Out of the Shadows

By Guy Estes

Never piss off a daughter of the Morrigan, especially in a town like Nightshade.
Nightshade’s a weird town. It has a large Pagan population and a lot of fundamentalist Christians. Usually, they get along well. Then the attacks started.
It began with assaults. A Christian had satanic imagery burned into her. A Pagan had a cross pounded into him. Assaults became rapes, then murders. Each side blames the other.
Detective Tiernan Dempsey turns to two of his friends for help, Dr. Alexis O’Connor, anthropologist and Wiccan priestess and Honor MacGregor, Pagan PI. This case forces Honor to face fears she thought buried leaving her with severe trust issues and a touch of paranoia. Then she set eyes on Ethan Malone.
Ethan expected his life to be unending darkness. Wounded by his past, he resolved to never suffer that pain again. As long as he didn’t let anyone get close to him, he had nothing to fear. Then he set eyes on Honor MacGregor.
And the body count continues to climb. Then reports of possession emerge...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Guy Estes
• Release date: Apr 2, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005117023

Guy Estes

Guy Estes was born in Huntsville, Alabama in 1970 and grew up on his family's ancestral home in New Iberia, Louisiana, where he currently resides with his family. His grandchildren are the eighth generation of his family to grow up on the place, which was occupied by Union troops during the Civil War. He has a BA in social studies education and an MA in European history. His day job is an instructor at a small safety consultation company. He taught public school for three years and, as a result, no longer fears hell.

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CLANN NA MORRIGNA:

OUT OF THE SHADOWS

By Guy Estes

Copyright © 2022 Guy Estes.

All Rights Reserved

No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form, or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical, methods without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

Dedicated, of course, to the two great goddesses, the Morrigan, the Great Phantom Queen, and Danu, Mother of all.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 1

The town of Nightshade, Colorado, one year ago

Honor MacGregor had never killed anyone before tonight. In her capacity as a private investigator, she’d dealt with some nasty people and been in a few fights, but killing was a first. As she sat behind the curtain in the ER with various parts of her body aching, throbbing, or stinging, she was slightly surprised at her emotional response. Rather than remorse or fear, all she felt was anger—she still hated the bastards.

The curtain swept aside and Alexis O’Connor, her best friend, came in, followed by Honor’s cousin, Jesse Chantry. Alexis was as tall as Honor. She had long black hair and eyes such a pure shade of emerald everyone thought they were contacts (for the record, they were natural). Jesse had a thin, wiry build, long tawny hair in a ponytail, drooping mustache, and eyes so blue they were nearly colorless.

Are you all right? Alexis asked as she put down a fresh shirt she brought. Honor wore a hospital gown, as the shirt she wore earlier had been torn in the fight. One of her eyes was black and swollen, and she had a nasty contusion on her jaw. She was surprised to discover that not only did she still have all of her teeth, none of them were loose. Her nose was stuffed with gauze, her lip was swollen and cut, and her entire body was sore as hell. She shifted on the table and winced, putting a hand to her side.

A little worse for wear, she said, but still in one piece. Well, except for a couple of ribs. Thanks for bringing me a shirt.

You’re welcome, but how are you emotionally? That nasty break-up with Jake, that child molester you caught, now this.

Yeah, the last few weeks haven’t been very kind, have they? Right now, I’m just pissed. Fuckers put a hell of a damper on my night.

Doc seen you yet? Jesse asked in his Oklahoma drawl.

Yeah. I have multiple contusions and pretty much all of my ribs are bruised, two of them cracked. I thought my jaw was broken, but it’s not.

What about the cops?

Tiernan was at the scene. He should be here pretty soon.

The curtain again swept aside and Honor’s face fell. She expected her friend, Detective Sergeant Teirnan Dempsey. What she got was Detective Sergeant Rodney Belcher. She once proved one of his cases wrong, resulting in two things: Honor freeing the innocent man Belcher jailed and Belcher never forgiving her. He looked at her with small, watery blue eyes from a doughy face, his nose latticed with broken veins. His mustache and the fringe of hair left on his head looked like they were made from brillo pads, and she wondered if he had to lift his stomach out of the way to take a piss. His shirt had an old stain from a jelly donut.

