Hexed

Chapter 14

I spent maybe thirty seconds thinking the Morrigan had left so quickly because she was getting a bit verklemmt over my offer of friendship. I should have known better.

A polite knock at the door startled me and set Oberon off to barking three times before he said,

Brighid is at the door? A note of panic in my mental voice made my hound laugh, for he knew as well as I that I couldn’t answer the door right now. I was still naked and only partially healed from the Morrigan’s abuse—and that, I realized, was precisely what the Morrigan wanted. Nothing about the timing of these visits was accidental. Once again, I would have to play catch-up with the designs of these goddesses and try to figure out what their true motives were. A few weeks ago they had both played me beautifully to achieve their own ends, and now I could see it was starting again. I should have asked the Morrigan more questions about that civil war in Tír na nÓg, for that had something to do with Brighid’s sudden appearance, sure as a frog’s ass is watertight.

“Well, I know how to get some answers,” I said to the door as I scrambled into my bedroom. Oberon met me there with his tail wagging.

“To all my questions,” I said, throwing on a pair of khaki cargo shorts and a green cotton T-shirt. The door thumped again, not as politely as before; there was definitely a note of impatience in the way she knocked on wood. “Now, look, she can obviously hear your thoughts, so I want you to pipe down and head out to the living room and wait. And when she comes in, I want you to stay behind her at all times.”

“Just do it, please,” I said shortly, and immediately felt sorry for my arbitrary tone. Usually I enjoy arguing with Oberon. He’s great with the give and take. But he didn’t understand the stakes here, and I couldn’t explain them to him while Brighid was listening in on his side of the conversation.

Oberon’s tail drooped as he left the room, and I deflated a bit too, but if this was going to work, Brighid could have no warning. I didn’t know if I’d even go through with it, but I had to be prepared. I picked up Fragarach from my dresser and slung the scabbard across my back, then hurried to answer the front door.

Brighid smirked at me when I opened the door, and it was like one of those cheesy commercials they play during football games: An obscenely beautiful, sultry woman in next to nothing appears mysteriously; a ghost wind generated off camera blows her hair in a way that suggests wild abandon; she pouts sexily at this utterly regular schmoe with a weak chin; and he completely suspends his disbelief that she’d ever be interested in him, because he’s got an ice-cold beer in his hand. The mysterious wind in this case was almost certainly generated by Brighid herself, and it wafted her scent to me, which was just as I remembered it: milk and honey and soft ripe berries. Damn.

Now, I’m not a regular schmoe, and I certainly don’t have a weak chin, but I’m as susceptible to beer commercials as the next fella, even though it’s just living vicariously in a pubescent male fantasy. None of those commercials came close to the real, live goddess that confronted me in my doorway.

Brighid looked as if she had jumped out of the pages of Heavy Metal. She was wearing several layers of sheer blue material, tied or bunched in such a way as to barely cover her naughty bits, yet providing a tantalizing glimpse of each through the fabric. A golden torc circled her throat, and another accentuated her left biceps, while delicate ropes of twisted metal adorned her wrists. Around her waist were several thin golden chains. Her red hair cascaded around her face in languorous waves like Jessica Rabbit’s, and she had gold thread braided into it here and there. And the pouty come-hither look, achieved by pursing the lips a bit and looking at me with sleepy eyes? She had that down. The ladies in the beer commercials were hot, no doubt, but when a goddess wants to make an effort, no one else can even open the jar of mustard, let alone cut it.

Brighid was much more my type than the Morrigan. She didn’t eat dead people in any of her forms, for one thing, and it was she who ignited the fires of creativity and passion within the hearts of all Irish. But even if I wanted to give Brighid whatever she had come for—and I wasn’t sure I did—I realized that the Morrigan had done her best to ensure I couldn’t.

