The Mammoth Book of Irish Romance

Jenna Maclaine The Warrior

Castle Tara

Connemara, Ireland — 1260

They had come to kill him. At his invitation they had come, hundreds of them, across seas and continents, until they filled the courtyard of his great castle. They had come to vanquish the arrogant bastard who dared to claim sovereignty over the vampire nation. His summons had appealed to their pride, their vanity, their curiosity: an open challenge that whoever could defeat him in single combat would unite the world’s vampires under the authority of one High King.

The warrior braced his hands on the cold grey stone of the parapet wall and listened with satisfaction to the murmuring voices below. When they had embarked on this journey they had been certain that the challenger would be easily dispatched, but now that confidence was beginning to waver, for Castle Tara was unlike anything they had seen before. It was a palace straight out of Faerie, built for beauty and not defence. There was nothing like it this side of the Veil. Indeed, the whole structure often slipped in and out of Faerie in order to keep itself hidden from human eyes.

The vampires below truly had no understanding of what they were walking into. One complained bitterly of the cramped quarters that surely awaited them, for no castle could comfortably house this many people. The warrior smiled. Even now the stewards were showing his guests to their chambers and he had no doubt that they would all find their quarters more than satisfactory. The castle was almost a living thing, expanding and contracting, changing as she saw fit. He watched the vampires below gaze covetously at what was his, each of them imagining what it would be like to live in such a place, each of them imagining they would be the one to defeat him. It was truly a pity they would all go home disappointed.

The warrior tensed at the sound of wings beating against the cool night air. A moment later a black raven swooped down, landing on the wall to his right. And a moment after that the bird seamlessly transformed itself into a beautiful young woman. He nearly growled in frustration at the sight of her. and at the reaction his body always had to her presence. How he wished he could look at her and feel nothing, but after a millennium he’d finally given up on that ever happening. For some reason she stirred his blood as no woman ever had, or ever would.

She smiled seductively and lounged on her precarious perch, propped up on one elbow with her long, lean body stretched out before him. Her hair looked as black as sin under the night sky but he knew that by candlelight it shone with the subtle, iridescent purple and green of a raven’s wing. Her face was angular and strong, her lips full and sensual. Even though he tried not to, he couldn’t help imagining those lips doing things to his body, wicked things that he didn’t even have a name for. Her gown (if you could call such a thing a gown) clung to her curves like shadows, the black fabric so sheer that he could see her white skin beneath it. She wore the damned thing just because she knew it drove him mad.

«I told you they would come,» she said smugly, nodding to the throng below. «And you said they would not.»

He snorted derisively. «I have no doubt that a goddess’ whispered commands in their ears as they slept had something to do with it.»

«I can be very persuasive,» she purred.

He scowled at her smiling face. «I know that all too well,» he said harshly. «You were quite convincing when you struck the deal that damned me for eternity. Tell me, Morrígan, did you feel the slightest bit of guilt when you had me killed?»

She swiftly sat up from her reclining position, her black eyes boring into him with an intensity that made him take a step back. «Do not pretend that I was some she-wolf taking down an innocent lamb, Cullen. I gave you everything you asked of me and before this week is out I will make you a king!»

«And I will keep my end of the bargain,» he assured her. «I will lead your vampires, Morrígan. But I will never forgive you.»

«I do not require your forgiveness, nor do I seek it.» She slid off the parapet wall and stalked towards him. «By the gods, for such a big, strong man you certainly have become adept at whining like a wee girl.» Trailing her long, glossy black fingernails across the rise of his chest, she looked into his dark eyes. «One would think that 1,000 years would have cooled your temper, Cullen.»

He grasped her wrist and pulled her hand from his body. «Then one would be mistaken, for I will always hate you, Morrígan.»

The words stung, and she looked away. At least they were the truth. She would rather have that than the pretty lies he’d told her when he was human. He had turned the head of a goddess with his beautiful body and his honeyed words. He had made her love him and she would never forgive herself for that weakness. Well, she certainly wouldn’t allow him see that weakness now.

She let all emotion drain from her face before she once again raised her eyes to his. Even her skin seemed to pale further, until she was every inch the cold, heartless goddess of legend. And he flinched. A look something akin to guilt crossed his face before he pulled his gaze from hers.