Well, well, well, he said as he looked at her, looks like you finally got yourself pretty well fucked up. I told you it was gonna happen one day. I’m just glad I’m here to see it.

Lovely to see you, too, Belcher.

He narrowed his small eyes at her.

You gaining weight? Looks like you’re starting to pork up a bit.

You’re pointing fingers? If you ever had to haul ass, you’d have to make two trips. Standing five foot ten, measuring 36-25-38, and complete with long, auburn hair, dark eyes, and a spectacular set of DDs, she was hot and she damn well knew it (at least when she wasn’t sporting multiple bruises and contusions). Where’s Tiernan?

He’ll get here when he gets here. Right now you’re gonna talk to me.

The hell I am.

Listen up, little lady, you got three dead men to answer for, not to mention the ones you crippled. You wanna get your pretty little ass out of this jam, you start talking.

Piss off, Belcher. I’ll talk to Tiernan.

Belcher laughed. Who do you think you are? Having those tits don’t get you any special treatment with me.

"I guess not, considering that rack you’re sporting. Looks like you’re catching up to me. What are you, a C cup? Still got a little growing to do, though. Just keep saying I must, I must, I must increase my bust. You’ll see results in no time."

Yeah, we’ll see how smart that mouth is when you’re cuffed.

Am I under arrest?

What do you think?

I think you’re fishing. If I was under arrest, you’d say so. I’d be in cuffs and you’d be standing there rubbing your pudgy little paws in glee. In fact, I’ll bet my prized .45 against the next case of Krispy Kremes you inhale this isn’t even your case. When Tiernan gets here, I’ll talk. Until then, I’m invoking my right to remain silent. Now piss off.

Belcher stormed out.

A few minutes later, they heard Belcher say something. Then they heard a familiar voice respond.

Belcher, get the fuck out of here. This isn’t even your case.

The curtain swept back, and Tiernan stood there with another man. Detective Sergeant Tiernan Dempsey was a friend of both Honor’s and Alexis’s. Honor’s work as a PI brought her into contact with him, whereas Alexis, in addition to being a professor of anthropology at Tara University, was a Wiccan priestess. The Nightshade Police Department occasionally employed her as a consultant when a crime looked to have an occult angle they needed help with. He was the same height as Honor, with a rangy build and dark hair and eyes. He was chewing gum, a habit he picked up when he quit smoking.

Alexis, Jesse, he said, nodding at the other two. This is Detective Vickers, he said, indicating the other man. Vickers was a strong-looking guy with longish brown curly hair combed back, marble blue eyes, a trim mustache, and a cleft chin that looked like it could bust down a door. He gave them a nod. Honor was slightly relieved his chin didn’t knock anyone out. Tiernan went on.

The person who called the cops was out with his grandfather when they heard some godawful scream. His grandfather went into immediate cardiac arrest. When our guys got to the scene and started looking for the source of the scream, they found Honor standing over three dead guys and four others who wished they were. When I heard her name, I responded.

That was your scream? Alexis asked Honor.

I was pissed, she said with a shrug, then winced from her sore ribs. I didn’t mean to harm the old guy. Is he okay?

Last I heard, Tiernan said. He was alive when they brought him in here. Belcher was hassling you?

Yeah, like he always does. He’s a bigger prick every time I see him.

You okay? Tiernan asked.

Yeah, Honor replied.

Want to tell me about it? You know you have the right to wait until you have legal counsel.

I know. I’ll talk. Just make sure Belcher isn’t around. I don’t trust that fucker any farther than I can throw Mt. Rushmore.

Tiernan looked outside the curtain.

He’s gone.

All right. You remember that child molester I caught last week?

Yeah.

These were some friends of his. They, ah, took issue with me catching him and expressed their dismay. Apparently, they were following me until they had me cornered.

Why didn’t you shoot them? Seven people attacking one justifies deadly force, even if they’re unarmed.

My pistol’s at the gunsmith. I dropped the slide when I was cleaning it and busted the sights.

You don’t have a spare?

It’s on order. It hasn’t arrived yet.