The entire cast of the Morrigan’s visit changed for me now that Brighid was standing in front of me. The two of them had never been antagonists, but neither had they been fast friends. A healthy respect and perhaps an unhealthy envy existed between them, a rivalry of equals to see who could be first among them all. What had kept each from the other’s throat before was Aenghus Óg and his cabal, but now that there had been a purge in Tír na nÓg, perhaps the two of them were clawing at each other and I was either a prize to be won or a means to a different end. The scratchy sex, the ear, the second omelet … it was all the Morrigan’s Machiavellian machinations!

“Welcome, Brighid. You’ve left me speechless,” I said over the end of Oberon’s mockery. She might wonder what I was thinking.

“Atticus,” she purred. I’m not kidding—she purred at me. Brighid can not only beat Hank Azaria at producing voices, she can do multiple voices at the same time. She can sing three-part harmony all by herself in addition to the lead. It comes in handy when she’s crooning ballads as the goddess of poetry, and now I saw—or rather felt—how it could be used for other purposes. “I hope I have not come at an inconvenient time,” she said in voices evocative of rose hips, caramel, and silk. It made me feel warm inside but I shivered outwardly, like a tuning fork quivering in hot chocolate.

“Not at all. Won’t you please come in?” I stepped aside and gestured for her to enter, the Bronze Age host once more.

“Thank you,” she cooed as she slunk by, a shimmering vision of soft blues and pulsing gold. Damn.

She flicked her eyes around the edges of my living room. “Your modern home is interesting.”

“Thank you. May I offer you any refreshment after your long journey from Tír na nÓg?”

“Ale, if you have any, would be splendid.”

“Coming right up.” I shot forward into the kitchen, beckoning her to follow, and grabbed a couple of Newcastles out of the fridge, tucked back behind the Stellas. She thanked me as I handed her one, then said, “There has been much unrest in Tír na nÓg since you slew Aenghus Óg. His confederates finally revealed themselves, and I was forced to spend some small time putting them to rout. They waged a propaganda war too, if you can believe it.”

I nodded. “I can believe it. What sort of nonsense did they spew?”

“Chief among their complaints was my lack of consort,” Brighid snorted, “as if Bres ever did anything useful or practical in his long life. All he did was sit there and look pretty. He was a pretty man,” she sighed, and then her face drew down into a tiny frown. “And a petty man.”

Where Bres was concerned, I had nothing to say. I’d killed him, yet here was his widow in my kitchen, spreading a wee bit of shit on his memory and dressed for epic bed sport. I couldn’t even manage a noncommittal grunt. There are no etiquette books that cover this particular situation, so I just took a long pull on my beer.

“But you are not petty, are you?”

“It would be rude of me to say yes when you put it like that.”

She laughed richly at my lame joke, and I finally understood what Chris Matthews meant when he said on national television that he felt a thrill go up his leg. I could think of nothing to do except take another long drink to disguise my reaction.

“No, you are not petty. And you have a sense of humor as well. Bres had none. That is why I think you should be my new consort.”

I sprayed a mouthful of beer onto the linoleum.

Oberon said.

“Oh, I’m sorry, I must have surprised you,” Brighid said.

I put my thumb and index finger together with a couple centimeters of space between them. “A bit,” I admitted.

“I suppose it sounds a bit unusual, but, like the Tuatha Dé Danann, you have found the secret to eternal youth. You are more powerful than Bres ever was, and you have proven yourself the equal—nay, the better—of two of our number. With my imprimatur and aegis, none will dispute your right to rule by my side, and certainly none will dispute whom I choose to take to bed.”

Ignoring the dangerous end of her sentence, I focused on the first part: “Forgive me, Brighid, but it has never been my ambition to rule over anyone.”

“You need not do it, then,” she said, shrugging off my objection. “Bres didn’t do anything either. It’s a figurehead position, but the Fae feel that it needs to be filled.”

“I see. And where would I need to be to satisfactorily fill this figurehead position?”

“In Tír na nÓg, of course.” She finally took a sip of the ale she had asked for.

“Can I not remain here, if there is no ruling for me to do?”