Satisfied, she took a step away from him. «I believe I will retire to my chambers,» she informed him coldly.

He released her wrist and gave her a low, mocking bow. «It is your castle,» he conceded.

Morrígan arched one black brow at him. «Yes, it is.»

From her window in the north tower Morrígan watched Cullen pace. She imagined she could hear him cursing her name. Turning away, she walked to her bed, the bed she and Cullen had lain in countless times over the centuries. She ran her fingers across the lush fur blankets and the sheets made of Faerie silk. Perhaps he would come to her tonight, despite his anger. Whatever his feelings might be, Morrígan knew he craved her body and her blood. And she had long ago convinced herself that that was enough.

By Danu, she thought, how did something that had started out so well go so horribly wrong?

Morrígan knew that most of the blame rested on her. She was wilful and arrogant and jealous — aye, all that and more. But she was also able to see the past in a way he could not. A thousand years was a trifling thing to her, but Cullen was young yet. The years passed more slowly for him. He had had centuries to proudly recall his accomplishments and forget his failures, to dwell on his virtues and bury his faults. She could hardly blame him for that — it was what humans did — but she remembered his mortal life very clearly, as if it had happened a month ago instead of a millennium. Perhaps she had tricked him but, truthfully, all she had done was set the bait. Cullen had sprung the trap himself.

But she did not expect him to remember it that way, for was it not easier to cast her as the villain than to be forced to admit to himself that greed and pride had been the downfall of the great Cúchulainn?

The castle of King Conchobar of Ulster

In the twilight of the Old Religion

It was dark and the castle was quiet, or at least as quiet as castles ever were. Morrígan strode through the halls of Conchobar’s stronghold with little regard to stealth. She was the Great Phantom Queen, the shadows themselves bent to her will, and she would not be seen by human eyes unless she wished it so.

When she found his door, she paused. He was the key to all her future plans and she must get this right. She had been waiting so long for him. Smoothing the crimson fabric of her cloak, she scoffed at her nerves. Anxiety was such a human emotion. If she couldn’t accomplish this simple task then she deserved to be devoured by the Demon Horde. Human males were so malleable, after all. One could lead them anywhere by their phallus or their sword arm. And Morrígan intended to use whatever means necessary to get what she wanted. Silently, she pushed open the door and slipped inside.

He was sitting with his back to her, waist deep in a hip bath in front of the fire. That surprised her, for humans (and men in particular) seemed to have little concern for cleanliness. She had not made a sound, but he sensed her. In one fluid movement he grabbed the sword from the table next to him and stood, spinning around to face her. The look of surprise on his face almost matched her own.

By the Goddess, he was lovely. He was young, no longer a boy but barely a man. The muscles of his body were lean and firm. She preferred a heavier build on a man, but that would come with age. Already his face was perfection — cheekbones that could rival her own; a strong, square jaw; and lips that any woman would long to kiss. His hair, which fell just past his shoulders, fascinated her. Black at the roots, it then changed to brown and again to a coppery blond. It was his eyes that held her though. They were the dark green of a Faerie forest with flecks of golden sunlight. The emotions behind them ranged from shock to suspicion as they frankly assessed her.

«Lay down your sword, Cullen. I mean you no harm.»

His body relaxed (well, parts of it anyway) and he lowered the blade. «You have the wrong room, my lady. There is no one here by that name.»

She smiled and strolled further into his chamber, taking note of the sparse furnishings — a bed, a table and chair, and little else. She would have thought King Conchobar’s nephew would have more lavish quarters.

«I have not mistaken my destination,» she replied. «Your parents call you Sétanta. The people call you Cúchulainn. May I not have my own name for you?»

For a moment he was drawn in by her sweet smile, then his eyes narrowed. «Who are you?» he demanded. «You are not from Ulster.»

«Are you so certain?» she asked, cocking her head to one side.

«I think I would remember crossing paths with the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. You aren’t one of Conchobar’s subjects.»

«No, I am not,» Morrígan agreed, pleased with his compliment.

«Are you one of Queen Medb’s spies, then?»

«I am not your enemy,» she assured him. «In fact, I have every reason to believe that you and I will become firm allies.»

