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

by Lee, Tawnya

  “What happened to it?”

  “The Brits. The Brits happened to it,” Seara spat out. “Remember the Peelers? Well that was just a part of a systemic tearing down of Celtic culture. It took centuries, and they never quite won. We Irish may be the underdogs, but ya gotta love us. They tried to steal our language, our songs, and they did a good deal of damage. But we got ours in too. ‘All their wars are merry and their songs are sad.’ And songs and poetry and art, it’s how we kept our spirits. And laughing, somehow laughing despite it all. I have to say though, all this time and all in my lifetime as long as that’s been, it did me good to see the Queen lay a wreath at the Garden of Remembrance in memory of the dead Republicans who fought for freedom. It was a start. That it was.”

  “I have a lot to learn,” Moira said.

  “That you do, a stór,” Breasal responded.

  As they continued to drink, Moira began to play with her ability to focus on sensory input. She picked one man, dressed in a plaid button-up shirt, tan slacks, and loafers. On the surface, he seemed plain. Unobtrusive. She started with smell. He held a half-empty glass sitting on the bar counter, but she smelled no alcohol on his breath. Something about this seemed off to Moira. Focusing more intently on smell, she began to pick up other scents on the man. She smelled the salt in his saliva. She smelled the flesh of his tonsils. Breathing in deeply, she smelled his lunch of fish and chips. She could smell the barley vinegar he doused the chips with and the beer he’d had earlier to wash it down.

  Focusing on sound, she could hear his heartbeat. She realized his heart was beating unusually fast. She could smell adrenaline and believed she could even hear it as it flooded his body. She noted he kept looking left and right, grabbing his glass, squeezing it, then letting it go and wiping his hands. She saw him repeat the movement three times in the course of a minute. She decided to listen to his thoughts. She focused on the man, closed her eyes, and concentrated.

  She’s about to leave. Any minute now. Come on, bitch. Leave already.

  Moira snapped her eyes open and glared at the man. She followed his gaze to a woman down the bar two seats away from him. The woman was chatting with people at the bar. Sipping her drink. Laughing. Moira decided to keep listening and watching.

  Bet she thinks she’s too good for me, the cunt. I’ll show her. I’ll fucking jump her bones and beat her as she begs and cries. His heartbeat quickened.

  “That one. In plaid. He wants to rape the woman in blue, two seats from him. I’m killing the little shit tonight.”

  Breasal nodded. “Very well. Be careful. Don’t let yourself be seen with him. Watch for CC cameras. They’re everywhere.”

  “We’ll meet you back at the house? Don’t stay out too late,” Seara said.

  “Got it. Don’t wait up for me.”

  Breasal and Seara left the bar. Moira waved goodbye and went back to watching the man. The woman in blue slung an occasional glance at the man in plaid. She smiled at him nervously, averted her eyes, and laughed with her friends. She finished her drink, paid her tab, and said her goodbyes.

  Moira caught the man’s thoughts. Right on schedule. I can’t fucking wait to see the life drain out of this one. Moira realized he’d premeditated her death, planned it carefully for tonight. This wouldn’t be a random attack. Peering through his memories, she saw glimpses of the woman’s home. Of the man stalking her, tracking her movements. She saw him rummaging through the woman’s trash. Janice Walker. He knew her name! A protective burn roiled through her chest.

  Take a deep breath, Moira. You’ll be blowing the place up if you’re not careful. Moira heard Seara’s voice in her mind. It dawned on her that her companions had merely pretended to leave her alone, but were close at hand, watching. She took a deep breath and thought, I got it. I’m under control. But no way is this bastard getting away with this.

  When Janice left, the man paid his tab and left too. Moira followed. Once outside, she slipped to a side alley and continued to track him at a distance using her sense of smell.

  Again, Seara whispered in her mind. Moira, remember. You’re a Banba witch. Shape-shift. It’s worth a try. Breathe and think of the first animal that comes to mind. Sense the animal. Breathe and become the animal. It’s in you.

  Moira thought of the ravens in Breasal’s story. Following the girl, protecting the girl. Attacking the man. Raven. Raven. Be a raven, Moira thought to herself. She took a deep breath and imagined wings gliding through the air. Feathers instead of clothes. Black eyes seeing all. The black eyes...

