The Morrigan: Damaged Deities (3 page)

“Aye,” she nodded.  “There’s more.  Seems she’s quite famous in America fur breakin’ any cuddie, nae matter hoo wild.”

“Do ye really think…?” he asked, rubbing his forehead while he stared at the screen, fighting to keep his hope at bay.

“It’s worth a try, nae?”

Kamden watched the video continue as the pretty lass dismounted the wild beast, leading him away and he knew he couldn’t risk another loss of life.

“Get her.”

“
W
ho’s ever heard of a killer horse?” Big Mike clutched the bill of his cowboy hat as he scratched the top of his balding head. “I mean, yeah, I’ve heard of guys gettin’ kicked or ran over, but that was always just an accident, a one-off type a’ thing.  Not some serial-killin,’ maniac mustang.”

Morrie
had
heard of such a thing—a very long time ago. 

Still, she frowned down at the thick stock paper that lay on Mick McCormick’s desk before her, beneath it a stiff and rich envelope that held several postage marks tracing the package’s travels.  She frowned because it had been a very long time since her last encounter with such a beast.  They had gone either extinct or deep into hiding like the rest of the immortals. 

Or so Morrie had thought.

The first week of October had brought cooler weather and with it, the entire ranch running around to make preparations for the coming fall.  She had been pulled away from the mare that had taken the last week to break and train when the package with her name on it arrived. 

Her boss called for her to come to his office where Big Mike and Aunt Sarah, Mr. McCormick’s aunt and secretary, had all waited to see what news the foreign package brought their little Morrie.

“What’s a loch?” Big Mike asked, pronouncing the word, as he would
church
while he pulled out the newspaper clipping showing pictures of the dead body.

“Loch is Scottish for lake,” Morrie replied, using the correct pronunciation.

Turns out some big-to-do landowner and shipping mogul in Scotland—the elusive K. MacLeod—had a wild horse loose on his property killing anyone who happened to pass by his lake. 

There was little else online about the man, but he was offering top dollar for Oklahoma’s number one horse trainer to come and try to catch it. 

Fifty thousand dollars to come to Scotland, another fifty if she caught the horse.

The only family Morrie had were her two sisters and the three of them had never needed money—never
needed
it, but they certainly liked amassing it.  It was one of their few weaknesses; a silly trait bred into them at creation that they would have an affinity for gathering spoils and filling their coffers. 

Raping and pillaging and all that business.

Another weakness was curiosity and Morrie was definitely curious about the killer horse.  Even if it meant going back to Scotland…

She shuddered and her boss took notice.

“You all right, kiddo?” he asked, placing a fatherly hand on her shoulder. 

With her hands clasped in her lap, she sat in his big leather chair behind the desk, looking like a little girl at play in her father’s office. 

She nodded. “Would you be all right without me here?” she asked.

“Shoot, Morrie, we’d manage without ya for a lil’ while, I guess,” he said.  He lounged in the visitor chair on the other side of the desk, kicking his boots up.  “Jake Abel don’t need his quarter trained for a few more months yet and you know things start slowing down right before winter anyway.  Besides, it’d be great exposure and advertisin’ for the ranch when ya catch him.”

Morrie stared at the letter and photos, wishing her curiosity didn’t scratch at her the way it did and felt the hot sear of pride at her boss’ words.  He had no doubt she would catch the beast; Morrie was victorious. 

She had failed only once in her long, long lifetime—a failure that had cost her more than she would ever admit—and had sworn to herself would never happen again.

“Oh, I’ll catch him alright,” she muttered, hoping no one noticed the quick flash of magical light in her eyes. 

Some displays of power just couldn’t be controlled.

C
HAPTER
T
HREE

“And on his way he saw the Battle-Crow, the Morrigu, washing herself in the river Unius of Connacht, and one of her two feet at Ullad Echne, to the south of the water, and the other at Loscuinn, to the north of the water, and her hair hanging in nine loosened locks.” 

The Great Battle of Magh Tuireadh

The wailing had stopped.  Its presence once a constant in the distance, now only a dead silence remained.  Morrigan was grateful for the wind, the sounds of water rushing over the riverbed. 

The silence had been unnerving. 

The shores of two great islands rested on her either side.  She stood in the middle of the river, currents caressing her ankles as her black skirts swirled around her, the raven feathers of her bodice fluttering.  Her shoulders and chest were bare, made marble by the cool moonlight.  Her breasts ached in the chilly night wind, the clear water creating goose bumps up her flesh, puckering her nipples painfully. 

But she was ready. 

The decision had been made and she had been so certain then, certain she was doing the right thing, certain she didn’t care whom it may hurt. 

It was tradition, after all.  And he had betrayed her, anyway.

She watched as the god rose from the water, the shape of a man taking form.  His face was cold lines and planes, beautiful in its cruel perfection, his skin blue, eyes colorless. 