What kind of pistol do you have? Vickers asked.

A Kimber Custom II.

.45?

Yeah.

So they attacked you and you defended yourself? Tiernan said.

Yes.

Quite successfully, Vickers said. Three of them are dead—you broke one’s neck, crushed another’s trachea, and shattered the third’s skull. Two others are now paraplegics, while the last two will never fully regain the full use of some of their limbs. One will require reconstructive facial surgery and suffered probable brain damage, and two of them will never have children.

The DA isn’t likely to press charges, though, Tiernan said.

Honor cocked an eyebrow.

Three homicides and he won’t press charges?

Not only did they all have extensive felony records, somebody actually videoed the entire thing, from right before they assaulted you, on up until the cops found the phone lying on the pavement, still videoing.

All the guys at the station applauded at the end of the video, Vickers said. Your new name at the precinct is Red Sonja, by the way.

She-devil with a sword? Honor said. I don’t own a sword. Maybe cunt with a Kimber?

What were their records? Alexis asked.

Child molestation, Honor said.

A lot worse than that, Tiernan said.

Worse? Alexis said, raising her eyebrows. What could possibly be worse than child molestation?

Child molestation on a wholesale level. These guys were human traffickers.

Yeah, Honor said, narrowing her eyes and nodding as she remembered something. They did say something about selling me to the highest bidder. I thought they were just talking shit.

They weren’t. They were trafficking sex slaves. It probably went across state lines, so the feds will likely get involved. They also had some armed assaults, some particularly brutal rapes, and even a few murders under their belts. These guys were serious, Honor. You need anything?

No, thanks, I’m good.

Given their records, the fact that they recorded the whole thing, and the fact that there’s no way a jury will convict someone who put a human trafficking ring out of business, I don’t think any charges will be filed, but stick around. Don’t leave town. If the feds investigate, they’ll probably want to talk to you, too.

Right.

*      * *

Tiernan and Vickers left. They bumped into Belcher outside the hospital.

Let me guess, Belcher said. She claimed self-defense.

Wow, I can see why you made detective, Tiernan said.

What she do, bat those big brown eyes at you? Show you her tits?

She told me what happened.

One woman took on seven guys with her bare hands and she kills three and cripples four? Are you fucking kidding me?

Video evidence, Belcher. It corroborates her entire story.

There’s video of it?

Yeah, there is. Feel free to watch it and see for yourself. She took on seven guys and smoked them like a pack of Virginia Slims. Might want to consider that next time you think about hassling her.

Belcher snorted and shook his head, but he didn’t say anything.

I gotta say, Vickers said as they walked away from Belcher, if I hadn’t seen the video, I wouldn’t have believed it either.

I know, Tiernan said, but shit like that is almost par for the course in Nightshade.

What do you mean?

You’re not from around here?

No, Denver.

Right. He sighed as he organized his thoughts. Nightshade’s a weird town.

Weird how?

At first glance, we’re just a mid-sized Colorado town, but when it comes to anything paranormal—UFOs, ghosts, Bigfoot, whatever—there’s a local story about it. Whether any of it is true is another question, but the stories accumulate here, sort of like the Pagans.

Pagans? The motorcycle gang?

No, the religious type. Honor and Alexis are two of them.

While Alexis was Wiccan, Honor didn’t follow a formal path. She followed the Morrigan. Tiernan had to look it up and saw the Morrigan was an Irish goddess mostly associated with battle, death, and destruction. He went on.

Haight-Ashbury had hippies. Taos has artists. Boulder has granolas. Nightshade has Pagans.

Really? With that megachurch and all those evangelical ones around here? Vickers shook his head. Wouldn’t have thought that.

Yeah, see what I mean? Weird, yet here they are. And occasionally, weird shit happens around them.

Like a woman going hand-to-hand with seven guys and completely taking them apart.

Exactly. So while Belcher said it was bullshit, for Nightshade, this is just another Friday night.

While Teirnan was generally accustomed to Nightshade’s weirdness, this one left him shaking his head. Honor kept herself in good shape—she was a dancer, watched what she ate, and practiced martial arts. Even so, taking on seven guys should’ve gotten her slaughtered. Like Vickers, if he hadn’t seen the video, he wouldn’t have believed it. He was raised Irish Catholic, but he’d seen things in Nightshade that, while not converting him to Paganism, certainly made his understanding much more flexible.

