by J. P. Rice
The Morrigan dodged a young man playing on his phone. “My crows told me, ya jackass. Think you can hide from me. Then I thought, why hasn’t that bitch come to see me yet? Oh, right. I’m her only friend amongst the Gods. She hates the rest of them and is afraid to visit.”
“You’re not my only friend. My best friend in the pantheon, sure, but there are others that like me.” I said it to comfort myself but returning to Pittsburgh had showed that I didn’t have many, if any, true friends. I even had doubts about Tyr and Owen’s true intentions. I wasn’t exactly a social butterfly among the Celtic Gods either.
“Too bad you don’t have the card of the Huntress, that whore. So sick of her chasing after me. I’d pay a pretty penny to obtain her card,” I said in hope my friend had access to it.
The Morrigan sidestepped another person not paying attention. “Hers is a prized one. I’m not sure who has it now. Many a deity would like to torture her soul for the rest of eternity. However, that also creates a great value for the card. Rather than cash it in now, the current holder is probably waiting for the value to go up again before dealing it. I promise you if her death card falls into my hands, I’ll redeem it immediately.”
“No. Don’t. Let me do it. But if she’s so hated, why doesn’t someone buy it and end her life already?” I asked.
The Morrigan moved aside, avoiding another careless walker busy with a phone. She took a deep breath as we continued moving, and I could tell she was fighting against the urge to pound the lady’s face into the sidewalk. “It hasn’t fallen into the right hands yet. Everyone who has held it so far doesn’t have a grudge against her. Some death merchants are actually scared of what her soul might do. I’m not, of course.”
“I’m glad you showed up when you did.”
The Morrigan explained, “You would have seen me earlier, but I had to grab those cards. I’m glad you’re still alive. Now I have someone to cause trouble with.”
Tempting offer, but I couldn’t go down that road again. “Yeah, about that. I’ve kind of turned over a new leaf. I’m trying to stay away from the whole death and destruction thing.”
The Morrigan peered at me with the intensity of a disappointed parent, her dilated red pupils poking holes in my soul. “That disappoints me greatly. You are the only one who can keep up with me. Shame.”
“If I keep that behavior up, I’ll never get inducted into the pantheon. I’m trying to perform some noble acts so maybe they’ll take notice. I guess Machu Picchu wasn’t enough. It wouldn’t hurt if you talked me up either.” I tried to nudge her.
The Morrigan chuckled. She had an awkward, manly laugh. “Not so sure that would help. You know damn well I’m the outcast of the Gods. They only let me stay around because they are terrified of me and how I would react.”
“Well, they’re right,” I told her.
“I never said they were wrong. You know I can’t discuss the process with you. Sworn to secrecy and sealed with a blood ritual. I know you understand that. If your father still can’t tell you about it, then you understand why my hands are tied on the selection process. I’ve told you countlessly to stop worrying about it.”
I decided it was time to change the subject. “Do you know anything about Darabond?”
The Morrigan stopped. “I’m surprised you took this long to ask. But no. I’d give you more advice on that subject, but it doesn’t seem like you will take it.”
I said, “I’m not giving up. There’s still a touch of warmth somewhere in my heart. Something you wouldn’t understand.”
The Morrigan’s eyes tightened and she clenched her fists. I knew I needed to tread lightly.
“I understand fully. A soft heart is a great weakness and an easy way to get killed. You should let it freeze over. Life is bitterly cold, and one needs a heart to match it.”
“So is this just a social call or do you have an ulterior motive?” I asked. Dealing with the Morrigan could be a real pain in the ass. We approached a silver Dodge Challenger that the Agency had given me since my Jeep was still at the Wolf House. I pulled the fob out of my pocket.
Mo wasn’t cool. People were always flabbergasted when I revealed that, but it was true. The Goddess was tense in conversation and easy to anger. She spent most of her time with the dead and didn’t understand fun or joking around in the traditional sense of the words.
Her morbid poker games were the perfect example. She always talked about keeping the natural order, but I couldn’t understand how tossing people’s bodies and souls around like chips in a casino helped achieve that. Just another illustration of how the Gods bathed in a cauldron of hypocrisy.