Impatiently he stepped from the tub and raised his sword. «That is not an answer. I ask you again, lady. Who are you?»

«I am Morrígan, goddess of war. I hear your prayers before every battle, Cullen, and tonight I am here to answer them.»

He stared at her for a moment and then threw back his head and laughed. Irritated, Morrígan raised her arm and Cullen’s sword was ripped from his grasp, flying through the air and into her outstretched hand.

«Any sorceress could do that,» Cullen scoffed.

Morrígan arched one black brow at him. «Perhaps,» she conceded. «But could anyone other than a goddess do this?»

She moved, faster than his eyes could track her, and before he could react her body was pressed against his. Her hands were suddenly on either side of his face and Cullen grasped her hips to steady them both. She looked into his eyes.

«Hold on,» she said, a moment before the room went black and the floor disappeared from under his feet.

The sensation that followed was not a pleasant one. It felt as though his body was being turned inside out and Cullen gritted his teeth at the pain. Blessedly, it only lasted a moment and then his feet were on solid ground again. Morrígan released him and he fell to his knees, unable to get his bearings and stay upright.

«What did you do?» he gasped.

«I have brought you across the Veil,» she said proudly. «Welcome to Faerie, Cullen.»

When he opened his eyes Cullen found himself in a world he did not recognize. He knelt before Morrígan in the centre of a small meadow surrounded by lush, green trees. A full moon rode high in the sky, gilding everything with its silver light. Nearby, a doe and her fawn, startled by the intrusion, rushed for the protective cover of the tree line. But none of this convinced him that he truly was in Faerie. What did was the fact that everything, from the stars in the sky to the grass under his feet, sparkled. He had never seen anything like it and he knew he never would again.

«Goddess,» he whispered reverently, bowing his head in supplication, «I beg your forgiveness.»

Morrígan placed her hand under his chin and tipped his face up so that she could look into those beautiful green eyes.

«Cullen, we cannot dally here. Time moves differently in Faerie so we must seal our bargain quickly.»

«Bargain?» he asked, confused.

Morrígan cocked her head to one side. «Tell me, what is the one thing that you want most in the world? If you could shape your future any way it pleased you, what would you wish for?»

Cullen was silent for a moment, but it was not indecision that made him pause, it was the fear of actually putting into words what his heart most longed for. Finally, he said, «I would be the greatest warrior Eire has ever seen.»

Morrígan knelt in front of him, cupping his face in her hands. «Men will fear you, women will want you, and no army will be able to stand against you,» she promised fiercely. «In 1,000, nay, 2,000 years bards will still tell tales of the epic battles of the great Cúchulainn. I can give you all that and more, and I require only one thing in return.»

His eyes lit up at the prospect of attaining such glory. «Anything,» he whispered.

«When your mortal life has ended and I come to claim you in death, instead of going to the Summerlands you must pledge your afterlife to my service. In return for that you will be young and strong forever, Cullen. And I will make you the king of an army the likes of which no man has ever led. Will you strike this bargain with me?»

«I will gladly, my goddess,» he answered earnestly.

Morrígan ran her fingers down the sides of his neck, over his shoulders, and across the firm muscles of his chest. She looked up into his eyes and smiled seductively as she slid the cloak from her body, the red cloth pooling like blood on the grass. He stared down at the pale perfection of her naked body.

«Then let us seal this covenant, my young warrior. By flesh and blood I will bind us,» she said, her lips a mere breath away from his. «Come, Cullen. Let me give you everything you have ever desired.»

He pulled her against him, claiming her mouth in a scorching kiss that would change them both, irrevocably and eternally.

Morrígan laid her head on Cullen’s chest, surprisingly sated. She rarely took a human to her bed; she found them generally uninspiring, but Cullen was different. What he lacked in experience, he certainly made up for in enthusiasm. Morrígan smiled, thinking of all the wondrous things she would teach him in the coming years.

«Why me?» he asked softly, pulling her mind back from its wicked imaginings.

«I have seen you fight,» she replied. «There is no grace in your skill nor beauty in your movements. You simply overpower your opponents — hard and rough and dirty.»

Cullen stiffened, believing her comment to be a criticism. «What need have I of grace when I have victory?» he asked arrogantly.

