Morrigan's Bite: Crow's Curse

By Laura Bickle

Becoming a vampire was the worst thing to ever happen to Garnet Conners. But does she have to become a monster, too?

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Syrenka Publishing LLC
• Release date: Oct 23, 2020
• ISBN: 9798201279851

Laura Bickle

Laura Bickle grew up in rural Ohio, reading entirely too many comic books out loud to her favorite Wonder Woman doll. After graduating with an MA in Sociology–Criminology from Ohio State University and an MLIS in Library Science from the University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee, she patrolled the stacks at the public library and worked with data systems in criminal justice. She now dreams up stories about the monsters under the stairs. Her work has been included in the ALA’s Amelia Bloomer Project 2013 reading list and the State Library of Ohio’s Choose to Read Ohio reading list for 2015-2016. More information about Laura’s work can be found at www.laurabickle.com.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1: DREAMING IN THE DARK

Blood is power.

And I was determined to become as powerful as I could. 

Since I was a little girl growing up at Ecsed Castle, I had been given to fits of the falling sickness. My mother had followed the advice of the finest physicians in the kingdom, insisting that I drink a teacup of blood after each episode. I would sit up in my bed, sweating and shaking, and my mother would tenderly press the porcelain against my lips. At the bottom of the cup would always rest a small piece of bone—my mother said it was a bit of skull—and I would be urged to consume that, too.

Where does this come from? I asked my mother. I was propped up in bed with pillows, staring down at my empty cup.

She wiped my face with a cool cloth. That tea set came from your uncle.

I made a face. I rarely saw my uncle. He was king of Poland, and rarely traveled to our castle in Hungary. But my mother was being deliberately obtuse, and I could sense that, even as a child. No. The blood and the bone. Where do they come from?

My mother gazed at me with soft dark eyes, full of motherly love. The blood and the bone come from people who do not have your illness. They will strengthen you.  

I stared down at the empty cup. Do they come from living or dead people? I could imagine blood coming from a living person, but that bit of skull...

Do not worry your overactive imagination about such things, Erzebet, my mother said, kissing me on my forehead. Rest, and become strong.

I don’t know that I ever became strong, but I tried. I rarely left Ecsed castle when I was small. My mother was too worried about the state of my health to let me roam far. As I grew older, I snuck farther and farther away, in the company of my favorite handmaid, Dalma. When my mother was otherwise occupied with the running of the castle, Dalma and I would hike up our skirts and mount horses from the stables. My mother had objected to me learning to ride, but my father, the Baron, had put his foot down and insisted that I learn. That became my freedom, as Dalma and I would ride far and wide through the surrounding forests. She’d fallen in love with the young stablemaster, you see, and we always had our pick of horses for our adventures.

In the forest, I felt at home. Beneath the susurration of leaves, I could speak what was on my mind. I knelt at the shores of creeks and captured frogs in my hands and ate wild berries. Dalma and I would sit on the rocks beside the streams and soak our feet, sore from being jammed in boots all day.

Overhead, the crows chattered at us. I would talk back to them, congenially, as if we had a tea party in the forest. Sometimes, they would bring me gifts: feathers, mouse skulls, bits of string, and ribbon. I would keep these treasures in a box under my bed. Having that secret relationship with them made me feel a connection to the wild world beyond the castle, a place that was not for prim noblewomen.

One day in the autumn, I’d lost track of time on one of our rides. We’d stayed out much later than intended, and I didn’t realize that we would be late for dinner until the sun kissed the horizon. The orange sunlight stretched through the birch trees, casting shadows long over the leaf-strewn deer trails we traveled.

We turned our horses toward the castle. I leaned forward and urged my horse, ever faster, into the gathering gloom. I galloped through the leaves, feeling exhilaration sing in my chest as I clung to the reins. I loved riding fast; clinging to the horse, I had the sensation of flying as the trees flashed past. I could close my eyes and imagine myself as one of the crows that always seemed to speckle the sky over the castle, free and unencumbered with ill health and a hovering mother.

A crow screamed, blended with a woman’s shriek far behind me.  

My eyes snapped open, and I jerked the reins, hauling my horse up short. I turned my head back, back to the direction the unearthly cry had come. I stared into the dark.

Dalma! I shouted, realizing that I’d lost her.

There was no answer. But something thundered toward me on the path. I held my breath and held my ground, reaching into my boot for a knife I’d stolen from the kitchens. I had heard tales of highwaymen. If one of them had dared harm Dalma, I would have his head on a pike...

But Dalma’s horse thundered past. I glimpsed the whites of his eyes and the flare of his nostrils as he sped away, riderless.

Dalma!

I turned my horse and plunged back into the woods, calling for my dear friend. Night had fallen, and I cast about in the dark, searching for her.

In the distance, a throaty crow call echoed. I rode in that direction, shouting. The crow croaked back, as if in answer. The frogs from the creek sang, and the last crickets of the season chirped weakly. But I did not hear Dalma’s voice.

