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

by Lee, Tawnya

  “We could text her, like we’re Jack. Get her to agree to meet and be around when he doesn’t show. Rescue her from being ditched.”

  “I like where you’re going with this. Do you have Jack’s phone?”

  “Yeah. Top drawer of his nightstand. I recovered it from his body when everyone was clearing out.”

  “Great. Get it for me. I’ll get arrange to meet her soon. And thanks. Good work, Justan. Good work.”

  Several days later, William and Jack sat at a table at Pine Street Pub & Eatery in Inverness, watching Nanny Piper sitting alone at a table in the center of the room. She sat, sipping tea and nibbling on chips she ordered. After sitting alone for 15 minutes, she checked her phone, texted, and sighed.

  A waiter approached her and offered a menu. She declined, and grimaced.

  “I’m supposed to meet someone. I’m sure he’s on his way.”

  The waiter walked back to the kitchen. Piper twisted her head around to look through the pub in case she’d missed Jack. Not seeing him, she turned back around and checked her phone a second time.

  “I’m about to move in. Just a few more minutes. I’ll wait until she’s just about to leave. Just when she’s given up on Jack.”

  “Good idea, Will.”

  “William. You may’ve done good, giving this information. But we aren’t friends. Don’t mistake that.”

  Justan tightened his fists in his lap but said nothing. He knew better than to make William mad. Visions of James twisting on the floor were a good incentive to keep his mouth shut.

  “Of course. William.”

  Just then, Piper stood to leave. She grabbed her purse and slipped it over her shoulder.

  “Stay right here.”

  William stood and walked toward Piper. Piper saw the man coming toward her, and instinctively clutched her purse tightly.

  “Hi, there. I can’t help but notice you sat alone. It looked like you were waiting on someone? Am I right?”

  She grimaced and moved her purse behind her away from William.

  “I’m just leaving. The table’s yours if you want it.”

  “Oh no, no. I’m sorry if I imposed. You’re just such a pretty lass. I couldn’t let you walk away looking sad. Let me pay for your meal, or join me in a drink?”

  “I already paid up.”

  “A drink, then? Come on, the evening’s so young. What do you say?”

  Piper furrowed her brow and looked toward the door. She looked back at William. He didn’t seem that bad. What could it hurt? It beat getting stood up.

  “Sure. Okay, it couldn’t hurt, I suppose.”

  “No, it couldn’t hurt.” William smiled at her. He pulled her seat out and gestured for her to sit.

  She hung her purse on the back of the chair and sat down at the same table where she’d waited nearly half an hour for Jack to show. William picked up her cup and sniffed.

  “Are you drinking tea? Oh that’s no good. How about a whisky, on me, of course.”

  Piper smiled.

  “Sorry about that. I was just on the defensive. I could do with a whisky. But just one. Don’t be getting ideas.”

  “Of course. Don’t worry about it. My name’s William.”

  “Piper.”

  William reached across the table and shook her hand. The waiter approached again and William ordered two whiskies. Within minutes they sat drinks in hand.

  “So what do you do, Piper?”

  “I’m a nanny for an American woman. Up in North Kessock. Beautiful home.”

  “Nice. My sister is a nanny in London. Loves it, she does.”

  “Oh, really? How nice.”

  William reached across the table and covered Piper’s hand with his own. He looked into Piper’s eyes.

  “Go ahead. Drink more. You want to.”

  Piper took another swallow. And another. Before long, she’d had two whiskies and was speaking freely.

  “You know, the strangest thing about the woman. The one who’s children I watch? She’s in a coma. And, I mean, you’d think they’d have her in the hospital. But they don’t. There’s all this equipment in her room. People coming and going all the time. Breasal says they’re nurses. But they are strange-looking nurses. They look more like guards or something. But why would she need guards? I hope for the kids’ sake she’s all right.”

  “How fascinating.” William’s eyes gleamed. He looked back at the table Justan occupied and grinned.

  “Yep. And they all keep strange hours.”