  Moira felt a crack. An intense pressure forced her to double over. Staring at her feet, she watched her toes turn into claws. She cried out in shock. Caaaaw! Thousands of feathers pushed through the surface of her skin. Even her clothes turned to feathers. Caaaaw! Fucking A! I did it! Holy shit I did it! she thought. Flapping her wings, she flew above the buildings, through the alleys. Caaaw!

  Moira flew above the man, circling him, never far away. As a raven, she no longer had to depend on smell alone to track him. She could easily soar over his head unnoticed. Just a bird in the background. She watched the man hop into a cab. She followed along, 20 feet in the air. The cab twisted and turned through the city, finally coming to a stop. The man paid the cabbie, jumped out, and walked to the front door of a brick home. Moira perched on the roof of the home adjacent to the man. He stood outside until the cab left, then doubled back to the rear of the home. Moira followed him, resting on a tree limb to get a better view. He stood against the wall of the house and leaned sideways, peering into the window. She could see Janice standing near the foot of the bed, peeling off her clothes. Indignation and righteous anger rose inside her as she watched it unfold. Janice walked past the window one last time, wrapped in a bathrobe. The bedroom light switched off. Minutes later, the man broke into the home. Moira flew to the window-sill, shifted back into her witch body, and teleported herself into the woman’s home. Holy Shit! How did I do that? Never mind. Worry about it later.

  The house was still and dark, the light hum of a fan the only noise visible to the human ear. But Moira could hear the woman’s heart beating. She smelled the stench of the man’s excitement. She smelled fear. Janice screamed. Moira raced to the bedroom. The man was straddling Janice, his right arm raised, ready to strike. Janice saw Moira and screamed, “Help me!” He turned and cried out in surprise to see Moira at the foot of the bed. The bedroom lights popped, flickering on and off. What Moira didn’t know, until she’d read his thoughts, was her eyes had turned blood red.

  “What the hell?” he yelled.

  “Help me, please!” Janice screamed again.

  Moira, with one hand, grabbed the man by the throat and threw him against the woman’s closet door. He slumped to the floor groaning. Moira turned to the woman. “Go!”

  The woman, grabbing her robe, fled to the street, sobbing.

  Moira turned back to the man and seized him, forcing him to his feet.

  “You are dying tonight because you’re a worthless sack of shit man who takes pleasure in hurting women. I want you to know this as I drain the fucking life from your body.”

  The man whimpered and began to beg. “Please, no. I’m sorry. I won’t hurt anyone again. I promise!”

  Moira back-handed him, pulled him toward her, bit into his neck, and sucked the blood from his veins. She felt his blood surge through her. Excited and hungry, she sucked harder. Blood dripped down her chin. She pulled away and looked at him as his life was ebbing. She slammed her fist into his chest, ripped out his heart, dropped him, and stared at the pumping organ. Tilting her head, she squeezed the heart over her face, enjoying every last drop. She threw the empty heart onto the ground and stood over his body, breathless, exhilarated.

  Looking around the room, she realized she’d made a mess. Blood splattered the walls and carpet. Moira focused on her mess and willed the blood away. Her eyes glowed with triumph when she realized the stains disappeared. She had commanded the physical world!

&
nbsp; She grabbed the man’s body and heart and flew through the window. She soared across the city and dumped his body in Loch Ness. Let Nessie have the rest of him, she thought.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  To Plan a Coup

  The man who called himself Jack lived in an old Victorian home in Nairn, Scotland. The two-story brick home rose up behind a stone walled fence. Jack stood in the greenhouse at the back of the home, looking through the windows to the garden outside. To say it was a greenhouse was a bit of a misnomer. The former human occupants used it as a greenhouse. Once Jack took possession, it became a war room of sorts, a place for the rebellion to meet and plot. He bricked up the side windows and hung thick purple curtains with gold fringe along the back wall to block out sunlight. The curtains were rigged to pull open like old-time theater curtains. When they were pulled shut, they revealed a large black dragon stitched into the center, halved by each panel. At night, Jack liked to open the blinds and enjoy the view. The garden outside was meticulous. Highly manicured topiaries were shaped into perfection, some twisted spirals, other bushes trimmed with a series of globes growing larger and larger till they met the ground. Traditional garden gnomes were placed in strategic spots throughout the yard. A cobblestone path, lined with white flowers, curved from the door of the greenhouse to the back alley.