We jumped into my ride and I turned the heat on. My muscled tightened as I rubbed my hands together. The natural warmth from the near brawl had worn off and the frosty chill returned.
“Since I know you won’t come to Clara Spiritus to see me, I’ve come up with a form of contact.” The Morrigan’s right hand disappeared into her obsidian feathers. She pulled out a clenched fist and opened it, exposing a little glossy red object.
“What is that?” I asked.
The Morrigan plucked it out of her palm with her finger and thumb. She held it up, and before she could speak, I asked, “Is that a raven’s eye?”
She nodded and grinned. She extended her bony right index finger and her nail grew into a sharpened claw. My heart jumped wondering what this crazy Goddess had in mind.
“Let me see your left hand.” The Morrigan held out an open hand. I put my palm against hers and she flipped it over. She moved her hand up to my wrist and stared at the blue veins.
The Morrigan positioned her newly formed claw over my wrist and I was certain she was sent to kill me by the Celtic Gods. Steadily, she moved over toward my thumb, away from the veins. With a quick little movement, she opened my skin. A chill ran though my chest and the pain centered in the palm of my hand, not near the incision.
Blood poured from the live flesh, circling around my wrist like a burgundy bracelet, and dripping into the Morrigan’s palm. She remained steady and retracted her claw. She picked up the raven’s eye and held it over the cut.
“This will work as a communication device,” she said and used her thumb to shove the eye into the wound.
My guts tightened in displeasure and a hot rush of pain ran through me. I had a high tolerance for pain. At least, I thought I did.
The Morrigan whispered something under her breath and a glittery stream of enchantment rushed out from under the fingernails on her right hand. The golden bits flowed into the raven’s eye, imbuing it with the communication spell the Morrigan had just set.
“I made it so this cut will appear healed, but you can squeeze the skin around it and open it to get to the raven’s eye. When you want to get in contact with me, just hold your thumb over the eye. It will glow red when activated. All you need to do is talk into it and I’ll get the message. And if it starts causing pain, we can fix it,” she reassured me.
The Morrigan dabbed up my blood with her cloak. When I looked at the cut, I could barely see the incision. Using my thumb and forefinger, I pinched around the wound and it opened, exposing the dull red raven’s eye. I put my thumb over the eyeball and waited a few seconds. A burning feeling heated my wrist and I yanked my hand back.
The raven’s eye not only glowed, it emitted a short beam of red light. The Morrigan smiled and said, “Perfect. Then all you have to do is say what you need, and I’ll get the message.”
If only cell phones stretched to netherworlds, I could avoid all this nonsense. That was a business someone needed to jump on. Instead, I now had a bird’s eye inside my body.
With the trip right around the corner, my mind drifted to thoughts of Seattle where I planned to spy on Arawn and Maeve.
Chapter 13
“And he told you he would be right here? In this very spot?” Owen pointed at the ground as he squinted and peered around the wooded area.
I rubbed my hands together for warmth and brea
thed through my mouth to counter the lingering dead animal stench. “You know how it goes in this business. He isn’t just going to meet us at a Motel 6. My father mapped out the directions, so I know they are legit. We just need to wait until he shows up.”
We’d arrived in Seattle in the morning and headed straight for Mount Rainier, the highest mountain in Washington. Considered one of the most dangerous volcanoes in the world, I found it ironic that glacial ice covered the mountain.
We were at the northwestern edge on a summit called Liberty Cap. My father’s map had led us directly to the fallen, ancient tree trunk wedged between the giant boulders. Johnny Tango was supposed to be waiting here, which made me shift my weight nervously from boot to boot, crunching the snow beneath.
The verdant pine trees offset the chalky atmosphere and absorbed some of the sun’s blinding reflection coming off the ice. My father had told me he had talked to Johnny. I still didn’t know how he’d done it from across the country without a phone, but I’d stopped asking questions a long time ago. The bottom line was my father always came through on a promise.
A faint sprinkling sound hit my ears and my neck jerked to the left to find its source. I saw a man standing with his back to us, pissing into a bush. He burped and spoke over his shoulder, “Dang blast it, I’ll mosey on over there in a minute.”
