Chapter 14

THE MORRíGAN

When Medb leaves, I let all the power that I have gathered to myself dissipate. It took more energy than I realized, holding it all, but I know her of old. She is smart and strong-willed and a worthy opponent. I may trust her to take the vehicle, but I do not trust her to not take advantage of seeming weakness. As soon as I hear the sound of that red monstrosity leaving, I slump back on the couch.

Ciara looks alarmed.

She does not seem to know how to take my immortality. Part of her is angry with me still, and I understand that, but there's still concern in her eyes, and she cares for me more than she seems to like.

As for myself, I only hope that her ire fades after a while.

I have become accustomed to her company, even if only from a kennel for most of that time, and I would miss her conversation should I be asked to leave.

"I'm not working today," she says. "I've got today and tomorrow off, and then there's the weekend."

I say nothing, unsure what this implies.

"Should I go back to working?"

Oh, I think she wants input from me. "If you wish?" Disappointment flits across her face. "Or we could… talk?"

That seems to please her much more. "What would you like to talk about?"

What is there to speak of? I've never been overly communicative, even in humanshape. Why speak when actions say so much more than words? But I think she needs reassurance, needs to understand me, and I owe her something.

I owe her everything.

"We can talk about—" I cast around desperately, trying to find a topic of conversation that is personal enough to show that I care, but not too personal, in case she finds that… a lot. "—Robert?" Fuck. Failed at that.

"Robert?" Her face pales, and I hurry to reassure her.

"I mean, only if you want to. I thought that after today you might have some… thoughts?" The question sounds weak, even to my own ears, but she's nodding and I appear not to have made a complete misstep.

"That's true. Are you sure you want to talk about him? We can talk about something more interesting—I bet you have a ton of fascinating stories!"

Now she's trying to avoid the topic. I'm torn, not entirely certain which way to go. I opt for silence, which appears to make Ciara's mind up.

"No, no, you're right. I should probably talk about Robert. Especially now that he's…"

Her voice trails off and if my body were not so worn out from healing itself, I would go over to her. But I used up the last of my energy confronting Medb, so instead I sit and pat the space on the couch next to me.

When she sits down, I realize quite how delicate she is—not physically, more the essence of her. In this moment it feels like one rough word would make her shatter. I want to hold her in my arms.

Want to hold her together.

It would be highly inappropriate though, so instead I leave my hand casually on the couch, in case she is in need of some comfort and would like to hold it.

"Before he turned up here, in Dingle, I hadn't seen him in five years. He's still—was still—my husband, but I'd left him."

I nod slowly, trying to emanate as much calming energy as possible. Calming energy, sister? asks Nemain. Since when have we ever been composed of calming energy? Now she decides to voice her opinion. I shake my head and reschool my features into listening mode.

"He was… he wasn't very kind to me," Ciara says. "No. That's not right. He was awful to me. A monster. He—" She stops, and it's clear that this topic of conversation is overwhelming her. I abandon all attempts at distance and shuffle across the couch to her, and pull her until she falls back into my arms. Her head rests just below my collarbone, and when I look down at her, I see her red hair, spilled out across my front.

"You don't have to talk about it," I say. "I shouldn't have asked, I'm sorry."

When she next speaks, her voice is so small she could be a tiny pinprick in the palm of my hand. "He shot you. You deserve to know why."

"He shot me because he is a coward. Nothing more, nothing less. But, I am here and he is not, so I feel like I got mine own vengeance." There's a flicker of a smile across her face at that and, emboldened, I continue. "However cruel or mean he was, he can no longer touch you. You don't have to look over your shoulder anymore, Ciara."

She smiles sadly. "If only it were that easy. He haunts my dreams, my nightmares, and I doubt that will dissipate just because he's…"

"Dead." I say the word bluntly and sharply. "I checked with the wolves. He is dead."

"Dead." The word is a reverent whisper on her lips, and when they move again, they echoing the word over and over. "Dead dead dead."

All of a sudden, she sits up, rubbing at her eyes harshly.

"Are you alright?" I ask.

"Yes." She sounds surprised at that. "I think I am. His actions may still haunt me, but he is a ghost, and not one that I will have to deal with anymore."

"Quite right," I reply. But I wonder if she really understands what his death means, what his absence could mean for her. She could leave here.

She could leave me.