* * *

The hospital discharged Honor.

Damn, Honor, Jesse said when they were in the parking lot, I know you can fight, but seven guys?

I guess the Morrigan smiled upon me.

She’s done more than smile, Alexis said. I’m her follower, too, but I can’t do what you did. I’m telling you, Honor, you’re not just her follower, you’re her daughter. Your actions tonight prove she graced you with a gift.

Or I was up against a bunch of morons. They’re used to victimizing small children.

You heard what Teirnan said. Those guys were heavy hitters, yet you took them on and not only survived, you beat them.

People do things they’re normally incapable of when they’re threatened with something like gang rape, Honor said with a sigh. It was adrenaline, nothing more. Now let’s find a diner and a liquor store. I’m starved, and I want to get a bottle of whisky to offer the Morrigan.

They got in Alexis’s car and left. As they drove along, Honor was curious to notice she was no longer hungry. She’d been starving a little while ago, but now eating was the last thing she wanted to do.

You know what? she said. Skip the diner. Just go to the liquor store.

You sure? Jesse said.

Yeah. Suddenly I’m just not hungry.

They went to a liquor store and Honor went in. She came out a few minutes later with three bottles in a bag and got back in the car. They took her home, a single-story house in a middle-class neighborhood. Jesse turned and looked back at her with his pale blue eyes.

You okay, cuz? You’ve had a hell of a night.

Yeah, I’m good, she said as she got out of the car.

Are you sure you don’t want one of us to stay? Alexis said.

Yeah, it’s all right.

They drove away and Honor went into her house. She set the bag of booze down on her kitchen table, removing one and going to the room where she kept her sacred space dedicated to the Morrigan. She went to her altar, where she had a statue of the Great Queen. It was black with a few red highlights, portraying her with one hand holding a sword and the other raised above her head, raven wings on her back spread. There was also a resin sculpture of a raven skull. Honor opened the bottle of whiskey and set it down in front of the statue.

Great Phantom Queen, thank you for teaching me how to not only survive this attack, but to prevail over my attackers. I offer the souls of those I killed up to you, to honor you and thank you, as well as this whiskey as another token of my appreciation, love, and devotion. My thanks and love to you.

She dipped her head to the statue, then went to her bedroom. She grabbed some pajama pants, a T-shirt, and some underwear and went to take a shower. Removing her clothes, she looked at herself in the mirror while the water warmed up. Most of her upper body was mottled with so many bruises it looked like a tropical storm. Her jaw and eye were still swollen and her lip puffy. She removed the gauze from her nose. A little bit of blood trickled out, and she dabbed it with a tissue. Red furrows ran along one shoulder, left by fingernails when they tried to claw her bra off.

She got in the shower and washed, her movements slow and careful, the water and soap stinging her abrasions. An odd, quivering feeling began in her chest as images of the attack came back to her. Seven men, all with predatory gleams in their eyes, wearing leering grins as they came for her, one of them cackling, and utterly confident. They had reason to be; they held every possible advantage. They had her outnumbered, alone, cornered, and unarmed. Victory was already theirs. The incontrovertible mathematics of interpersonal violence said so, and they all knew it, including Honor. But she’d long ago made up her mind she would not go down easy. When she was a little girl and her friends were figuring out ways to hide from the monsters in the closet, Honor was figuring out ways to kill the monsters, and if they ate her, she meant to give them quite a tummy ache.

We’re going to rape you until your asshole and your pussy are just one big, bloody hole. Bill’s gonna shove his foot-long into your smart mouth to keep you quiet, then we’ll sell you to the highest bidder when we’re done.

She thought the guy was just talking out of his ass, but now that Tiernan told her they were human traffickers, that last line took on a whole new horror. Her heart rate accelerated as she suddenly started getting nervous. Odd how her anxiety went up now that the danger had passed.

But has it passed? If putting away Whitley got seven of his friends to come after me, what will taking out these seven do? Will each of them have a bunch of friends that come after me?