Johnny Tango was dressed in gray corduroys, a heavy flannel jacket and a scarf of mismatched animal pelts. Gray hair poked out from under his black Johnny Ringo hat with a high top. With a raven’s feather pinned horizontally against each temple, the hat maintained the cowboy look, but added the flair of a magician.
He zipped up his pants and turned to Owen and me. The tall man’s windburned and wrinkled face told of a life of hardship and there always seemed to be great pain hiding behind his dull gray eyes. Always. He played with the curled end of his long, dark mustachio, twisting it to circular perfection. His other hand hung near his hip holster, his calloused thumb smoothing over the ivory grip of his Colt .45 single-action revolver.
Johnny was quite the character, but I was afraid it was all an act. He played the part well, but he seemed more like a wizard on the run, who’d settled out here and fallen off the supernatural grid. After my stint down south, I could hardly blame the man. Considering he was friends with my father, I doubted he was an ordinary cowboy. Johnny was our eyes and ears in the west. No matter the destination, he always had valuable information.
After my sabbatical, if he was trying to keep away from the nonsense, I understood completely. He pulled a circular tin marked Irish Whiskey out of his pocket and opened it, exposing the cut tobacco inside.
“Daddy told me you was comin’. Gal-dang-it if he can’t get out here no more.” Johnny spoke in a brand of authentic frontier gibberish like Gabby Johnson in Blazing Saddles. It also appeared forced and screamed of a disguise. I enjoyed it and thought it was hilarious, but it didn’t seem natural.
Johnny wasn’t great with introductions, so I took the lead. “Johnny, this is my friend Owen.”
The old man shifted the tin of tobacco into his left palm and extended his filthy right hand. He shook Owen’s hand and said, “Rebbit.”
Owen smirked and returned, “Nice to meet you, sir.”
Johnny threw his hand up on Owen’s shoulder. “No, no. Sir is my father.” Johnny sniggered and pulled a pack of Zig-Zag rolling papers out of his chest pocket. As he held the tin of tobacco in one hand, he tore a paper off with his lips and jammed the pack back into his pocket.
He rolled a cigarette with one hand, as I spoke, “I guess my father talked to you about the issue with Arawn and Maeve.”
“Rebbit,” he said with a sharp nod. I still wasn’t exactly sure what that word meant so I had to go by conversational context. In this case, it seemed like yes. “Gone and done some research and you was right. They’s brewin’ up a storm. Dark storm it be.”
Johnny struck a match off the side of his old cowboy boot and lit his smoke. The cigarette dangled from his lips as he gestured for us to follow him. He led us out onto a jutting cliff and my heart skipped a few beats. I wasn’t a huge fan of heights and this rock looked like it could break off the side of the mountain any second. A queasy, cement mixer feeling attacked my stomach as we moved closer to the edge.
I looked out at a small town in the distance. A concrete jungle surrounded by natural landscape as far as the eye could see.
Owen and I pulled out our binoculars as Johnny pointed to a facility in the distance. Johnny said, “Main buildin’ yonder is where the Arawn feller likes to stay. Maeve, well she done sit there and watch the fights.”
“Fights? What fights?” I asked.
Johnny exhaled a giant cloud of smoke into the frosty air and said, “They gots them a clonin’ set up goins on down there. They’s takin’ orcs and faeries and the such and mixin’ them up. Then they makes them fight agin’ each other. Loser gets killt, then they clone the winner. And they keep them brawls goin’ all the live long day. End a the day, there’s seven winners.”
Owen asked, “And then they clone the seven winners?”
Johnny hit his cigarette two more times and flicked it over the precipice. I watched the glowing cherry falling and a sudden bout of nausea hit me, imploring me to take a step back.
Johnny said, “Sumthin’ like that, rebbit. The whore woman, Maeve, has herself a big ole public sex session with the winners. Suppose it’s only public if you is peekin’ like me. It’s a real hoot-an-ante, I tells ya. Then they take ‘em in the white buildin’ to clone ‘em. That damn yellow warehouse over there gots them flying orcs. Damn things is the size of giants. The blue warehouse gots them super sidhe warriors.”
