Without another word, she bound herself to a crow’s form right on my table, snatched the pouch in her talons, and then flew out my back door, which opened by itself to allow her egress.
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, "It’s Brighid. She said hello to me."
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 na**d 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.
"Answers to what?"
“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.”
"Why?"
“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.
"Okay." 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!
"Atticus, you know I can hear you when you’re all spazzed up, right? That was a lot of alliteration for a doubtful Druid deliberating over a deity’s dubious designs."
“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.
"Ha! If you think I’m licking that up, you’re crazy," 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.”
"What? Hey, whoa, this sounds like a bad idea."
“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.”
"Um."
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?”
"Oh, great big bears! Beam him up, Scotty! Now!"
“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.
"Hey, you can’t stick it to my Man!" 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.