Morrígan laughed and propped her chin on his chest, looking up at him with a smile. «That is exactly why I chose you, Cullen. You intrigue me. Besides,» she said as she raked her fingernails back and forth across his skin, «I like it hard and rough and dirty.»

In one swift movement he rolled her over, pinning her to the ground beneath him. The look on his face held none of the virtues she had just mentioned though. The expression in his eyes was so tender that she swallowed the naughty comment she was about to make and waited for him to speak.

«You are so beautiful it almost hurts to look at you,» he said, running his fingers through her raven hair. «I never want to stop touching you. Will we have this. forever, Morrígan?»

A surge of panic went through her at his question. She was not the sort of woman to put any man and the word «forever» together in the same sentence. The closest thing she had to «forever» was her annual mating with Dagda, which ended the winter season and brought spring to her people. And if she had a choice, which she didn’t, she wouldn’t even have that relationship. She did her duty though, always, and she rarely had a choice in any of it. But now, with this man, she did. She had chosen him and suddenly, surprisingly, the thought of forever did not tie her stomach up in knots. Her mind wasn’t racing to find a reason to rebuff his offer. Instead it was racing in an entirely different direction — imagining hours, days, centuries, spent in his arms and his company.

«Yes,» she replied. «We will have this forever.»

How Morrígan wished those words had been true. They did have several wonderful years together, happy and carefree years, before the taint of anger and betrayal touched them.

Before each battle Morrígan would come to him. They would spend hours making love, Cullen eager to learn everything she could teach him. Afterwards, while he slept, Morrígan would drag one sharp, black fingernail across her wrist and spill a few drops of her precious blood into his mouth. Her blood made him strong and she made him fearless. He went into each battle, accepted each challenge, with the knowledge that he could not be killed. Because she would not allow it.

Morrígan fulfilled her end of their bargain with enthusiasm. The name of Cúchulainn became feared and revered throughout the Celtic world. He was a walking legend. He was everything she had promised, and more.

As for herself, Morrígan found the time she spent with him to be the most pleasurable moments of her entire existence. With him she was not a goddess of war, she was not a harbinger of death, she was simply the woman he loved. And love her he did, with wild abandon. When he slid the clothes from her body, all her cares, all her worries, went with them and for those brief hours time stood still.

But it wasn’t only their physical relationship that she enjoyed. Often she would take him into Faerie for an hour or two and they would spar in the meadow, the great warrior against the goddess of war. Sometimes she would even let him win. And after they laid down their swords they talked of the great battles of the past, battles that she had seen and that he was eager to learn from. It was his companionship that Morrígan valued above all else. Friends were not a luxury one often found in the pantheon.

It was perfect, perhaps too perfect to last. Every war has a turning point and Morrígan clearly remembered theirs — that one moment when you realize that nothing will ever be the same again.

Cullen had just returned from the festival of Imbolc when Morrígan came to him unexpectedly. There was no impending battle, no pressing reason that he needed the strength her blood provided. She simply wanted to see him, wanted to erase from her mind the memory of Dagda’s hands on her as they performed the ritual that would usher in the spring. Unfortunately, she could not as easily erase the evidence of the event from her body.

Cullen was trailing kisses up the inside of her thigh when he noticed the bruises. He paused and then slowly sat up, reaching one hand out to tentatively touch her skin. He laid his palm on her thigh, his fingertips covering each of the five purple marks.

«Who has touched you?» he whispered harshly.

She sat up, noticing for the first time the bruises Dagda’s hands had made upon her thighs. Morrígan was immortal but Dagda was a king among the gods. She could not immediately heal the damage he inflicted, as she could any other wound.

«Dagda is a beast,» she said, her disgust evident in her voice. «Let’s not think of him, my love. In fact, I was rather hoping you would help me forget.»

Morrígan reached for him but Cullen pulled away, staring at her in horror. She would remember the expression on his face for all eternity. It was the moment when everything changed.

«You let him make love to you?» he asked incredulously.

«Well, I would hardly call it making love,» she replied. «And it isn’t as though I had any say in the matter. It is my duty and it must be done. Surely you know that, Cullen.»

He shook his head. «I just thought of it as a legend, a story like so many others. I never thought.» His words grew softer but his eyes grew harder as he regarded her. «I never thought that you would betray our love.»