  “Piper, could I have your phone number? Would you like to go out sometime for more whisky?”

  “Sure. I’d love that.” Her words began to slur, and her voice grew louder with the drink inside her.

  “Great. Do you have a ride home?”

  “I’ll just call an Uber.”

  “Smart girl. Too many whiskies, I guess we had too much fun. I have to go now, but let’s stay in touch.”

  “What was your name again?”

  “William. I can’t tell you how happy I am that I met you. Whoever that guy was that didn’t show, he’s a fool.”

  William left Piper at the pub alone. Justan stood up and joined him outside on the street.

  “Justan. You’ll never believe what I learned. It’s gonna be all too easy to kill Moira. I think we should pay a certain witch I know a little visit.”

  “Witch? What would we need a witch to do that we can’t do on our own?”

  William grabbed Justan by the arm.

  “Are questioning with me?”

  “No, no. I meant to say you’re so powerful. A compliment. I meant it as a compliment.”

  William let go of his shirt.

  “I might be, but a little magic never hurt. Well, in this case it will. But that’s exactly what we want. You, me and Erin. We’ll visit the witch tomorrow. Since Moira is weak and unable to fight back, a curse would be perfect.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Down into the Darkness

  Day after day, the former Brehon guards stood watch over the only Tribunal member to survive. The changing of guards rotated, so each guard could hunt, rest, and tend to Moira as well. As they each took their turn, they focused on the sound of Paul’s and Moira’s breath and monitored their vital signs. Any movement would inspire hope for recovery. To protect the fuilteacha as they lay stricken, they sealed the room from intruding eyes. They cloaked them with their mental prowess and druid-like magic, just as they had sealed off Dowth and other locations from prying eyes for centuries.

  Their days turned to nights, and nights to weeks. Once Paul’s coughing died down, he lay still as a statue. His breath was so slow, and so shallow, to the unobservant it appeared as if he wasn’t breathing at all. Not a whimper, not a cough. His muscles never twitched, his legs and arms frozen in an invisible gel. Each evening, Faolon would bring a fresh victim, biting the human’s wrist and squeeze the blood into Paul’s open mouth. Like a sleeping baby can root out and find his mother’s breast in sleep, Paul seemed to smell and sense the blood made ready for him. He’d open his mouth, and drink the blood of mortals. This was his only sign of life.

  Several times a week, Seara would join the guards and touch Paul, infusing him with the nectar of her powers. She willed him to stay alive. She hoped she could stir the endorphins within him enough to break the spell of whatever bound him. When satisfied she’d given all she could, she would move to Moira’s room down the hall and bless Moira as well. Breasal visited the two patients every day, waiting and sitting, his thoughts often traveling thousands of years into the past when Kennocha turned him, and his journey through the ages to find the one he’d sought all his immortal life, who now lay comatose in his house. He whispered prayers of gratitude to Paul for having tried to help Moira and asked the gods to show favor and raise the pair. He worried his lifelong quest would end here, fruitless. Could the gods have been wrong? Had Anna truly prophesied, or had he witnessed a psychotic break? The question tormented him with each passing day.r />
  After almost a month, Paul began to stir in his sleep. The fever remained and he never woke. But he thrashed and cried out, more than once causing all fuilteacha in the house to run to his room in panic. After the fourth night of these apparent night terrors, Breasal, Seara, and the guards decided it must be a new phase to his healing. While concerned, they stopped rushing to his room with each cry.

  What they couldn’t know was Paul was aware. His essence was badly injured, but the mind, the eternal mind, witnessed every visit, every feeding, and every stroke or caress given him. He was aware, frustrated he could not reach out or communicate. It was as if he’d fallen in a deep hole, so pitch black he could not see his hand in front of his face. But he could sense things. He became good at sensing and smelling. He knew by sound and smell who entered the room. He could hear their voices, feel their touch. But the power to control his limbs was lost. The only movement he seemed capable of was involuntary, to thrash through the night terrors of the blackness and to open his mouth to feed.