He stepped closer and she felt a chill ice her insides.  She knew this had to be done, she had to let him take her so there could be peace among the Tuatha Dé Danaan.  So the spirits could be free.

Their union was a millennia-long annual tradition, falling on the eve of Samhain—later to be known as Halloween.  It would ensure the spirits of the dead could pass to the Otherworld—some called it Valhalla; some, heaven. 

Sometimes the lost souls of the Otherworld would walk among the living, just for the day—sad escorts to that other realm.  She and the god had met every year on this night to join their bodies and bring forth the spirits. 

But this time was different.

Much had changed in the year since their last meeting.  War racked the islands, rutted the ground and flooded it in blood.  The Tuatha De Danaan had fought fiercely to claim the land from the Fomorians. 

In that war, a great hero had risen. 

His name rang out across all the lands in praise and worship, as though he were a god himself. 

Cú Chulainn.

Indeed, much had changed in that year.  She had fallen in love.  In love with that great hero warrior.  In love for the first time. 

But Chulainn betrayed her and broke her heart.  And now she stood, ready to greet the god with her body. 

This time with their joining, not only would the spirits rise, but the war would end.  The god had foretold it.  And she had trusted him. 

Foolish goddess.

Closing her eyes, she could see his smile still, those beautiful lips speaking false promises.  She leveled her gaze on his cold, bare chest and bit down on her desire to turn and flee.  The Morrigan never ran, she never feared.  Armies fell before her and other gods worshipped her.  This one should be no different.

She did not fear him. She just wasn’t sure she should go through with the task—it could have irrevocable consequences, it could destroy relationships. 

And she didn’t want to.  She’d lay with no other man, but Cú Chulainn.  A true testament to her feelings, considering her nature. 

She’d made a commitment to him and what she prepared to do would end that.

But that was just it, wasn’t it?  He had made his choice clear—the man, not the god.  He had chosen everyone and everything else over her.  Glory and victory and fame. 

And he had lied.  Lied about his loyalty. 

 So why shouldn’t she give herself to the god standing before her now? 

But when she looked up the god was gone, replaced with a stranger—a man, warm and powerful, towering over her, his shoulders broad above thick, strong arms, taunt stomach muscles rippling in the moonlight as they rose and fell with deep, impassioned breaths. 

Heat radiated from his golden, silky skin.  It looked like velvet in the pale light. 

Her eyes felt heavy as she lifted them up to his mouth where full lips were parted—lips that looked so familiar to her, she was almost certain it was her warrior. 

But foreign, dark eyes gazed down on her with a hunger that brought a jolt of warmth between her legs.  The rest of his face remained shadowed by hair that fell in soft, dark waves about his ears and high cheekbones, pale light highlighting the hard edges of his strong jaw.

The moon touched the man’s smooth shoulders, the muscles defined by its silvery light.  Heady from the heat of his body so close to hers, she felt her limbs grow weak. 

As though he knew she would swoon, he placed his large hands around her waist, pulling her against him to hold her steady.  His fingers splayed across her ribs and hips.  She studied his lips and wondered if she kissed them, would she know who this man was?

The column of his throat jumped as he swallowed and ran those hands up her sides, his thumbs gliding along the lower lines of her breasts as the rest of his hands cupped her.  He slid his fingers inside the top of her bodice, gripping it in each hand, and ripped it in two.

Morrie sat up with a gasp. 

Her hand flew to her chest, patting to make sure she really felt the cotton of her tank top and not a feather corset. 

Shaking, she looked around the dark space of the room she rented on the ranch, the sounds of crickets faint through her open window. 

The dream had seemed too real, had felt too real, leaving behind its affect with the moisture between her legs, her curling toes digging into the mattress.  Still she could close her eyes and see the man’s hands on her and her sex pulsed again.  The shock of it brought Morrie completely awake. 

She hadn’t felt arousal in…eons—not since
him
. 

Cú Chulainn.

Her past had been entwined with the defender of Ulster, the human hero, Chulainn, and while it had often been a violent and tempestuous relationship, he had been the only man she loved. 

When he’d found out about her tryst with the god, Dagda, not caring that she had done it to end the war or that it had been a tradition older than mankind, he had flown into a fit of rage—known then as a riastrad—and gotten himself killed on the battlefield. 

She had never forgiven him for it.

Though many men tried to tempt her since, she never responded, her body refused to, and inside she had just grown numb.

Until the faceless stranger invaded her dream and with his intangible touch rekindled a thousands-of-years-long dead fire.

Folding back her blanket, Morrie slid out of bed and sat down in front of her desk, legs trembling. 

She opened her laptop and then her email, clicking on the Compose button.  She began to type out the words of regret to the email address that came as the contact for the Scottish manor owner. 

But halfway through the sentence, she stopped, thinking back on that fateful night at the river, thinking back to who she once was…
still
was.