Morrigan: Blue Moon Rising

By Amanda McKeon

You’d think that it would be pretty cool finding out that you’re a Celtic witch in the 21st century, wouldn’t you? Well, not for Morrigan "Mo" Reilly. After the death of her adoptive parents in a tragic car accident, she finds her powers steadily growing in the turmoil of guilt and grief. She’s fallen out with friends and family, and her relationship with Aidan—Calliaghstown's adorable young police officer—is hanging in the balance. Mo wants nothing more than to be a normal teenage girl once more. Yet fate has other things in store for her. Violently thrown into a fantastical realm of faeries and mythological creatures, Mo is desperate to find her way back home. But first she must face her demons, and above all the shadowy presence she has been trying to outrun for months—her satanic father.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Amanda McKeon
• Release date: Jul 20, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301489190

Amanda McKeon

Amanda McKeon was born and educated in Dublin, Ireland, but left in her early twenties to travel the world. She lived and worked in Mexico, Australia and the UK, before settling in the south of France with her husband, daughter, and feisty Jack Russell terrier (Sammy). When not working on her novels she writes regular articles and blogs on her other great passions: parenting and yoga.

Book preview

Prologue

IS THAT MO OUT THERE?

I turned my head slightly toward the voice and could make out Cat at the kitchen window, a cup in one hand and the other prying the wooden slats of the kitchen blinds apart so that she could get a better view. Ignoring the intrusion I continued to stare at Cassidy’s house. A curtain twitched in one of the bedrooms on the top floor. That’s right Rachel, I’m watching you. All the time. Another voice coming from the direction of my house. My cousin, Sinead. She must be visiting. One of the few benefits of being a shape-shifting witch—excellent sensory perception. The window opened and I could hear the clatter of cups and saucers. 

 I don’t think so. Sinead rose from the table and joined Caitlin at the window. She’s got a bluish streak on her tail feather.

That’s her alright. Caitlin was annoyed now. How many times have I told her about stalking the Cassidys like that? It’s getting out of hand. Right!  

Unperturbed, I held my ground and my gaze firmly at the window of the room where I knew my ex-friend Rachel Cassidy was hiding.

The noise of our backdoor being yanked open compelled me to look around. Cat came marching across the deck, half sliding on the ice that remained from the big snows that had fallen over the Christmas period. 

Morrigan! Morrigan! I know it’s you.

I looked at her for a moment before turning back to Rachel, whom I knew with complete certainty was watching and listening from her parents’ bedroom.

I mean it, Mo. You had better get down from there, or so help me, I’ll force you down myself. She wasn’t joking either. And she had the power to do it.

Lifting myself vertically into the air, I hovered for a moment before flying up to the window from which I knew Rachel was spying. I stretched my wings full span and puffed out my chest so as to look bigger. Emitting an ear-piercing screech, I turned abruptly and flew off toward the horizon, leaving Cat on the deck below, staring after me, arms wrapped tightly around herself.

Flying filled me with joy and I wasn’t feeling much of that these days. Spotting a muddy field in the distance I headed in that direction in search of thermals that would lift me higher and higher. It had been a rough few months. My parents had recently died and it was more or less my fault. 

First big revelation—I’m a witch, and by all accounts a pretty powerful one. That said, I have yet to figure out how to manage my power. I can shape shift into a raven, which is very cool, but beyond that, and scrying, which comes in fits and starts, I don’t really know yet. It’s trial and error, but finding occasions to try out the stronger aspects of what Caitlin insists on referring to as my gift can be difficult, to say the least.

That brings me to the second revelation—my parents weren’t my parents at all. My aunt Caitlin, or Cat as I usually call her, is my mother, and my father is, or rather was, some sick, evil monster who raped her and then spent the rest of his life using black magick to try to become immortal. 

Oh yeah, third revelation: a guy that I used to fancy turned out to be my brother, which means that this freak almost broke some fairly serious incest taboos, albeit unwittingly.

So that’s about the long and the short of it; that’s my life at the mo. That’s me, Mo. Short for Morrigan—descendent from the Celtic goddess of battle, fertility and strife. This particular day, roughly a month after Anthony Butler perished in a fire, the parish priest, Fr. Leahy, is honoring him in a memorial mass. I feel honor bound to make sure that does not happen.