Morrígan leaped from the bed. «I have done nothing of the sort!» she snapped, her temper rising. «I am a goddess, Cullen, and you cannot hold me to the same morals as your simpering human women. The rituals must be performed. Would you rather I hadn’t done it? Would you rather live in eternal winter until every man, woman and child in Eire dies of starvation because the crops cannot grow? That is the price of my fidelity, Cullen. Would you pay it to serve nothing more than your vanity?»

He looked away, having no answer to such a question.

«I thought not,» she said coldly. «I do what I must, Cullen. It does not touch what you and I have. If you throw away what we have because you cannot accept that, then you are a fool.»

She waited for him to say something, anything, but he did not. Feeling as though he had driven the Sword of Nuada through her heart, she vanished in a blinding flash of light.

After that Cullen began taking human lovers. Morrígan told herself that was how it should be. After all, she would have him for eternity. It would be selfish of her to deny him the experience of a human life and all that it entailed. But no matter how she rationalized it, it still hurt. She still went to him; she had to. He needed her blood to fulfil their bargain and she would not allow all her plans to be ruined because she had been foolish enough to lose her heart to a human.

Sometimes she came to him at night while he slept, giving him her blood without ever waking him. And sometimes she came to him as she had before, simply because she missed the feel of his hands on her skin. He never again mentioned Dagda and she steadfastly refused to acknowledge the presence of any other woman in his life. They would make love and then spend hours afterwards, talking and laughing. In time it was almost as it had been before. Almost.

Things had changed between them and Morrígan could not pretend otherwise. It was as though all that resentment and doubt was a black cloud hovering just outside, pushing at the door, looking for any crack it could use to seep back in. And then one night Cullen opened the door and the black cloud rushed in, engulfing them both.

She was lying in his arms, content and happy, when he suddenly announced, «I’m getting married, Morrígan.»

She went very still, a coldness washing over her. «Is this your idea of vengeance?» she asked calmly.

«Of course not,» he replied, genuinely shocked. «Why would you say such a thing?»

Morrígan sat up and looked down at him. «What else am I to think, Cullen?»

«That I want children,» he said. «Legitimate children to bear my name. The men I lead, every day I watch them teach their sons to shoot a bow or wield a sword. I want to hold a child of mine in my arms, Morrígan. Emer can give me that. She’s a good woman.»

«Then I wish you the best,» Morrígan said harshly and pushed away from him.

Cullen grabbed her wrist. «She’s a good woman, but she isn’t you. No one will ever replace you in my heart, Morrígan. This doesn’t touch what we have, were those not your words?»

«That was different,» she snapped, jerking her hand from his grasp.

«How is this any different than you lying with Dagda?» he demanded. «It is a means to an end, is it not?»

«The difference is that I do not willingly choose to be with him. You have a choice.» She laughed harshly as she slid her cloak on. «Think what you like of me, Cullen, but you, with your wife and your string of harlots, have betrayed me far worse than I ever did you.» She turned and looked down at him with cold disdain. «Goodbye, Cullen, you will not see me again until it is time for you to fulfil your end of our bargain.»

Before he could reply Morrígan was back in Faerie, as far away from him as she could get. And even there she could hear him calling her name. Furious, she stomped through her castle, breaking anything that had the misfortune of being near to hand. When the novelty of that wore off she became tempted to cross the Veil again. A good war would be a perfect outlet for her anger. Queen Medb of Connacht was always good for a slaughter or two.

Morrígan sighed and sank down at the foot of the grand staircase. It was her own fault for believing in him. Was anything he’d ever said to her true? Or was it simply a means to an end, as he’d put it? Keep the goddess happy and she’ll give you anything you want.

Morrígan put her head in her hands. Getting involved with a human had been a grave mistake. It wasn’t jealousy she felt for his future bride, or for any of the women he’d lain with. She was a goddess and no mortal female would ever threaten her vanity. No, what she felt was a deep sense of resentment that, by the very fact that they walked with him in the human world, they would always have a piece of him that she could not touch. That was the price the gods paid for dallying with mortals.

But he would not be mortal forever. He would still be with her when these humans were nothing more than dust and bone. She should swallow her pride and forgive him. She could afford to be magnanimous.