“You will have other duties,” she purred in that triple voice that turned my insides to Jell-O.

“But I rather enjoy this plane. There’s so much change and advancement to appreciate and an abundance of knowledge to absorb.”

“You can still sample these things as you wish, making brief trips as often as you like to the mortal plane. But there are more stimulating things to experience as my consort than the latest technological toy. There will be embassies to the world’s gods and wonders to behold, and you will visit all the planes on my behalf.”

“And my initiate? My hound? They cannot go to Tír na nÓg.”

“We can accommodate Oberon.” Brighid smiled. “Your initiate would be more problematic, as a mortal who would be constantly at risk of falling prey to the more mischievous of the Fae. Tír na nÓg would not be kind to her, and I doubt she would survive long. But she has not sacrificed much. She cannot have learned any of our mysteries yet in these few weeks. Pay her for her time and have done.”

“It is not so simple. I have given my word she would be trained fully.”

“Bring her if you must, then. I cannot guarantee her safety.”

“But you can guarantee mine and Oberon’s?”

Brighid shrugged. “There is no need. You are able to take care of yourself.”

Yeah, buddy, I know, we’ll talk later. To Brighid I said, “This is a most generous offer and yet wholly unexpected. To become the consort of one’s own goddess is beyond the scope of any man’s ambition. I confess myself unprepared to give you an answer at this moment, for much may depend on my response, and I feel it would be irresponsible of me to provide one without giving all ramifications their due examination.”

“So formal.” Brighid shook her head. “I must have made it seem like a business transaction. You mistake my meaning.”

She set her ale down on my kitchen table and stepped close to me. Her hand groped below my belt but pulled away, disappointed.

Brighid’s face clouded. “What’s the matter, Atticus? Do you not find me attractive? Am I not desirable to you?”

“It’s not that, not that at all,” I said, clearing my throat uncomfortably as I reminded Oberon that Brighid could hear him. “It’s just that I’m extremely tired at the moment—exhausted, in fact—and while I can do you any other service, I simply can’t do … that. Right now, I mean. Later would be good.” I nodded, smiling. “Great, in fact.”

Brighid’s nose wrinkled. I heard her sniff a couple of times, and then she abruptly stepped back and tore my shirt down the front, revealing the scratches and bruises from my morning’s exertions. Brighid’s face flushed and her eyes bulged as she drank in the evidence of my dalliance with her rival.

“I knew it!” she shouted. “You’ve lain with her! You’re the Morrigan’s creature!” And that’s all the warning I got before she unleashed the flames of her wrath against me in very literal terms. Fire whooshed out from her fingers and palms to char me toasty in my own kitchen. It didn’t burn me directly, thanks to my amulet, but it did behave differently than the fallen angel’s hellfire: Whereas the hellfire gave me a flash of heat before fizzling impotently, this ball o’ fire got channeled directly to the cold iron on my chest, where it began to burn painfully, just like the German hex had a couple of days ago. That was a mystery I’d have to ponder later. Right then I had a friend to protect, skin to heal, and several fires to put out.

Oberon barked.

That’s why I wanted you behind her. Don’t attack yet; I’m okay.

I drew Fragarach from its sheath, wincing at the heat in my palms, and pointed it at Brighid’s throat. “Freagróidh tú!” I yelled.

“No! Release me now!” she shouted back. She struggled to move but could do nothing but twitch, held fast in the blue glow of a spell crafted by her own brethren ages ago.

“You’re giving me commands? You just tried to fry me and you want me to obey you now? I’m sorry, that’s not how it works. And you’re the one who said I was fit to wield this sword.”

“You said you’d never wield it against me!” she blazed.

“True,” I admitted, “but that was before you tried to kill me.”

Her eyes shifted to find Oberon. “Release me now or—”

She stopped as I pressed Fragarach to the hollow of her throat. “Understand me, Brighid: If you ever hurt Oberon, your very long life will end directly afterward. You know I can move between the planes as I wish; there is no place you can run that I cannot follow.”