Following the crow’s summons, I found myself gazing down at a fallen log, one that my horse had smoothly leapt over in the waning light. But a limp figure lay beside it now, turned and twisted. Above my head, on a tree limb, the crow softly muttered.

Dalma! I shouted. I clambered down off my horse and fell to my knees beside her. I shook her, but she did not move. I reached for her head, pulled it into my lap. I gasped as my hands came away sticky with blood.

Oh, no. No. She must have been thrown, fallen...and struck her head. I had no idea what to do for her. I only knew that I had to get her back to the castle, where one of the physicians could help her.

I struggled to lift her. Dalma was a slight girl, but I was not accustomed to carrying burdens. After a substantial fight and much cooperation from my patient horse, I managed to fling her limp form across the back of the horse. I awkwardly climbed into the saddle behind her. Her feet and pale hands dangled into space.

I urged my horse forward, and we plunged into the blackness. I knew now—too late—that it was dangerous to ride so fast in the dark, to tear through obstacles neither I nor my horse could see. But the crow flew ahead of us, softly croaking. I could hear it over my pounding heart, and I followed. I pursued it blindly, a prayer on my lips.

With stars overhead, I broke out onto the castle grounds. I shied away from the stables, rushing directly to the drawbridge of the castle. I thundered over it, through the great doors, a blur past the watchmen, thinking only to bring Dalma to help. No one tried to stop me. I was the baron’s daughter; they did not dare. My horse’s shoes clattered on the stone floors. I drove him right to the great hall, searching where I thought I might find my mother’s physician.

I slid down from the saddle, my boots slamming against the cold stones. I grabbed Dalma, and she slid down against my body. I gripped her around the waist and thundered inside, shouting for someone to help me...

...and I dragged her into a pool of candlelight, right into the center of an audience my father was holding. Faces turned toward me: my father, my mother, and a cloaked figure holding a torch.

Help her! I shrieked.

The elderly watchman had caught up with me by that point, with soldiers in tow. They took Dalma from me and laid her on the floor. I gazed down on her, wringing my hands. Her blue eyes were open, staring at the ceiling.

My mother had come to me, trying to draw me away. I shook her hands off, watching as a man pressed his ear to her chest.

She’s dead, the soldier said.

No! I shrieked. She couldn’t be dead. I jerked away from my mother, needing space and air and answers. I knelt beside Dalma, shaking her.

But the soldier was right. She did not respond. Her face was cold when I touched her cheek.

The men were silent, watching me. Numb, I climbed to my feet. I stared down at my dress. I was covered in blood, smeared from neck to knee.

Shaking, I turned to my parents. My mother was silently weeping, while my father’s face was twisted in fury, likely at me having ruined his audience. My gaze fell on the cloaked man who stood before him. He was tall, blonde, with piercing blue eyes. Though I had never seen him before, I somehow knew him. 

He gazed at me with an expression of wonder, of tenderness, an expression completely out of place in this situation.

I am sorry, Ferenc, my father was saying. I owe you a debt for what you have done to protect our interests in Transylvania, and we greet you with chaos...

The blond man waved his hand. It is no trouble, my lord. I am honored to serve you.

But his gaze remained locked on mine. It was the same look that I had seen Dalma give to the young stablemaster, that expression of unfathomable familiarity.

I turned away, staring down at Dalma’s lifeless form that was being collected by the soldiers. My mother pushed me toward the door, careful not to touch the front of my bloody gown.

Darkness crept into my vision, and the falling sickness seized me. I slid to the floor, wishing the cold, unforgiving ground would open up and swallow me whole.

I AWOKE IN DARKNESS, smelling earth around me. I felt cold, leaden. The dream of the past, of some forgotten past incarnation of the Morrigan, lay heavy upon me. My fingers and toes had fallen asleep, and I wiggled them to generate some feeling and shake myself awake. It figured that I’d still be dreaming of Merrel—tall, blonde, and fanatically devoted to me. But I didn’t dismiss my dreams anymore. I gleaned bits and pieces of the past from them now, our shared history. Once upon a time, part of my consciousness had been the goddess Morrigan, the Celtic goddess of blood and war. In her original incarnation, she was a vampiric force that haunted battlefields, and she’d taken Merrel as a consort. The two of them had made vows to reunite throughout the Morrigan’s many incarnations through the years. Those incarnations poisoned my dreams and haunted my waking thoughts. 

I hated them. I hated dreaming of him, of past lives I’d experienced with him. I cringed as each one unfolded, threatening to devour me.

And I hated dreaming of blood. My stomach gurgled, thinking of it.

I sat up in my makeshift bed, pulling a soft blanket around my shoulders. I gazed at the little room I’d slept in the basement of an old Victorian house. The floor was dirt, and something always smelled perpetually damp and mildewy here. The walls were uneven brick, spitting out chunks of mortar. This portion had been dug out as a root cellar, with a ceiling so low it brushed the top of my head when I stood. A cot had been set up here, and I slept beside sacks of potatoes, underneath bunches of herbs drying, suspended by twine. I didn’t know what they all were—probably for some kind of kitchen use or else for magical spells. I smelled minty and spicy leaves, and I could pick out oregano, bay, and a few other culinary spices. I noticed that there was no garlic among them, none that I could smell, anyway.