After her shower, she went to her bedroom and retrieved her shotgun, a Mossberg 590 pump action. Making sure it was loaded—eight shells of 12-gauge #4 buckshot—she returned to the kitchen and leaned it against the counter. She opened another bottle of whiskey and went to pour. The bottleneck rattled against the glass as her hands started to shake. Her breath started coming faster, and some tears spilled from her eyes. She sloshed some booze into the tumbler and took it in one big slug. Taking a breath, she repeated the process, but fear still bloomed in her heart, like a wildfire growing from a tossed cigarette.

Suddenly convinced an army of sex predators was coming for her, she rushed to the front door and made sure it was locked. It was, but that didn’t reassure her. She got a chair and jammed it under the knob. She did the same with the back door. Then she checked all the windows. They were locked, but she saw no way to make them more secure. Studying them, she saw she could put something in above the sash to brace them closed, like a chair leg, but she had nothing like that. She made a note to go to the hardware store and get some.

Having done something to counter her fears, she calmed a bit, enough to realize those fears were likely exaggerated (though not entirely unrealistic). Seeing nothing else she could do, she returned to the kitchen, grabbed the bottle of whiskey and tumbler with one hand and shotgun with the other, and went to the den to plop down on the sofa, placing the bottle and shotgun on the coffee table, shotgun pointed at the door. The urge to pump a shell in the chamber called to her, but being nervous as hell, with shaking hands, and with every intention of getting smashed, a cocked shotgun with a shell in the chamber probably wasn’t the best idea. She probably should’ve left it locked up, but she was too nervous; she’d refrain from chambering a shell, but she wanted free access to it. After taking another big slug of whiskey, she poured herself another, then sat back and recalled the details of the fight.

She hit them while they were still talking and posturing, catching them by surprise and taking down two of them, including breaking one guy’s neck when he came at her with a baton, before one of them landed a solid blow to her jaw and she went down. That’s when she was most terrified, when she was down in the middle of a bunch of predators who meant to rape her. She was at the center of a maelstrom of kicking feet, slamming her body from all directions, driving the breath from her, and making it impossible to get any more, slamming her eye, bloodying her nose, splitting her lip, cracking her ribs. They clawed at her breasts, grabbed her ass and crotch so roughly she briefly thought they had, in fact, achieved penetration. Her shirt nearly tore free from her. She remembered the sound of it ripping. Fingers snapped her bra strap as they tried to claw it from her, the nails leaving bloody tracks on her shoulder. Hands dove between her legs or jerked at her belt. Soon, they’d pile on her, pinning her under their numbers, and make her their bitch.

She shouldn’t have gotten up from that. Once a crowd had you down and started kicking and stomping, it was game over. Again, the incontrovertible mathematics of interpersonal violence decreed it so. Yet she managed to get to her knees. Being seconds away from getting gang-raped terrified her like nothing else ever had, and Honor’s fear response was a little different from most people’s. Most people wanted to run or hide from things that scared them. Honor wanted to kill them, anything in their general vicinity, and anything that reminded her of them. So the mathematics of interpersonal violence could kiss her sweet ass; these fuckers were going down.

She reached up and grabbed one by his junk (based on their previous threat, she concluded it was Bill), twisted and jerked, followed by breaking his leg at the knee. Another one reached for her, so she grabbed his hand by the fingers and ripped them apart. He jerked his hand away, howling, as she swept his legs out from under him, then rolled on top of him and drove the heel of her palm down onto his skull, crushing it like an egg. She was surprised at how little resistance it had. She was then able to get to her feet, aflame with righteous fury, and took the rest of them on. With no idea how many were left, she didn’t care—they were going to die screaming.

A few seconds later, Honor stood alone, her attackers either dead or wishing they were, her fury unspent. She expressed it in a primal shriek of rage. She didn’t know how long she stood there, just experiencing a hurricane of emotion, before the cops showed up. She came back to Earth once she saw Tiernan.

Now she sat on her sofa, and she still felt no remorse whatsoever. All she felt was hate for those sick bastards attacking her, disgust at having made physical contact with them . . . and fear. She wondered again what repercussions might follow as she swiped away tears.