“You dare threaten me, a guest in your home?”

“You tossed out all the rules when you lost your temper. So we’re going to have a nice, long talk, you and I, and Fragarach will make sure you are not deceitful.”

Thanks, buddy. “Please take a moment first to put out the fires you started.”

“Why shouldn’t I let the whole house burn?”

“Because that would be rude when it’s a simple matter for you to put them out. Please put them out so we may talk peaceably.”

“Peaceably?” Brighid sneered. “With a sword at my neck?”

“Touché. But this would not be necessary had you acted with restraint. I ask you politely once more: Will you put out the fires?”

“What’s next? Torture if I refuse?”

“No, I’m not the Inquisition. I will find other means to put them out if you will not.” Fragarach could not compel her to act; it could only compel answers. I had a fire extinguisher in the garage, and I’d have to drag her there and back if she didn’t agree.

The goddess of fire grimaced but focused on something behind me and growled in Irish, “Múchaim.” Then she focused on me and said, “It is done.”

Is it done? I asked Oberon.

“Of course I did,” Brighid said, reminding us that she could hear Oberon.

“Thank you.” I nodded, as smoke roiled near the ceiling. “Let’s be seated, shall we?” I moved the sword slowly, allowing Brighid to shuffle in an undignified way to a chair at the kitchen table, then lowered it by degrees until she was able to sit down. I took a seat across from her, moving her ale out of the way.

“Excellent. Now let’s review what happened here, shall we? You showed up uninvited and I welcomed you in. I offered you refreshment and you accepted. You made a proposal to me and I said I would think about it. You ripped off my shirt and then tried to kill me. Now I ask you, which part of that sequence of events breaks every law of hospitality known to our race?”

“You left out the part where you fornicated with the Morrigan.”

“Not while you were here. Answer my question.”

Sullenly, Brighid said, “The part where I ripped off your shirt was a minor breach of hospitality.”

“We are making excellent progress,” I enthused. “How about the part where you tried to kill me? Was that not also poor conduct for a guest?”

“Yes—strictly speaking. But you gave me cause!”

“No, Brighid, I did not. If I had agreed to be your consort first and then fornicated with the Morrigan in front of you with Def Leppard on the stereo, then that would have been cause to incinerate me on the spot. But I am a free man and I gave you no such cause. And beyond that, I cannot fathom why you’d react like a jilted high school girl. This wasn’t done out of jealousy, was it?”

“No,” Brighid said. “I was not motivated by jealousy.”

“I thought not. And did you propose that I become your consort out of any true affection for me?”

“No.”

“Of course not. Before we get to the real reason you asked me to be your consort, I would like to address your accusation. If I were truly ‘the Morrigan’s creature,’ as you put it, then I could have killed you already, and indeed I should have and would have. We would not be talking right now if I were beholden to her will or if I were part of some evil plot to usurp you.”

“Then what is between you?” Brighid asked.

“She regenerated my ear for me,” I said, flicking the lobe. “Sex magic.”

Brighid flinched. “I did not know you had lost it. No one told me.”

“Yep. I lost it in the Superstition Mountains when I was killing Aenghus Óg for you. Speaking of which, did you tell Flidais to kidnap Oberon to make sure I showed up?”

The goddess sighed. “Yes.”

“I couldn’t agree more, Oberon,” I said. “Brighid, I want you to think a moment about what you have done here. I am the last man on this plane who worships you in the old way. I gave you full rites on Samhain just a few nights ago.”

“Yes, but you gave them to the Morrigan too.”

“As I should! And to Ogma. And to Manannan Mac Lir and all the rest. For they are my gods, as you are. And now to be served thus, after millennia of faith in your goodness and beauty and purity of spirit—and for what? Let’s have that answer now. Why did you truly want me to be your consort?”

“I want the secret of your amulet. I can study it better in Tír na nÓg.”