  Hanging on the sides of the brick walls inside were instruments of torture and weapons from around the world. Japanese katanas, Scottish broadswords, American revolvers from their Civil War, all displayed in wooden shadow boxes throughout the room. His favorite implement, a witch’s bridle, was lit from behind with led lights programmed to light up as dusk began to fall.

  Tonight, the curtains were pulled back to reveal the garden in all its glory. Jack ran his hands over the edge of one curtain and stared at a gnome dressed in highly polished red clothing. Even in the moonlight, the gnome gleamed.

  “The English used to hire living hermits to stand watch in their gardens. They weren’t allowed to bathe, to speak, to groom. Rain, wind, or snow, the hermits were forced to live outdoors. Slept in beds made of hay,” Jack said. He turned to the room, and looked at the men sitting inside.

  “Sure we know, Jack. I do believe some of us were there.”

  The man who answered had black hair, buzz cut to military regulations. His blue eyes blazed in an otherwise haughty and bored-looking face.

  “I forget sometimes, William. The years creep on and mesh together,” Jack paused. “How I loved terrorizing them. Drain paupers’ blood before their very eyes. Sometimes I’d drop the cold corpses near their haystacks. Leave them there. I spent months, years sometimes, taunting them. And then I’d finally kill the poor bastards. It’s a shame the hermit has gone out of style. Now we have to settle with stone gnomes.”

  William sat, legs crossed, in a black leather arm chair, examining his fingertips. He raised an eyebrow.

  “Get on with it, Jack. Why did you call us here?”

  Jack smiled. He looked at the two men sitting on a black leather sofa across from William. The men were leaning forward, soaking up Jack’s every word. The first man, Erin, had red hair. He was lanky, thin, and forever tripping over gangly limbs. Erin turned when he was nineteen, no longer a boy but not quite a full-grown man, forever frozen in the height of puberty. Justan was his opposite: dark, swarthy, thick limbed, barrel-chested. Half Romani, all pirate. A third man, James, leaned against the wall under the witch’s bridle, arms and legs crossed. The lighting from the bridle cast shadows across his face, giving him an otherworldly James Dean impression. He had greasy black hair and a goatee so scraggly and sparse it looked afraid to grow.

  “Gentlemen, I called you here to tell you our time is coming. Soon we’ll have our shot to topple the Tribunal, and once and for all, Brehon law. There is a witch, now also a blood-drinker, who was created against the law of motherhood. Word on the streets is she’s powerful, dangerous, and a fierce, protective mother of twin boys, two years old. The Tribunal is set to vote later this week on her fate. I’ve been informed the vote will be against her.”

  William grinned. “And you want the rebellion there when it happens?”

  “Yes. Imagine having such a powerful blood-fae witch on our side. Not only can we fuck over the Tribunal, but we can use her to further our cause. Subjugate humanity and rule like the kings we are. No more slinking away in the night like beggars.”

  Erin leaned forward, hands together in a prayer-like gesture. “And what if we fail?”

  Justan glowered. “Fail. What do you mean fail?”

  Erin took a deep breath. “Well, and I know it’s unlikely, but what if we can’t kill Richard? What will happen if this new blood-drinker doesn’t get violent or doesn’t accept our help? Who’s to say she is what you’ve heard she is?”

  Jack raised his hands in mock surrender. “It’s okay. A reasonable question. So what if we fail? What if we can’t kill Richard or Paul? Then we find another way. But, no risk, no reward. Besides, any action we take right now will only further our cause. Create instability in the ranks. And if Moira doesn’t come to our way of thinking right away, we’ll leave the offer on the table. She’ll know we’re on her side. After all, we aren’t the ones asking her to kill her babes. Who will she choose? Us or the ones telling her to kill her flesh and blood?”

  The group murmured consent.

  “What do you need us to do?” asked William.