She took another slug of whiskey. What if more came? What if they captured her? She’d fight them, of course, but all they’d have to do is drug her to render her helpless, to then be sold again and again to sweaty, reeking men, rutting and grunting as they drove themselves into her, invading her through every orifice like alien slugs, filling her with their disgusting slime, each rape taking more and more of her soul, and she would slowly devolve from a strong, proud woman to a helpless, simpering animal too traumatized to articulate a scream . . .

Not much scared Honor, but the idea of being raped was one of them; never mind gang-raped, never mind gang-raped for the rest of her life. She would gladly take death over that.

She took another gulp, refilled her glass, and gulped again. She was already about halfway through the bottle.

How the fuck did I get into this? she said. It was a simple divorce case, right? She didn’t want him to get custody of the kids. Follow him and get evidence he’s an unfit father. Well, that worked. I found him with a shit ton of child porn. Guess he’ll lose custody. How the fuck was I supposed to know it’d bring a gang of human traffickers on me? What did I do to deserve this shit? I’m just a stupid little small-time PI!

She tossed back another drink.

And the shit she saw on the prick’s laptop nearly made her puke. Remembering it made her take two more drinks. She looked at his open laptop and saw what it displayed, then at the owner, Jimmy Whitley. He looked at her, breathing hard because he knew she had him dead to rights, then tried to run past her. She stopped him by placing a hand on his chest. Then she shoved him. The result was him flying back to go crashing through the wall and into the next room. Honor stalked after him, drawing her .45, her thumb switching the safety off. She had every intention of emptying her magazine in his chest, reloading, and emptying a second one into his skull.

Honor! Alexis said, coming up behind her and grabbing her. Don’t do it!

That fucker needs to be put down.

I know he does, but if you do it, you’ll spend the rest of your life in prison. Son of a bitch isn’t worth it. Alexis got in front of her, her brilliant green eyes wide. We’ve got ironclad proof he’s a child molester. A jury is sure to convict. And you know what happens to child molesters in prison. He will get his.

Honor stood there, taking deep breaths, and wanting that bastard’s blood more than she ever wanted anything before, but she put the safety on her pistol and holstered it, then got out her phone and called Tiernan.

Honor poured another drink and tossed it off, followed by another. She poured again.

Said she wanted to tag along and see what my job was like, she muttered, knocking back the booze. Bullshit. That crafty bitch saw something coming. She had one of her premonitions. She knew what I was gonna do.

Another drink poured, and, with that, she killed the bottle. She tossed off the drink and pushed herself off the sofa, her head spinning, and staggered to the kitchen, her shoulder bumping the doorway.

She knew, she muttered as she reached for the remaining bottle of whiskey. She got it on her second try. She knew, in that way of hers . . . and a goddamn good thing, too . . . coz I’d have wasted that fucker an’ enjoyed it.

She made it back to the sofa and sat/fell on it. She opened the bottle and poured another drink.

And if all this wasn’t enough, days before I catch a child molester, my boyfriend of three fucking months cheated on me! I mean, what the hell? She tossed off the drink. You telling me this isn’t good enough? She gestured at herself. "You leave me for that little Jersey Shore reject? Running around with her like you’re so goddamn clever. I’m a professional fucking investigator, Jake! Did you really think I wouldn’t put two and two together? Really, Jake? Fucking idiot. The fuck did I ever see in you, you lying snake. Jake the snake."

Alexis had been away. One of her friends at another university went on sabbatical, so Alexis took his classes and was away for the whole semester. If she’d been here, she would’ve seen right through Jake as soon as she set eyes on him, but she returned just after they broke up.

She poured another and gulped it down.

Cheaters, child molesters, and human traffickers, oh my.

Pour. Gulp. Pour.

Try to traffic this human, you slimy sons of bitches. She glared at the door and downed her drink. Come on in, motherfuckers, come on in. I got a proper welcome right here. She patted her shotgun. "You ain’t taking me. I’ll kill all of you and offer your souls up to the Morrigan, just like I did with your pals. Or I’ll kill enough of you to force you to kill me and I’ll