I sighed. I didn’t know if I was allergic to garlic. I didn’t know much of anything. All I knew was that I had been killed and woken from the dead in an uncomfortably powerful body that didn’t come with an operator’s manual. I was a vampire, and I didn’t know what I was doing.

I just knew that Merrel was to blame for all of it.

Anger blistered the back of my throat, a rage that I could feel all the way down in the pit of my stomach.

I glanced down at the floor, my nose twitching. I smelled blood. Beside my bed sat a thermos, still a bit warm, as if it contained soup. I picked it up and screwed off the cap.

Blood. It smelled rich and thick. I lifted the bottle to my mouth and drained it, feeling it slide down my throat and pool into my gut. When it was empty, I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. I was still hungry, but my stomach stopped gurgling.

A knock sounded at the door of the root cellar. The door was thick wood, laced with iron, as if it had been intended to keep monsters and not potatoes inside. I was told that the owners of the house had used this place to protect spell books, once upon a time, but I wasn’t sure I entirely believed that.  

Garnet? A muffled voice sounded from the other side of the door. Are you up?

I was pretty sure that was code for: Hey, are you awake and not going to rip any heads off?

Yeah, I said. I’m up. And I’ve had breakfast.

The latch on the door clattered—the lock worked only from the outside—and the door opened. Sorin came in, holding a battery-powered lantern. I blinked, forgetting for a moment that the warlock couldn’t see in the dark, like I could. Even if he was High Priest of the Lusine Coven.

He was still a bit wobbly on his feet, recovering from a beating that had left him with a damaged aorta and a brain aneurysm. Hair was starting to grow back on the side of his scalp that had been shaved, and part of a bandage peeked out over the neckline of his sweatshirt. Despite the mangling he’d taken at the hands of the vampires and my own surgical hands, he was still irresistibly charming, his hair mussed and his glasses perched on his Roman nose.

How are you feeling? I asked automatically. I fell back into the reflex of being a surgeon, inquiring after my patient.  

Better, he said, coming to sit beside me on the cot. He sat close to me, not touching, his elbows braced on his knees. He smelled of old books and amber, underneath the sharp tang of blood.

I think you should go back to the hospital, I said. Again.

He made a face. And let the vampires have another go at me? No thanks. Besides, my surgeon is here. He glanced at me and gave a half smile.

Let me see, I said. This was a ritual we completed twice a night now. I checked his wounds and nagged him to go to the hospital. He ignored me, invariably.

I looked at the stitches crossing his scalp. The wound seemed to be healing well, with no signs of infection. I did a quick screening of his vision with the lamp, and he passed.

I took his pulse, resting my fingers against the interior of his wrist and gazing at my watch. I was conscious of his blood moving under my fingers so much more than I would have been before I’d been turned. I told myself that this was just because I thought he was attractive.  Not because I was a vampire and had sprouted very delicate senses, especially where blood was concerned.

Very good, I said. Let’s see the chest wound.

Gingerly, Sorin pulled off his shirt. I stuffed down a reaction to seeing his bare chest. Despite being a bookish type, Sorin worked out, and I appreciated that. I plucked away the bandages in a businesslike fashion and peered at the massive incision I’d made on his chest. The stitches were black, ugly, hooking into violet bruises. But they held the incision closed, at least. The healing spells the witches used seemed to be doing him some good, though I would never admit that.

I reached for a stethoscope and gently placed the metal on his chest. The witches had brought me medical tools to tend to Sorin—everything from a pulse oximeter to antibiotics and IV kits with saline bags. I was grateful for them, though I didn’t ask where they came from.

I listened, moved the stethoscope, and listened some more to the blood churning around in his chest. Finally, I moved the stethoscope away. Everything sounds okay, I said. But I can’t see shit. As far as I know, you could have a clot there that’s gonna screw you over. You need to be seen.

Sorin shook his head. I’ve got to lay low and make do, he said. We all do.

He reached for his shirt, and a drop of blood oozed up from one of the stitches. I stared at it. It welled up and glinted, and I was struck by the irresistible urge to lick that droplet.  

Abruptly, I stood up and turned my back to him, gripping my elbows. From an infection control standpoint, that was a terrible idea. For whatever other bloodlust that ignited, it could be so much worse...

How are you feeling? he asked me.

I gave a small shrug. Eh. I’m trying to get used to the idea of being a vampire. And the most recent incarnation of the Morrigan. As one does.

His warm hand rested on my shoulder. It’s gonna be okay, Garnet. It will.

A lump rose in my throat. He always called me Garnet. Not like Merrel, who called me Morrigan. And maybe I was. I had barely come to accept the idea that I