“Is that your sole motivation?”

“No. It would thwart the Morrigan.”

“Thwart her how? That’s more important to you, isn’t it?”

“Yes. She wishes to be supreme in Tír na nÓg, and she is using you to make it happen.”

“You are no better,” I pointed out. “You wish to be supreme, and you would use me the same way. I’m disgusted with you both. And you know what really chaps my hide here?”

“It’s that you’ve come down so dramatically from your pedestal. I can’t even have a proper crisis of faith and vacillate between the image of perfection and my shattered illusions, because you’ve left no doubt that there is nothing divine about your nature. Do you not see how you have debased yourself, or do you persist in thinking that you acted justly in trying to kill me? Wait—don’t answer that yet.” An inconsistency demanded resolution. “Why did you try to kill me with fire?”

Brighid shrugged. “Usually it gets the job done.” This admission—made under a spell that brooked no deceit—told me that Brighid still knew nothing about my deal with the Morrigan, or she wouldn’t have even tried to kill me. Regardless, it was perplexing behavior.

“But you expressly knew that my amulet protects me from most magic,” I said. “Did you forget that?”

“No. I just didn’t think it would prove strong enough to stand against me.”

“Ah, you thought your magic was stronger than mine.”

“Yes.”

“When mortals take excessive pride in their abilities, it’s called hubris. I don’t think there’s a word for when immortals do the same.” She regarded me stonily, unrepentant. “So. What will you do when I release you from Fragarach?”

She really didn’t want to answer this one, and I had to wait until the spell forced her to comply. “I will tear the amulet from your neck and then set you on fire once you are unprotected.”

I sighed. She wouldn’t be able to tear the amulet from me, but that didn’t matter as much as her stated intentions. “Well, that puts us in a very awkward position, doesn’t it? I’d rather that both of us lived and found some way to part amicably. Tell me, Brighid, why do you feel I deserve to die?”

“I still think you’re the Morrigan’s man. And you humiliated me.”

“I’m not the Morrigan’s anything. I am my own man. And any humiliation you feel is justly deserved, because you have behaved inexcusably. We’ve already established that it was your actions, not mine, that breached hospitality. You’re behaving like a petulant child and not taking responsibility for your actions, like one of the blasted Olympians. And I would like to point out that you have not suffered publicly. No one knows what you have done. It can remain our secret, and I think that this is a breach we can mend. What say you? Are you willing to negotiate a peace, or are you resolved that I must die for imagined offenses?”

“Release me and I will negotiate with you.”

I laughed at her. “I wasn’t born yesterday, as the people here are fond of saying. For perhaps a short time you will negotiate. After that, you will try to kill me, correct?”

Brighid gritted her teeth, frustrated that I had seen through her “truth” so easily.

“Yes,” she admitted, after trying in vain to resist answering.

“I thought as much. So, you see, I must keep you under this spell to ensure you negotiate in good faith.”

“I have no such assurance from you.”

“Well, I haven’t killed you yet when you’ve given me ample cause; I’ve never broken hospitality with you; and I’ve remained faithful to you for over two thousand years. I don’t think you should be questioning my moral character right now. You cannot say any of those things to me. You have behaved rashly, even stupidly, Brighid, because you fear the Morrigan is out to get you, and if I had behaved with the same lack of restraint, you’d be dead and the Morrigan would already be First among the Fae. And it can still turn out that way.” I leaned forward and pointed at her with my free hand. “You have wronged me, Brighid. And you owe me an apology. Much depends on your answer. What say you?”

“An apology wrung from me at the point of a sword would be worthless.”

“I beg to differ. At the point of this particular sword it would have to be heartfelt, or else you wouldn’t be able to say it. So this is a fundamental test of your constitution. Can you admit that you were wrong? Most deities can’t; it’s simply impossible for them. But you were human once, before we Irish made you gods. Take your time and think about it.”