Morrígan, however, was a war goddess and a generous nature had never been one of her virtues.

Over the following years Morrígan became quite adept at avoiding Cullen. He still called to her on occasion but she resolutely ignored his summons. When he had need of her blood she would enter the castle disguised as a servant and slip it into his goblet, leaving quickly before she succumbed to the urge to eviscerate Emer on sight. Indeed, Morrígan had not set eyes on Cullen in years, not until the night she discovered that Queen Medb had convinced the sons of Calatin — dark mages the lot of them — to forge a mystical spear capable of killing Cúchulainn. He could not ride against Medb’s army, for Morrígan wasn’t certain she had the power to save him from such a weapon.

She found him alone in the stables, preparing his chariot for the coming battle. The sight of him made her steps falter and her heart race. His body, once lean and rangy, had filled out into a solidly muscled frame her fingers itched to touch. The boyish beauty of his face now held a rugged masculinity that was breathtaking to behold. If she could have created the perfect man, she could not have done better than the one standing before her.

Walk away, her conscience told her. Find another warrior, for this one will only bring you pain.

She could release him from their bargain. She could choose another to lead her army, someone for whom she had no tender feelings. She could do things differently the next time. She could. not. He was hers and she would never let him go.

«Cullen,» she said softly.

He was crouched down, one hand braced on the wheel of his chariot, inspecting the axle. She saw his body stiffen and his knuckles turn white. Slowly he stood and, almost reluctantly, he turned his gaze to her. She walked forwards, watching him watch her. She could see the desire in his eyes and for a moment she could not remember what could have been important enough to drive them apart.

He had a bit of straw in his hair and she reached up to pull it free. Before she could touch him, his hand clamped around her wrist and his expression grew cold and hard. She sighed. That she remembered all too well.

«Why are you here, Morrígan?» he demanded.

«It is time,» she replied simply.

«Time for what?»

«For you to fulfil your end of our bargain.»

He stared at her blankly for a moment, not comprehending her words. And then a look of understanding crossed his face, followed closely by fear and anger.

«How dare you?» he railed. «How dared you abandon me and then come here and tell me this? You promised»—

«I promised to make you into the greatest warrior not only of your time but of any time. And in return you promised yourself to me at the end of your life. You never asked when the end would come, Cullen.»

«That is unfair, Morrígan,» he accused. «How could I have expected it would be when I was merely thirty-five?»

She looked closely at him. «Thirty-five? Truly? You look so much younger.»

It must be the immortal blood in his veins, she thought. Interesting.

«What has that to do with anything?» he snapped, dragging her thoughts back to the issue at hand.

«It has everything to do with everything,» Morrígan replied. «I need a warrior in his prime, Cullen. If you were to live to be a wizened old man, you would be of no use to me. I do not have the power to turn back time.»

«I would be young again when I enter the Summerlands,» he pointed out.

«Yes, but once you are there I can never bring you back to the human world. I must take you quickly between your death and the afterlife, Cullen. I must turn you into something dead but living, something more than human but not yet a god, something that will confuse the magic that pulls a soul into the Summerlands. It is the only way for you to remain here.»

He scowled at her. «You would make me a monster.»

«No, Cullen. I will make you into something glorious,» Morrígan said vehemently. «I will give you a portion of my godhood, a small bit of my power. I will make you young and strong and beautiful forever, just as I promised. But it must happen soon. I did not mean to spring this on you so suddenly, Cullen. When I saw you. well, the years sometimes pass more quickly than I expect them to. I will give you time to say your goodbyes and get your affairs in order, but you must fulfil your promise by Samhain.»

He looked at her and Morrígan could hardly bear the resentment shining in his eyes. This was not how she had imagined it all those years ago. She had been so certain that, when the time came, he would love her enough to come with her willingly.

«You said you did not come here to take me. Then why are you here?» he asked.

«I came to warn you not to ride out against Medb’s army tomorrow. The sons of Calatin, whom you slayed, have finally sought their vengeance. They have used the darkest of magics to forge an enchanted spear. If you are pierced by it, it will kill you, Cullen. I will gladly grant you more time, but I cannot save you if you go into battle tomorrow.»

