be a shape-shifter. Many witches are. If so, this gives you an advantage,” Seara said to Moira.

  “A shape-shifter?”

  “Yes. Basically it’s the ability to turn into an animal. Most witches find they can shift into a cat or a crow.”

  “How would I know if I can?”

  “Well, I’m not a witch,” said Breasal. “But I imagine the power is mental. You can probably think it in to happening.”

  “Yes, I imagine Breasal is right,” said Seara. “Or close to it. It’s worth trying out sometime anyhow. You might find it comes in handy to make a get-away.”

  Moira considered the possibility of turning into a bird or cat. It frightened, yet pleased, her that she might be able to shape-shift. She preferred the idea of waiting to attempt it, though. Too much change too soon. She wasn’t ready for that. With her luck, she figured she’d get stuck and be unable to turn back.

  Breasal lifted the dead man onto his shoulder. Moira watched and n
oticed it seemed as easy to him as throwing a jacket over his shoulder. He nodded at both ladies and said, “I’ll be back.”

  Moira walked into the nursery with the boys and stood over the crib they slept in. She was struck by their innocence. There was nothing and no one she loved as much as the two little boys lying in the crib. She would kill, steal, or destroy anything or anyone she had to in order to keep them safe. Yet she could hear their human hearts beating and smell the blood pulsing through their little bodies. The knowledge that her boys belonged to the race she now hunted hit her again. She could feel the anger flare through her body, a cold, white, deadly heat. She grabbed the side rail of the crib, and breathed out slowly, mentally counting to ten.

  She wondered if they would ever truly be safe. The idea of giving them up was painful, even the slightest thought was more than she could bear. But they’d be better off without me. She thought back to the Christmas after Jake raped her in the TV room.

  She sat in her closet, knees hugged to her chest. She picked up a knife; its metallic gleam mocked her, dared her. She gripped the handle tight and closed her eyes. Pictures of blood, her own, danced through her mind. She set the blade against her wrist and gritted her teeth.

  In the background, she heard the muffled chorus of ‘A Whole New World’ from the living room. Placing the blade down, she wept.

  Moira thought back to that closet, realizing she probably would never die and wondered if she should’ve taken the chance while she had it so many years ago.

  CHAPTER NINE

  The Rebellion in a Bar

  Medb trotted through a narrow alley-way. The sounds of humanity buzzed around her. Raucous shouts and the clinking of glasses pierced her consciousness as she passed pub after pub. An occasional smell of roasted meat and heavy grease wafted through the alleyways. She could hear the thrombing of the masses, smell pungent sweat mixed with tobacco, and sense the fears of the humans within. She side-stepped a cat darting across her path and ignored a dog in the alley, chewing an old bone from yesterday’s meal. She stopped at a stairwell leading down into a cellar, looked left and right, then walked down the steps and through an old, metal door.

  Inside the building, screeching guitars and vocals of a Swedish gothic rock band blared through loudspeakers placed throughout the room. A spotted, dingy mirror hung on one side of the wall, covered by the displays of vodka, whiskey, and rum bottles. One man with stringy, jet black hair stood behind the bar, towel slung over his shoulder. He filled shot glasses, and popped open beer bottles, and wiped the occasional spill from the counter.

  Medb, in a dark Crimson robe, stood at the edge of the bar and scanned the crowd. Nearly everyone in the room was dressed in black, with various piercings or tattoos. She heard the clack of pool balls coming from a room behind her. In the back corner, a lone man sat in a curved booth made for eight people. There was a drink in front of him, ice melted. It rested on a water-soaked napkin. He had one hand on the glass, as he stared straight at Medb. She walked toward him; though had anyone paid attention, they would’ve sworn she floated. Her lower body barely moved, nor did her robes sway.

  She stopped at the man’s table and said nothing. He motioned to her to sit beside him, yet looked as if he’d rather lick cockroach balls. Medb scanned him telepathically. He was either great at shielding or had nothing to hide. Perhaps both. She sat down, and looked in the direction of the room, checking for anyone who may not be mortal. Satisfied, she pulled her hood down and relaxed slightly into the booth.

  “The Tribunal is voting in five more days. The law of motherhood.”

  The man considered her words. “What does this have to do with us? Shouldn’t that be an open-and-shut case? Rather run of the mill to be dragging me down here.”

  “The woman in question is not an average blood-drinker. From our accounts, she is both Banba witch and fuilteach. She is dangerous. I have it in good confidence Breasal turned her.”

  “Hmph. Breasal. Damn bastard.”

  “Yes. This is significant because if she is indeed Banba witch, Breasal is a direct creation of Kennocha. This newling would be the fulfillment of prophecy. The destruction of this world, or the savior of our kind. If the prophecy is reliable.”

  “We both know it is, Medb.”

  “Don’t use my name.”

  “Anyone who knows you, if they are close enough to hear this conversation, already knows what you’re doing. And if they don’t, then they are a dumb cunt who needn’t worry us anyhow.”