  “I want Erin, James, and Justan to head for Ireland tonight. Spread the word to each house of rebellion. Send the message to wait for our call. Medb will contact me when the vote has been cast, and let me know the time and place they will confront Moira and enforce judgment. Let everyone know we will send word about when and where to gather. William, I’d like you to stay with me. We need to strategize our attack. Medb is with us. She’s not to be harmed. The rest can go fuck themselves.”

  “What’s your plan, Jack?” asked William.

  “It’s simple. We have three hundred fuilteacha on our side in Scotland, right?”

  “At least that, yes.”

  “We gather, hidden, until we see the Tribunal approach the witch. Now, we don’t know if she will be requested to meet them at Tara or if she will be approached here in Inverness.”

  “She’s in Inverness?”

  “Near enough. My sources tell me Breasal, the ancient one, is hiding her in North Kessock.”

  “What’s his interest in her?”

  “He turned her. This lends a certain fondness for her.”

  “Do you suppose he could be gathering his own tuath35 to offer protection?” Justan asked.

  Jack turned toward the garden. His eyes caught a cat slinking through the grass. Moonlight spilled across its path. The cat stopped and raised its back haunches, his eyes glints of yellow in the dark. With one violent movement, the cat sprang onto its victim in the night.

  “Perhaps. But, even if he does, we still may be able to overtake the Tribunal. And if we leverage things right with our pledge of support, we still may be able to gain her trust. Whether she fights with us now or later, I believe we can convince this witch to wield her powers over man.”

  “How do you propose we kill Richard and Paul?” William asked.

  “I’ve considered brute force. Iron daggers. Beheading. And this may still work. Also, I thought we could use our firewalker.”

  “Aedus?”

  “Yes. In the confusion, and properly hidden, no one will know who caused the fire.”

  “Both Richard and Paul by fire?” asked William.

  “No. They need to die separate deaths. Richard by fire. Paul by sword. Unless you have other ideas, William.”

  “If we kill by iron, we may be able to leak that Paul died at the hands of humans. Those there won’t believe it, but you only have to whisper it enough for the idea to catch on. In the fray, one of us can inject Paul with liquid iron, clotting his blood,” William pulled a small capped needle out of his jacket pocket. The liquid inside gleamed a d
ark silver. “He will suffocate from the inside out in a matter of minutes.”

  “I like it,” said Jack. “Liquid iron. Who do you have in mind to inject him?”

  “Why our very own Medb. She will be in close proximity and appear to be shielding Paul. She can hide the needle in her sleeve, and inject him as Richard is burning.”

  “And you’re sure it will work?” asked Jack.

  “I’m sure. We die by iron because it is poison to us. To inject iron directly into our blood would be death in minutes. We are only safe from iron in human blood because of the balance to nitric oxide. To have pure iron injected would kill us as surely as if we had been beheaded with an iron sword.”

  “And have you tried this before?” Jack asked.

  “Yes. I have. How do you think I keep my tuath in line? Those who would defect, spy, or disobey orders? I have them brought to me. And in front of everyone, I inject them with iron. I’ve done this three times. They die in less than five minutes. It’s brutal and agonizing. It’s as if the blood in their veins turns to concrete.”

  As he spoke, he stood and walked toward James. He clapped his arm around James’ shoulder, and without warning used his other arm to stab James in his neck with the needle.

  “What the fuck, man!” Erin yelled. Erin jumped up and ran to James. “How could you fucking do this?”

  James dropped to the ground, gasping and kicking his legs. He grabbed at his neck; his face turned blue. Within minutes, he stopped struggling and lay still on the floor.

  Eric grabbed William by the jacket, “You fucking cunt, I oughta...”

  William grabbed Eric and tossed him across the room. He hit his head on the wall and stumbled forward.

  “Never lay a hand on me again, or it will be you seizing on the floor, begging to breathe,” said William. His eyes squinted and his lips torn in a snarl.

  “Very well,” said Jack. “It’s a plan. Boys, boys, you can discuss your differences later in your sharing circle. We have a lot to do in the meantime. Let’s mobilize our Scottish brethren, and talk to Medb and Aedus.”