Brighid’s eyes flashed with a blue flame, and I wondered if she had learned to do that just so she could compete with the Morrigan’s red flashes. Maybe I should try to figure out how to make my eyes flash green so I could freak out the baristas at Starbucks. “No, you foolish mortal,” I’d say as my eyes glowed, “I ordered a nonfat latte.”

The goddess broke eye contact and focused on emptiness, pressing her lips together, her jaw muscles visibly flexing. She clenched her fists and her entire body began to smoke, with isolated flames erupting here and there on her skin. I assumed she was dealing with anger issues.

Keep quiet while she’s doing this, okay? She’s forgotten you’re there and I don’t want to remind her. Oberon nodded that he heard and understood.

At length the fires went out and she relaxed, her muscles unclenching and the tension sloughing off her shoulders. She took several deep, shuddering breaths but eventually sighed deeply, placed her hands flat on the table, and looked down at her lap.

“Siodhachan, I have breached hospitality with you in an egregious manner. Please accept my sincerest apologies for my behavior.”

“Fairly spoken, Brighid. I accept your apology. But let us discuss the future now. If I release you from Fragarach’s spell, will you attempt to harm me or my hound?”

“No. Nor will I ever seek vengeance for the humiliation I have suffered. However, I cannot promise we will never come into conflict over other matters.”

“That’s understandable, but perhaps we could avoid unpleasantness by discussing other matters now. What do you think might bring us into conflict in the future?”

“Any liaison you have with the Morrigan.”

“Why? Should I not be able to liaise with whomever I wish?”

“Couple with her all you like,” Brighid sneered, “though I suspect there is more pain than pleasure in the act.” She jerked her chin significantly at the scratches on my torso. “What I mean is any sort of alliance that will threaten my position in Tír na nÓg.”

“All right, explain to me what it is you fear. You think I might help the Morrigan usurp you?”

“Yes, that is precisely what I think.”

“Well, I freely tell you that I do not want that to happen any more than you do. I’d much rather have you running things than her.”

“Thank you,” Brighid said warily after a pause to judge my sincerity.

“But I feel it only fair to tell you that I have sworn to teach the Morrigan, and no other, the secret of my amulet.”

Brighid’s eyes flared blue. “That is what I am talking about! With that as her defense, she could slay me easily!”

“Relax. You have plenty of time to make your own. The Morrigan will not be making one of these overnight. It takes centuries. And while I feel at this time that I must turn down your generous offer of becoming your consort, you are still welcome to come here and study the amulet whenever you wish.”

“What did she promise you in return for teaching her about the amulet?”

“Nothing that need concern you. It has nothing to do with supplanting your position.”

“Be careful, Druid. She is treacherous.”

“She has been more straightforward with me than you have, Brighid. And she has taken an interest in my life for the vast majority of it. It is no wonder that she has beaten you to discovering this new Druidry of mine. You, on the other hand, have ignored me until just recently, now that I have something you want. So if you find yourself at a disadvantage, you have no one to blame except yourself.”

Brighid closed her eyes and took a deep breath, determined not to lose her temper again. “Yes, this has been a day for my inadequacies to be made plain. Are you finished?”

“Just about. Will you agree to leave in peace and inform me in advance of your visits in the future?”

“Yes.”

“And my promised reward for killing Aenghus Óg? Rather than becoming your consort, I would like your forgiveness for today.” I released her from Fragarach and lowered the sword to the table but kept my hand on the hilt. “I look forward to your next visit and hope it will be much more congenial than this one.”

“I shall not break hospitality again,” Brighid said as she rose to her feet. “But neither shall you hear again an offer like you heard today. All of this,” she cupped her breasts briefly, “could have been yours, Druid, but no more. Think on that the next time the Morrigan is gouging out pieces of your flesh.”

She made sure I saw plenty of what I’d be missing on her way out the door. Damn, damn, damn.

Sure, Oberon. What’s up?

He reared up and put both his paws on my shoulders and gave me a sloppy lick in the face.