  He remembered his dreams, too. It was as if by losing sight, and the ability to communicate and move, his memory and other senses intensified. He recalled every detail of his dreams. In them, he faced Medb again. He felt the injection, the betrayal and hatred in her eyes. He felt the agony of the iron as it mixed with his blood and the torture as his blood began to solidify and cement his veins together. Without pumping blood, his lungs began to clog as well. He struggled to breathe as the valves in his heart started opening and closing more and more slowly. He thrashed and fought Medb. He demanded to know why she had betrayed the Tribunal. His mind repeated the events of the attack, even his telepathic cry for help. The dreams stopped always just as Moira approached. He would sense her shadow fall across his body, and then nothing but the blackness.

  Because he couldn’t call for help, ask questions, or talk with his guests, he began to think he was imagining them. He believed he was trapped in the hole again, a cave where he was forced to repeat his death over and over, tortured with the idea that he had survived and was being cared for by other fuilteach. He thought this hole was an illusion of death. He wondered if this was hell. A place where he was forced to relive his last moments on earth, unable to call for help. Only a cycle of pain and hope deferred.

  This condition continued for months. The ice of Scotland had melted, and the birds called to him in his sleep. Flowers he could never see bloomed outside his window. For Paul, several months felt longer than the centuries he had spent as a fuilteach. He stopped noticing the guards. Only the terror cycle of the dreams kept his mind active, his thoughts adrift in the darkness.

  His dreams began to change. On occasion, he heard a feminine voice calling his name.

  “Paul. Paul,” she said.

  He could see nothing, and while the voice sounded familiar, he couldn’t place it. Because it was different, because it had broken the monotony of dying by iron, he began to look forward to hearing it.

  “Paul, Paul. Can you hear me? Paul?”

  He listened to the voice, as one might listen to music or a favorite TV show. He began to anticipate the voice. It comforted him. He imagined it belonged to a beautiful lady, and he was mortal again, kissing her and pressing upon her with passion.

  “Paul, Paul. I need you!” she would cry out.

  He imagined he had made her cry in passion, ecstatic and quivering with love. Other times, he imagined the voice was his mother, caressing his forehead and kissing him as a young boy. He loved the voice. He wanted the voice. When the voice was not speaking to him, he felt lonely and full of despair. He began to count how often she called his name every day. He rated the beauty of each day based on how many times she called to him. And then one day, it occurred to Paul to answer back.

  “Paul. Paul,” the voice said.

  Paul hesitated, wondering how this may change the game. He was afraid to speak to her. What if he learned it wasn’t real? What if the voice left him, and he dropped further into the night terrors? He couldn’t bear the idea of existing in this space without her. When she spoke, the blackness descended and light flooded his consciousness. He wanted to believe it was heaven. He was afraid of learning he was wrong, that this was an even crueler part of hell.

  “Paul. Paul? Why don’t you answer?” said the voice.

  Finally, Paul decided he should risk it.

  “I’m here. It’s me. It’s Paul. Who are you?” he asked.

  “Moira.”

  Paul wondered if this was another trick. Could the voice he loved be the cailleach fuilteach? Was it possible?

  “No, Paul, this isn’t a trick. Please talk to me. I’m lonely.”

  With this, Paul’s heart melted.

  “I’m here, Moira. Where are you?”

  “I’m down the hallway. We’ve been taken to Breasal’s home to recover. Medb almost killed you, but I saved you.”

  Saved? By the Queen?

  “Why did you just think of me as the Queen, Paul? Why do people call me this?”

  “I don’t know. It just came to me. How did you save me?”

  “I sucked the blood Medb had poisoned from your body and spat it on the hill of Tara. I then allowed you to drink my blood and I shared my essence.”

  “Why are we here? Why can’t I see or talk to anyone besides you?”

  “I saved your life, but the iron caused a lot of damage. And between sucking poison, giving my essence to you, and fighting the blood fae who sought to kill me and my children, I became weak. Remember, I had only been a fuilteach a matter of days before facing the Tribunal. I was strong, but I didn’t have endurance. I didn’t know how to control and reserve my strength. And I didn’t know what would happen when I shared my essence.”

  “I’m sorry. It’s my fault. I tried to protect you and I failed.”

  “No. You didn’t fail. What happened, happened. You tried, but you can’t force your will on another, not for long at any rate. And my fate would find me one way or another.”

  Paul didn’t respond. He was angry with himself. Angry that he was the cause for his love’s suffering.

  “Paul, this is important. Are you listening?”

  Paul sulked, ashamed of his thoughts.

  “Paul? Pout if you must, but I must tell you this. I shared my essence with you. We are bound now. We can share thoughts and experiences. And if you give up and don’t fight the illness, I will die.”

  Moira sat in the silence. She felt the sorrow Paul felt. She understood he couldn’t speak, even telepathically he had struggled to express his thoughts. She felt his shame, guilt, and self pity.

  “Paul, please. Resist this. Fight. We have to fight together. Can you fight this for me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. We must fight this together or we will never leave this place. We will never defeat the fuilteach rebels. We will eventually shrivel and slowly die.”

  “Moira.”

  “Yes, Paul.”

  “I love you. I’m sorry I couldn’t fight the Brehon. I’m sorry I was weak. Are your children ok?”

  “You aren’t weak, Paul. We have been broken open so we may become strong.”

  “And your children?”

  “I think my boys are okay. I hear Faolon and Seara speak of them. But I can’t see them. Or hear them.”

  “Where are we?”

  “We’re in the Dark Queen’s cauldron.”

  Paul relaxed. He smelled Seara enter the room. He wanted to tell her. He tried to reach through with his thoughts and push his message to her. We are ok. We are in the cauldron. But he couldn’t. He felt the blessed release of her touch and let himself go to the darkness.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Keita, Mistress of the Woods

  William, Justan, and Erin walked through a forest path in Killarney National Park. The tree limbs formed a canopy above them. The knotted limbs of the trees and the dense fog created a macabre, foreboding atmosphere. Owls hooted in the distance, and the eyes of predators peere
d out of the darkness at random corners. The moon was low and waning.

  William tapped Erin’s shoulder and held his finger up, motioning the pair to stop.

  “This is it,” he said in a low whisper.

  He pulled a lighter from his jacket and flicked it. Instead of fire, a long staff formed. William tapped the ground with the staff three times.

  A disembodied voice shouted from the fog, “Who are you and what do you want?”

  “I’m William, of Na Fuilteacha. I’m looking for Keita, mistress of the woods.”

  The fog rose up, swirling through the air, growing larger and larger. It formed the shape of a woman. The fog woman peered down at the blood-drinkers, looming over them like a giantess. She looked at William, Justan, and Erin in turn and floated to the ground. She swallowed a deep breath, bent over, and screeched at the blood-drinkers. It was a horrific sound, and the fuilteacha clutched their ears in pain. The female fog form burst into a hundred fog-shaped vultures and scattered. In its place stood a tall, thin woman. She had jet black hair and yellow eyes. A vulture sat on her shoulder, peering down at them. Her gown floated in the breeze like black tendrils of smoke. She snapped her fingers, and the vulture shape-shifted into the form of a snake and slithered down her body. The snake coiled up in front of her, hissing and baring its fangs to the blood-drinkers.

  William looked the witch in the eye, tilted his head and asked “Do you greet everyone as if you plan to kill them?”

  “I find it’s the best way to demonstrate just how weak and pathetic most people are. I don’t want you to get the wrong idea and think you can subdue me the way you subdue a mere mortal.”

  William partially bowed. “I wouldn’t dream of subduing a witch such as yourself.”

  “Maybe not one such as me. But there is a witch you seek to destroy, is there not?”

  “This is true. She is both witch and fuilteach. And she is a threat.”

  “I heard she nearly took out the entire Tribunal. Why is she such a threat to you? Wasn’t the Tribunal your sworn enemy?”