He threw back his head and laughed. «I am Cúchulainn. I do not need a woman to save me.»

Morrígan narrowed her eyes. «You arrogant bastard. You are only alive because I wish it! If it weren’t for me you would be nothing more than a common soldier. I made you everything you are and I can take it away just as easily.»

«Then do your worst, Morrígan,» he said fiercely, «for I will not run from this battle or any other.»

Morrígan sighed. She had set out to create a great warrior and she had succeeded. Unfortunately, he also had the ego of one. Well, on the morrow he would learn not to believe all the stories the bards told of him. He was not immortal. Yet.

The following morning, Emer — and indeed every man, woman, and child Cullen encountered on his way from his chamber to the stables — begged him not to ride against Queen Medb’s army. Obviously Morrígan had been whispering portents of doom in their ears as they slept. His irritation turned to fury when his horse, his faithful Liath who had pulled his chariot in countless battles, would not allow Cullen to harness him.

«Damn her,» Cullen cursed. «Is not even a man’s horse sacred?»

He was in a fine rage by the time he finally got Liath harnessed and drove out to join Conchobar’s army. That is, until he reached the river. What he saw there tempered his anger with fear. It was a sight every warrior dreaded — the Washer at the Ford. The old woman was said to appear to soldiers who were meant to die in battle. The doomed would see her washing their armour in the river. and today she was washing his.

«I know I told you to do your worst, Morrígan,» Cullen called out. «But this is simply petty. It’s worse than causing Emer to be barren.»

The crone transformed herself into the beautiful goddess he knew. «I did nothing of the sort,» she assured him. «Not that I couldn’t, but I didn’t. And I am not being petty. I am the Washer at the Ford. This is my duty as a death deity.»

Cullen snorted in disbelief and drove his chariot through the shallow water to the opposite shore, never looking back.

Morrígan had to admit to herself that she was being a little petty. Perhaps she had gone too far, but the man needed a lesson in humility before she made him immortal. But she didn’t realize it would be so hard for her to watch. Taking the form of a raven Morrígan circled the battlefield, flying high over Medb and Conchobar’s armies. She was a war goddess and normally she enjoyed watching two worthy hosts clash on the field of honour. This once, though, she took no joy in it, for today she would have to see Cullen die.

She spied him, driving his chariot deep into the heart of Medb’s army. The first spear flew through the air and its aim was true; it would strike him. Before she realized what she was doing, Morrígan reacted on instinct, using her power to shift the trajectory of the spear away from Cullen. Instead of hitting him, it pierced Liath’s chest, causing the big horse to stumble and fall.

«Oh damn,» Morrígan cursed, «Cullen loved that beast.»

Above the din of the battle she could hear Cullen’s roar of outrage. It was followed swiftly by a cry of pain as the second spear pierced his side. Morrígan had been a death deity through time immemorial but letting that spear hit its mark was the hardest thing she had ever done. She watched helplessly as Cullen drew the weapon from his body and fell from the chariot.

An eerie silence descended over the battlefield as both armies watched the great warrior struggle to his feet. With one hand over his wound Cullen stumbled forwards, cutting one of the reins from the harness of his dying horse. The soldiers watched as he slowly and painfully made his way to the edge of the field. Once there he fell against a standing stone, blood pouring from his side to pool at his feet. With single-minded determination he took the rein and lashed himself to the stone.

«I am Cúchulainn,» he shouted, «and I will not die on the ground. I will take my last breath standing, as a warrior should.»

A cheer of pride went up from Conchobar’s men but they could not reach Cullen, trapped as they were on the other side of Medb’s army. Morrígan flew down, landing lightly on his shoulder. She rested her raven’s head on his cheek to let him know she was there.

«I’m an arrogant ass,» he whispered, the pain now slurring his words. «But I am now yours, if you’ll still have me.»

Cullen fell unconscious and Morrígan watched as the warrior Lugaid and his men approached. Lugaid had been the one to throw the spears that mortally wounded Cullen and his horse. Morrígan assumed that the gathering crowd of soldiers meant to pay tribute to the defeat of a worthy adversary, but instead Lugaid raised his sword.

«The head of Cúchulainn is mine!» he announced.

As his blade swung towards her lover’s neck, Morrígan revealed her true form. