He stepped out into the darkness, groping along until he spotted a light flickering from down a set of metal stairs. Easing down the steps, he found himself awash in the heat of a forge. Brigid stood silhouetted in the orange glow, her shadow dancing on the floor as she hammered steel into shape on the anvil. Strike after strike landed, flattening to an edge and point.
Abel watched, mesmerized. It was a simple, repetitive action, nothing magical about it, and yet Brigid looked as natural and powerful and right working her forge as she had wielding fire earlier. In the core of his being, he knew this was what she was supposed to be.
Brigid waved to him and shocked him out of his trance. “Don’t be shy. Come on in, lad.”
Abel shuffled down the last few steps, grateful that the nightshirt was made of breathable fabric. He was already sweating in the heat. “Working kinda late, aren’t you?”
“Sure, but I wanted to get this done before we left.” Brigid plunged the sword—it definitely was a sword, Abel saw—into a bucket of water, producing a cloud of steam. “In fact, I wanted to finish before you saw it, but now that you’re here, you might as well have a look.”
Abel puckered his forehead. “You didn’t want me to see it?”
“Of course not. It’s a surprise for you!” She pulled the sword from the water and held it to the light. The steel glinted silver and glowed with dying heat, unpolished but beautiful, with a hilt in the shape of a Celtic cross.
“It’s great,” said Abel.
Brigid giggled. “Go on. You really think so?”
“It’s fantastic. And you did all that in, what, a few hours?”
Brigid shook her head. “This is the end result of days of work. Making swords is a hobby of mine, and this is my latest. I only thought you might find it useful.” She handed it to Abel. “How does it feel?”
Abel shifted the hilt in his hand and tried a few practice swings, surprised to find it slicing the air gracefully instead of the clumsy strokes he’d expected. “It feels good,” he said. “I think. I’m not sure what I’m supposed to be doing with this. I’m not much of a swordsman.”
“You’re not meant to be,” said Brigid. “It’s only to defend yourself as a last resort, if we’re taken down and you can’t shout your enemy apart.”
Abel snorted. “A lot of good I’ll be then. I’m no warrior.”
“So you said.”
“I almost died today, you know. All because I made a stupid mistake. And who’s saying the monster we face tomorrow won’t be twice as deadly?” Abel sighed and sat on the steps, letting the sword droop in his hand. “Mac’s the god of the sea, right? That’s got to make him pretty potent, not to mention that special sword of his. Morrigan’s got her fighting skill and her powers, and you throw fire around like a beach ball. I’m just me, the kid who quotes Scripture and grows herbs in mason jars and couldn’t work up the nerve to leave home for seventeen years.”
“Sounds like you’re pretty hard on yourself,” said Brigid.
Abel sighed. “I don’t know. Sometimes I wonder why Morrigan chose me in the first place, or why she didn’t leave me to the Red Caps, or let that vampire suck out all my blood.”
“That’s not who she is,” said Brigid. “You’ll see. And she chose you because she likes you.”
Abel looked up in surprise. “Really?”
“Oh yes. I could tell, even when she was cross with you in the pub. There’s something between you two.”
Abel pushed his glasses up his nose to hide his smile. “I mean, yeah, of course I like her. She’s amazing.” The smile faded. “But why would she like me?”
Brigid pondered the question for a moment. Then she reached down. “May I see the sword again?” Abel handed it over, and she examined it from blade to hilt. “Y’know, there was a time when I spent months working on a single sword. Not because it made it any better, but because I had to make it absolutely perfect. Even now, I could focus on the flaws, the imperfections, the parts that don’t meet my standards.” She eyed Abel. “That’s your attitude.”
“Yeah,” said Abel, his eyes dropping to the floor.
“We’re artists, you and I,” said Brigid. “But your creation is yourself, and you’re not happy with it. It’s not your fault. Dissatisfaction is in our nature. Especially when we have so many people telling us we’re not good enough.”
Abel’s mind jumped again to the Reverend. He’d never said it, but the message got through loud and clear. “I know what you mean.”
“But if I made every sword perfect,” said Brigid, “they’d all be the same, and what’s the point in that? There’s no craftsmanship, no art.” She swung the sword through the air. “It’s the imperfections that make this sword this sword and no other. It’s unique, one of a kind, and it was made that way. Just like Mac was made for the sea, Morrigan for war, and I for fire.” She tapped Abel’s chest with the point of the sword. “You were made to be you, whoever that may be. Don’t measure yourself by us. You don’t have to be anything like us. And you certainly don’t have to be perfect. You just have to be you.”
Abel smiled. “You know, you preach a way better sermon than my father ever did.”
Brigid shrugged. “I wield the fire of inspiration as well as the fire of the forge. It’s all in my wheelhouse.”
Abel reached for the sword, but Brigid pulled it back. “I’d better hang onto it. Wouldn’t do you much good. Hasn’t been sharpened yet.”
“Neither have I,” Abel said.
Brigid grinned. “Now you’re getting it. Go rest. We’ll need to be ready for anything tomorrow.”
As Abel came back up the stairs, he noticed a figure crouching by the window, the streetlights outside reflecting on raven hair. “Morrigan?” he asked.
She glanced back at him, and in the dim light, he thought he saw a smile. “Abel, hi. I thought you’d be asleep by now.”
“Funny, I thought the same thing about you.”
“I’m not the one suffering from massive blood loss,” said Morrigan. She frowned. “Tried to sleep. Couldn’t.” She shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. I’ve gone days at a time without sleep with no ill effects. I’ll be fine.”
Abel looked past her out the window. “Anything out there?”
“Somewhere,” said Morrigan. “But not close enough to do us any harm. And I’ll be the first to know if that changes.”
“Because you’d dream about it, right?” Abel asked.
Morrigan looked at him for a while, then put a hand on his arm. “Hey, everything’s gonna be okay. I’d never let anything happen to you. You know that, right?”
“Well, yeah,” said Abel. “You okay?”
Morrigan smiled at him. “Yeah, it’s just been a long day. You almost died.”
“But I didn’t,” Abel grinned. “Thanks to you.”
“Anytime.” She shoved against his chest. “Now go to bed. Early start tomorrow, remember?”
“I remember,” Abel said, backing toward the back room and the couch bed they’d made up for him. “Goodnight, Morrigan.”
“Goodnight,” she said, watching him until he was safely in his room.
You’ll see who she is, Brigid had said, and she was right. As he looked at her sitting in the dark like a gargoyle watching over a cathedral, her true nature shined through the snark and the bloodlust and the bravado. She was a protector, and tonight, she protected him.
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept so well.
17
“That’s the last of it.” Mac bundled one last propane tank into the back of the truck and fastened it under a tarp. “Though I wish you’d have let me bring my fishing net that always comes up full.”
“You’re the one who said only take necessities,” said Brigid.
“Aye, but when I said that, I meant not taking your Cary Grant sculpture.”
“Then you should have been more specific,” Brigid said with a wink.
It was the next morning, and even though th
e sun was barely up, the gods packed to leave.
“You sure we won’t need any food?” Morrigan asked as she strode out of the shop.
Abel came out close behind her, dressed in Mac’s borrowed shirt once more. It was just as baggy as the nightshirt, but at least he had a belt to keep it tucked into his pants—which were thankfully his own. He carried a cardboard box Mac had insisted they bring along. It was labeled in Sharpie DAGDA MOR’S CLUB—HANDLE WITH CARE, although he’d peeked inside to see that the club, a thick blackthorn staff the size of a walking stick, already had a crack running down the side. Guess someone didn’t read the label, he thought as he slid it into the truck bed and closed the tailgate.
“The safe house is well stocked,” said Brigid. “Food, water, clothes, and a good bit of entertainment to keep us busy until it’s safe to move again. Even a few weapons to protect ourselves.” She tossed Abel his new sword, and he fumbled to grab it, scared he was going to cut himself on the blade until he realized it was sheathed.
“It’s about an hour’s drive,” said Mac, “so I’ve picked out some special songs for the road.” He grinned at Abel. “You’ll like this. I’ve rigged up the sound so that the music resonates from the body of the truck itself. No speakers required! Even the people in the bed can enjoy the music.”
“And the entire city of Charleston can be assaulted by sea shanties,” Brigid added, rolling her eyes.
“There are worse kinds of noise pollution,” Abel said. He cocked his head as a distant rumble caught his ear. “For example…”
A motorcycle tore around the corner and swerved to a stop. The figure astride it was big and burly and, except for the helmet hiding its head, very familiar.
“Oh, great,” said Abel. “Eyepatch is back.”
“Do you think he brought Cora here?” Brigid asked.
“He looks alone to me,” said Morrigan. She picked up a chunk of concrete from the side of the road. “Hey, dickwad!” she shouted at the biker. “Didn’t you get enough yesterday?” She hurled the concrete at his head, and it struck dead center.
The helmet tumbled into the air and clattered to the ground.
Abel’s eyes went wide. “Uh, Morrigan…”
“I know,” she said, as still as he was.
The biker had no head.
“If that’s Eyepatch,” said Abel, “he’s changed since yesterday.”
“It’s not Eyepatch,” said Morrigan.
The biker revved his engine. Clouds of smoke drifted out behind the bike as though carried by an otherworldly wind.
“Get in the truck!” Morrigan shouted. “Now!” She clambered into the back, followed by Abel and Brigid, while Mac leaped into the cab and peeled off as the motorcycle sped after them.
“What is that thing?” Abel gripped the side of the truck as it took a tight turn that threatened to throw them all out. “And why doesn’t it have a head?”
“It’s a Dullahan,” Morrigan explained. “Think the Headless Horseman from Sleepy Hollow. Only this one traded in his horse for our friend’s faster transport.”
“Why couldn’t Eyepatch have hung on to his bike?” Abel asked himself.
“Guess my dream came true,” said Morrigan.
“Poor guy,” Abel muttered.
“Don’t feel too sorry about him.” Brigid eyed their pursuer. “You could be joining him soon.”
“He won’t be,” Morrigan said, though she didn’t sound as sure as Abel would have liked.
Abel looked back to see the Dullahan closing the gap between them. “Why couldn’t he have kept his horse?” he asked. “Or his head?”
“Trust me.” Morrigan drew her sword. “When you see his head, that’s when you’re in trouble.”
“What about his spine?” Abel pointed to the Dullahan, who had plucked a long chain of vertebrae from its side. It swung it over its non-head and cracked it like a whip, and it shot across the distance between them and snagged Abel’s ankle. Abel barely had time to cry out before the Dullahan yanked back on the spine whip, heaving him into the air and out of the truck bed. He grabbed hold of the tailgate, grasping it with the tips of his fingers as his attacker sent shivers down the spine to shake his whole body. Much more of this and he’d lose his grip and drop to the speed-blurred asphalt, and that would be the end of Abel Whittaker.
Morrigan snatched one wrist, Brigid grabbed another, and together they pulled against the spine in a deadly game of tug-of-war. Abel groaned as his limbs stretched and the whip cut deep into his ankle … and then it slipped away and coiled back around the Dullahan’s hand. The two goddesses fell backwards, dragging Abel back into the truck bed to land on top of them.
“Let’s not do that again,” Abel panted, winded from panic and pain.
The motorcycle roared, and the Dullahan closed the gap and pulled alongside them.
“We may not have a choice in a minute.” Morrigan leaped to her feet and brandished her sword. “There’s no getting away from it now.”
She’s right, Abel thought as he looked around. They were driving along the Battery now, with houses on one side and a stone sea wall rising high on the other. If that weren’t enough, a row of cars parked bumper to bumper sat on either side. Mac had enough trouble avoiding traffic, much less finding an exit. There was nowhere to turn, no escape to be made. Abel gripped his sword tight.
“Wait!” Brigid snapped her fingers. “Better idea.” She slipped on her welding mask, snatched up her torch, and attached it to one of the propane tanks.
“It’s not vulnerable to fire,” said Morrigan. “Believe me, I’ve tried.”
“Shut up and grab my legs,” said Brigid, and before either of them could ask for clarification, she slipped over the side of the truck headfirst. They caught her calves before her head hit the pavement, leaving her bobbing between the truck’s spinning tire and the Dullahan’s motorcycle. Not that she was worried; she whooped with exhilaration, swaying back and forth.
“Don’t move around so much,” Morrigan warned her, wrapping her arms tighter around Brigid’s leg.
“And hurry!” Abel added. The Dullahan inched closer and reached out for him.
Brigid quelled her mirth and fired up the torch, turning it on the Dullahan’s tires. With a bang, the rubber gave way, and the motorcycle spun sideways and slammed into one of the parked cars.
“Yes!” Abel cheered, but the word died on his lips as the creature leaped from his broken cycle to land in the truck bed with the balance of a cat.
“No,” Abel said, and the Dullahan reached for him.
Then Mac slammed on the brakes, and everything pitched forward. Morrigan and Abel lost their grip on Brigid, and she rolled on the asphalt to break her fall. The Dullahan smashed into the back windshield.
Mac got out of the truck waving his arms. “Away from the truck! Hurry now!”
Abel dropped over the side and sucked in a breath as his foot hit the road.
“What’s wrong?” Morrigan asked, landing beside him.
“I’m not sure what that spine whip did to my ankle, but it hurts like crazy,” Abel said. “I could use some of Brigid’s healing touch right about now.”
“No time,” Morrigan said. “Can you walk?”
“I think so,” Abel said, but his next step made him cry out. “Okay, so I can hop.”
Morrigan wrapped his arm around her shoulders, grabbed his back and legs, and lifted him, carrying him like a groom carrying a bride over a threshold, only much faster. The Dullahan moved behind them.
“Come on!” Mac waved them and Brigid past him into Battery Park.
“What’s he so urgent about?” Abel asked. “He’s not going to blow up the truck, is he?”
Morrigan flashed him a smile as she hid behind a car. “Not exactly.”
The Dullahan crouched to spring at them again, but stopped as Mac raised his arms. Then Abel heard the lap of surf on concrete. That’s when he remembered where they were and what Mac’s god status was.
Th
e sea god raised his arms higher, and a massive wave the length of the Battery rose from the ocean at his command, coming to wipe this abomination from the face of the earth.
“Hang on to something!” Brigid cried, bracing herself against one of the park’s massive shade trees. Morrigan grabbed a cannon and held on tight to Abel.
The wave crashed down, knocking the truck into the wall of cars, dashing nearby pedestrians off their feet, dousing Abel and the gods, and sweeping the Dullahan back into the sea. Abel choked on the salt water, but he couldn’t help smiling as the black leather hulk went tumbling over the side of the sea wall.
“Awesome,” he managed in between coughs.
“The ancient Celts thought something similar,” Mac said with a chuckle. A light mist clung to his clothes, but other than that, he was dry as a bone. “Only their wording was a good bit stronger.” He helped a few drenched passersby to their feet and made sure everyone was all right, and then swaggered back to the truck, followed by his dripping and dragging companions. He cranked the engine, but his only reward was a sodden sputtering.
“Of course I’ve flooded the engine,” he muttered. “Got to work up a fix for that.”
“I warded my home against fire, but you didn’t think to ward your things against sea water?” Brigid teased, shaking her head.
“Now look, woman.” Mac wagged a finger at her, but he never finished his thought.
Something hissed over the concrete barrier and cracked through the passenger window, wrapping around Mac’s neck and pinning him against the door. Hand over hand, the Dullahan pulled itself out of the ocean and back onto land. Brigid jumped into the cab to help Mac, but by the time she pulled the whip from around his throat, he’d already been choked unconscious and the headless biker was back on its feet again. Any bystanders still hanging around scattered as the Dullahan lurched forward.
Morrigan set Abel down behind a tree. “Stay here. Be safe.” She rushed at the Dullahan, sword out and swinging, slicing, stabbing, but her attack barely staggered the monster. Brigid grabbed her torch and shoved the burning end down the thing’s neck, but it grabbed it from her hands and hurled it away. The tank broke open and exploded, knocking Brigid against a car, and the Dullahan threw one last punch that knocked her unconscious.
Morrigan Page 10