“So basically they’re building up a super force of supernaturals?” As the words escaped my mouth, I realized I had stated the obvious.
Johnny nodded affirmatively. “Rebbit. My words ain’t near as pretty as the ones you gots, but you’s on the right train track. And all the jaw jackin’, cow flippin’, hee-hawin’, bull prancin’ in all the world ain’t gonna save no one, no how. We needs us a real krugger krooker that ain’t afraid a nothin’.”
“I’ll be your krugger krooker,” I said in my best Doc Holliday voice. Neither of the men got the Tombstone joke, so I got back to business. “Do you know anything about the building Arawn is in? We’re going to sneak inside and try to find out what their plan is.”
“Shoulda done known wit’ you. Don’t be doin’ nothin’ pigeon-handed now,” Johnny warned, although I didn’t really know what that meant. Ham handed?
Johnny Tango went on to explain the general layout of the building, including which doors were heavily guarded and where Arawn’s office would be. While he talked, I tried to figure out who he was. Because he for damn sure wasn’t just a western drifter. I’d met up with him many times but had never taken a long look.
His nose. The shape of his face. The way his strong jaw moved when he spoke. The big earlobes. The Neanderthal brow. Then it hit me.
Thor. Not a spitting image by any stretch, but numerous strong similarities.
“Here they a comin’. Bout to gets to fightin’ agin,” Johnny announced and pointed at the battle yard. How could the old man see that far without binoculars? I put the magnifiers up to my eyes and checked out the scene.
Maeve led a bunch of warriors out into the yard. Two men approached from the side, pushing wheelbarrows full of weapons into the yard. I tried to focus on the former Goddess of Earth and Fertility.
Her glowing tan was visible beneath the see-through white fabric robe. She didn’t shiver in the freezing temperature and stood proudly with her chest out. Her long platinum blond hair had thick black roots and I could see her purple eyes and lips with my binoculars.
Maeve had left the pantheon because the other Gods were getting sick of her party girl nature. She drank a lot and fooked a lot and was damn proud of it. She’d left about twenty years ago and formed a partnership with Arawn. It appeared I wasn’t the
only one seeking revenge on the Celtic Gods.
“So what’s the operation? Maeve fooks ‘em and kills ‘em and then Arawn takes them to his new underworld?” I asked.
“Sumthin’ like that. Rebbit,” Johnny confirmed.
Two warriors walked to the middle of the yard and stood face to face.
Maeve put two fingers into her mouth, and I assumed she whistled because the two men crouched and circled each other. As I got a closer look at the combatants, I realized they were orcs.
These two were bright green, both wearing different colored loincloths, and stood about eight feet tall. Dripping with muscle definition, they resembled the Hulk more than any orc I’d ever seen. Both men had a full head of black hair and, perfectly straight teeth. They moved gracefully despite being enormous.
The genetic modifications from the oafish, ugly orc I had always seen to what I was looking at were unbelievable. They’d turned an ugly station wagon into a sexy rocket ship.
Maeve slid out of her robe and massaged her breasts, apparently turned on by the impending action. Owen commented, “Oh, dear me. Look at that. She’s a big ole bag of ho.”
I smiled. Only Owen could screw that up. I corrected him, “It’s ho bag.”
He lowered his binoculars and looked at me. “Same thing, no?”
I took mine down and shook my head. “No.”
“Ah, well. Tomato. Tahmahto. I’ll get it bang on next time.” He raised his binoculars back up to his eyes.
The man next to the wheelbarrow tossed weapons onto the snow-covered lawn. The orc in the red loincloth backed away from the one in white and picked up a spear. His opponent stood as still as a stone.
Red drew his arm back to test the reaction of White, who didn’t move a centimeter. Red unleashed the spear and sent it sailing directly at the White’s face. The latter didn’t panic, and at the last possible moment, his giant hand sprang from his hip in a lightning quick motion, snatching the sharpened end of the spear out of the air. The momentum continued pushing the metal end through White’s closed hand, and the silver point came to a halt two inches in front of his right eye.