One: In Memoriam

THE CROWD GATHERED AT THE church was large. Mass wasn’t to start for another twenty minutes, so people congregated outside murmuring in small groups. Flying overhead, I could sense hushed excitement ripple through the body of people below, as each tried to discreetly ascertain exactly what had happened on the night Anthony Butler had died. Only a tiny number attending were there because they liked or respected the man. For the most part, the macabre circumstances surrounding his passing were too juicy to miss out on—in Calliaghstown, everybody loves a good funeral, or in this case, a memorial.

I found a tree branch with a good view of the entrance to the church and settled in. Close to the church doors, I could see Mrs. Cassidy dressed from top to toe in black. She was clearly staking out her claim to be first to enter the church after the immediate family. As town gossip, she insisted on getting the best spots at weddings, funerals, and the like, in case any drama should occur.

Mrs. Butler, the widow, who had been out of town at the time of her husband’s death, had returned and was staying with her sister, as the Butler residence was in ruins after the fire. The deceased’s former mistress, Evelyn Bishop’s, remains had been found at the scene and had been taken back to a distant relative in county Cavan. Anthony Butler, however, had left nothing of himself behind.

The police were at a loss to explain what had happened after Caitlin and I got out of the burning house with baby Jack. Butler appeared to have self-combusted or something, before the fire-brigade arrived. Apparently, bodies with a high fat content can dissolve in a very hot fire. That’s what I want to believe anyway.

Regardless, I was happy to see the back of him. Now at least, Caitlin could venture outside without fear of running into him all the time. The one time I’d seen Caitlin rattled, was when she bumped into him unexpectedly. For all her power and wisdom, she was reduced to a quivering mess by that monster.

Still, the lack of proof of his passing did not fill me with confidence. Just after the fire, I had bumped into a monk called Hugh, who was also a ghost. He delivered the news that ‘my father’ was looking for me. I pushed that particular thought from my mind and focused instead on the celebration of his passing, taking place below. 

A black limo pulled up to the church door, and Mrs. Butler, her eldest son, Tony, her daughter Helen, and then Robbie all got out. Sinead, who had moved in with Tony, had decided not to come to the memorial, but Tony’s, soon to be ex-wife, Ruth, was attending with her mother.

Tony and Ruth had never really wanted to marry, but had been more or less coerced into it by their respective fathers, who had been business partners and close friends for years. Neither had had the nerve to defy their father, and anyway the pair had always been great friends, so it hadn’t really seemed like much of a hardship when, in their mid twenties the wedding looked set to happen. At the time, neither was involved with anyone else, and they reasoned, a marriage based on friendship and loyalty might end up staying the course. 

A year into their marriage though, Tony had bumped into my cousin, the lovely Sinead, at a party. The attraction was instant. One thing led to another and they began to see each other secretly. What Tony felt for Sinead was different from what he felt for Ruth. The platonic love he felt for his long time friend was no longer enough.

When he dared broach the topic of ending the marriage with his father, Anthony Butler wouldn’t hear of divorce or annulment. He threatened to disown Tony and cut him off financially. Ruth’s parents felt the same and since Tony had a very well paid job working for Ruth’s father, he found himself stuck between a rock and a hard place. He liked his lifestyle too much to jeopardize it. 

A few months later, Sinead fell pregnant. Ruth found out and confronted him. It was she who had insisted that he go to the hospital the night baby Jack was born, to meet his son.

Now that Anthony Butler was dead, and Ruth’s father had had a stroke that left him completely incapacitated, there was no real reason why they had to stay married. Ruth was as eager as Tony to break out of the arrangement, and that’s what they were doing. They had officially separated and filed for divorce. 

 The family stood awkwardly in front of the congregation. Nobody approached them and they stayed rooted to the spot waiting to be told what to do. I watched Robbie push a small stone around with the toe of his shoe, his hands jammed deep into his pockets.

I had recently found out that Robbie was my half brother. He didn’t know. Caitlin and I agreed that we should keep the details of that night to ourselves. We gave the police all the information they needed about Anthony Butler and Evelyn Bishop abducting baby Jack, but the rest they could figure out themselves. No-one would benefit from knowing that Robbie’s real mother was Evelyn Bishop. At least, not yet. Funerals are hard enough. Robbie already had enough on his plate. If Mrs. Butler was happy to continue to play the charade that Robbie was her son, who was I to rock the boat?

 A dumpy figure in a black skirt suit, sky-high heels, and black fascinator, broke away from the main crowd and grabbed hold of Robbie’s hand. I flew to a lower branch to get a better look. Oh, Robbie! she gasped. The drama was starting.

Rachel. Hi, murmured Robbie awkwardly. Rachel dabbed at her eye with a handkerchief. I couldn’t help wondering where you could even buy one of those these days.

I can’t believe he’s really gone, Robbie. It’s awful. She sniffed between her words, dabbing daintily at her eyes. 

Yeah. Robbie stuffed his hands even deeper into his suit trouser pockets and surveyed the crowd behind her. Rachel snaked her hand into his, milking her role as girlfriend of the bereaved for all it was worth. It really was most distasteful. 

One of the funeral directors bent down and whispered in Robbie’s ear, who then excused himself and went back to the limo. The family began moving inside and for a moment Rachel was lost. She hopped from one foot to the other, undecided, and then opted to stay close to Robbie while he retrieved his mother’s handbag from the limo nearby. She shadowed him closely, mincing a step or two behind him as he entered the church.

The grounds were almost empty now with everyone inside. Gliding above, I waited for Robbie to get inside. Rachel’s ridiculously high shoe got stuck in the grate and she was forced to bend down and free it. Gaining as much momentum as I could, I swooped down and just as I reached her, extended my claws. She screamed, her arms flailing above her head trying to fight me off. I withdrew and made ready for the second attack. As luck would have it, all the excitement caused my tiny bowels to move. By now she was hysterical and the last remaining people disappearing in to the church frowned their disapproval. Her mother had already gone inside to secure a choice pew, so Rachel was on her own. Looking skyward, her mouth slightly ajar, she sought out her attacker. I sailed over her and let go. The remains of my lunch dropped like lead, across her face and in her mouth! 

Robbie came back outside to look for her. Her hair stood on end and green slime streaked her face. She was doubled over, dry retching on the church steps. 

Rachel, what happened? Are you okay? She couldn’t articulate her words and simply wretched some more. Robbie searched around her for clues as to what might have happened.

Is that bird-shit? 

It’s that bird I told you about. Look! She pointed in my general direction. As a bird, it’s hard to laugh, but my stomach was hurting from the effort.

Rachel was not to be deterred. Using a kleenex, she smeared the remains of my lunch all over her face and hair. 

Mo Reilly has something to do with it. It’s her pet, or something. Her familiar! She’s a witch, Robbie, and she’s after me.

Robbie had the pained look of someone used to dealing with the mentally disturbed. Look, Rachel, this is my father’s memorial. Maybe you should go home and get cleaned up. I’ll meet you at the reception in Molloy’s Hotel afterward. He leaned in to kiss her on the cheek, thought better of it and went quickly inside. 

 Screeching, I swooped Rachel one more time from behind, tugging at her hair. She screamed again and ran out of the church grounds, as fast as her sky-highs could carry her. 

I had no sympathy. She had been in cahoots with Anthony Butler. Rachel set me up on my birthday, telling Butler where I would be and trying to get me drunk, so that I wouldn’t be able to handle myself. She even fed her other two friends to the wolves—that’s the kind of person Rachel Cassidy turned out to be. Were it not for Caitlin, coming to my rescue, I would have been hurt pretty badly. Well, now he was gone and she had me to deal with.

 The melancholic opening of Schubert’s Ave Maria brought my attention back to the real task at hand. We had played that at Maureen and Jack’s funerals and it never failed to move me to tears since. Now the memory would be marred by Anthony Butler. It was time to take a stand. An open window above the main doors allowed me to slip into the service unnoticed, and settle on a beam high up in the eaves.

Down below on the altar the parish priest, Fr. Leahy, stood head bowed waiting for the organist to finish. A long pause followed the music—you could have heard a pin drop. The mourners kept their eyes lowered. Only one or two dared to glance at Fr. Leahy when it seemed that he might never speak. People shifted in their seats and someone coughed. 

Welcome, Friends, to this very solemn occasion. His voice faltered on solemn. We come here to celebrate the life of a great man, and a great friend, Anthony Butler. He smiled sadly at a photograph of the deceased that had been placed on a low table at the front of the altar.

In it, Anthony Butler looked an awful lot younger than he had been when he died. He wasn’t smiling, but looked squarely into the camera lens, challenging the viewer. A set of rosary beads, presumably his, and a small prayer book sat to one side of the frame. Nothing like a good Catholic faux faith to mask a penchant for black magick. The rest of the table held bouquets of flowers with notes of condolence attached. Several more wreaths had been placed on the altar and spilled out into the congregation and down the centre aisle of the church. I wondered who might have gone to the trouble of providing all those floral arrangements. In our town, people feared Anthony Butler. Not many had actually liked the man. 

 I looked around for Robbie. He was in the front row, on his knees, his elbows resting on the ledge in front, and his face buried in his hands. His shoulders heaved and then shuddered. Watching him, I felt a powerful force grip me. I could feel his pain. His emotions took hold of me like a vice. Visions swept over me; he and his father arguing. Scenes from his childhood—images of a very young Robbie watching as his father abused his mother verbally, and physically. I felt faint at the effort of hosting these feelings, even fleetingly. Relief washed over me when the moment had passed. I was more determined than ever to put a stop to this charade of a memorial. 

A man whose generosity of spirit knew no bounds. A man who always put others first. 

The priest paused, swallowing audibly. 

And who was a great family man. Fr. Leahy was warming to his subject.

Now was the time to act. Closing my eyes, I called on the elements and asked them to lend me their energy. I mimicked more or less what I had seen Caitlin do when we had visited the sacred site in Wicklow, hoping that I too might harness their powerful energies. An incantation formed in my mind, repeating as though on a loop. Earth, water, wind and fire, make it so, my heart’s desire. 

I could sense the energies rising. It was working!

A mighty wind blew in from the east, rattling the stained glass windows. The priest stopped talking. People looked at one another nervously. The heavy wooden doors began to bang and then, the raging wind burst through, tearing miselettes from the fingers of the mourners. The table and all its contents was upended and flowers rolled across the altar like tumbleweed. The priest held fast to the corners of the enormous marble table as the wind whipped his vestments, pulling up his trouser leg to expose yellow waxy flesh below. 

Remain seated, he bellowed, over the din. The congregation looked to one another, unsure of what to do. Ushers tried to force the doors closed, but the wind was too strong. A gust overturned a standing candelabra, depositing several candles on the carpet of the altar. Within minutes flames licked the long velvet curtains draped in front of the sacristy door, and black smoke began to billow into the rest of the church. Dropping my attention down deep into the earth, I envisaged a long shudder. The floor of the church began to shake. Statues fell to the ground, shattering on the parquet floors. 

The thrill of this power running through me was like nothing I had ever experienced before and I longed to push it as far as it might go. People started to panic, pulling small children out of pews, and climbing over seats to get to the exits. In my third eye, I could see the cold metal sprinklers that were dotted around the ceiling, and mentally I released the water. Freezing water doused those below as they fled. Mrs. Cassidy fought her way out of her well-positioned pew, skidding on crushed, soggy flowers in her haste. As though in slow motion, her right leg lifted into the air, displacing her centre of gravity and dumping her unceremoniously in a heap in front of the Butler family. Tony ushered his mother and sister out the side door. It was absolute mayhem. I couldn’t have planned it better.

Then something caught my eye. Mairead O’Neill’s little sister Shauna, who was only four or five, stood alone crying in the middle of the centre aisle. I couldn’t see any of her family nearby. Someone yelled that there was an exit through the sacristy and the child was almost crushed in the stampede of people trying to get out. I knew that I had to stop, before she or someone else got hurt. 

I tried to focus on calm but the wind just blew harder. The stained glass windows shattered, raining down on those who had not yet made it out. Enough! Enough! Enough! It was no good. I couldn’t control it anymore. Please, Morrigan. Make it STOP! In an instant the wind dropped, the fire had been put out by the sprinklers, and they too stopped. The silence was deafening. What had I just done? That child was almost… I couldn’t think about that now. I had come this far. I had to see it through to the end. 

The church was empty now, save for the old priest who stood his ground on the altar. He was still gripping the table for support and his knuckles were entirely white. What little hair he had was utterly disheveled, standing on end as though he’d put his finger in an electric socket.

Lifting myself into the air, I closed the gap between us and landed on the marble table. I wanted him to know that what had happened here had been no accident. The eyes are the windows to the soul and the good priest’s were dark and murky. He held my gaze.

You won’t get away with this, Morrigan Reilly. There will be consequences. His voice was shaky.

I opened my wings full span and puffed out my chest, cawing loudly as I lifted into the air and flew down the centre aisle and out the double doors. Once outside, I found a branch high up in one of the great ash trees, where I could take a moment to collect myself. I was shaking violently.  Below, people ran to their cars, or back home on foot. 

The Butlers were forced to wait for the crowd to clear so that the limo could pull out. I shook off the twinge of remorse that had begun to tug at my conscience. I wasn’t trying to hurt them, but there was no way that Anthony Butler was going to be honored in my community that day, or any other.

Two: Paranoia

WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN?

I could tell Cat was annoyed, even though she tried to do that steady, I’m not judging you, tone.  She was peeling vegetables for the roast chicken we were to have that