  “Regardless. I want to be careful.”

  The man huffed an acquiescence. “Okay. So she’s the fulfillment of prophecy. How does this help the rebellion?”

  “Breasal turned her during a fit of anger and while she believed she was protecting her young. I’ve sensed it, also. This woman is dangerous. Paul does not believe the Tribunal should enforce the law of Motherhood in her instance. He believes the situation requires tact, and perhaps a little leeway to give her time to acclimate.”

  “So he’s not full eejit then.”

  Medb agreed. “He’s not. And frankly, he’s right. Forcing her could have disastrous consequences. If she really is what Breasal has claimed, then she is the most powerful Baobahn sidhe or witch alive today. And she doesn’t even know it. It’s possible she could wipe out an entire army of blood-drinkers if she so chose. A regular Grainne Mhaol.31 Richard, as always, believes in firm, blind justice. No accounting for circumstance. He wants to see the law enforced immediately. So, we put it to a vote.”

  “Aye. And which way will this vote go?”

  “I’m voting with Richard. When we vote, we will also decide when we will approach her and enforce the law. I am pushing for death of her children.”

  The man beside her perked up. He grinned, deliciously, devilishly.

  “And you will let the rebellion know when and where.”

  “Yes. I will let them know when and where.”

  “And when she refuses?” The man pulled his fist in the air, and released it, imitating the sound of a bomb blast.

  “Exactly. I believe this will be the final blow we need to set our own people in the Tribunal,” said Medb.

  “Where will I next meet you?” asked the man.

  “I’ll contact you. Let you know later,” Medb stood and sped through the room. At the door, she glanced left and right, then flew into the air.

  The man, feeling exhilarated, waved to a young woman with dingy blonde hair and dramatic wing-tipped eyeliner. She had a bull ring in her nose and leather and studs on her left wrist. She tipped back the rest of her whiskey and joined him.

  “Hello there,” she said. “What’s your name?”

  “You don’t need to be knowing my name, lass. That would spoil all the fun,” he said.

  “I don’t?” she giggled, then fidgeted with her skirt, glancing to her left and right.

  “No. You don’t. But you can call me Jack.”

  He rested one hand on hers. “Look in my eyes,” he said.

  As she gazed into his eyes, she was struck by how beautiful his eyes were and how comforted she felt near him. She wasn’t sure why she had been nervous just moments ago. Her lips parted, and she scooted closer to him.

  “Why don’t we go to the bathroom?” he asked.

  Of course. Why hadn’t I thought of it before? “Yes, the bathroom,” she murmured.

  He led her to the restroom and locked the door behind him. She turned her head, revealing her neck to him. He breathed in her scent, kissing her neck. She let out a moan and parted her legs for him. He unzipped his pants and thrust himself inside her. Just as he climaxed, he bit her neck. Her eyes widened, and she was about to scream but he placed his hand over her mouth, overpowering her. She tried to resist, but suddenly a delicious warmth washed over her body. She relaxed into his arms and he finished her off. He pushed her limp body off of him, and tossed her on the floor in front of the sink. Wiping his mouth, he zipped his pants and left the bathroom. He walked outside into t
he alley and shot into the air. He was miles away when someone walked in the restroom and screamed.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Sedric Brodie

  Dubhan and Liam stood in front of the gated entrance of Dowth. Dubhan gave three quick taps, followed by two taps, two times. Ian, the gatekeeper, spoke in hushed tones. “Who are youse, and what the feck would ya be wanting?”

  “Is mise Dubhan agus seo é Liam.32 We’re friends of Paul. Is he here?”

  Ian, suffering from permanent blindness, was master of all telepathic and telekinetic skills. He could not just read minds but also extract olfactory and visual memories stored in brains of those he read. With great care, he messaged Paul and asked him if he knew the pair. When Paul confirmed he did, Ian picked through Paul’s memories. Within seconds, he had identified the men based on the images in Paul’s mind.

  “Well, what are you waiting on? The Virgin Mary to come bless ya herself? Get inside. Paul’ll be waiting on ya,” said Ian. The gate dissolved and the two men walked in.

  “Dubhan. Liam. Cén scéal?”33 Paul appeared before them.

  “Grand, just grand, Paul,” Dubhan looked uneasily at Ian. “Can we go somewhere more private?”

  “Sure, sure. Follow me.”

  Paul led them through the passageway and entered his personal chambers.

  “Please, have a seat.”

  The two guests stood, searching for a place to sit. Nearly every surface was covered with books, stacks of CDs and movies. There were dirty clothes on the ground and the bed. Paul, looking at his own mess as if it just appeared, began to stack books, and move random items to the corner of his room. While he did, he kicked dirty clothes across the floor near a stone hamper.

  “What bomb blew up in your room? I thought they had a fancy for you here,” Liam commented.

  “Ah. Yes, well. If you don’t like it, you can feck off.”

  Liam and Dubhan looked at each other and laughed. Once Paul had cleared a section of a table and unloaded a few chairs, the men sat.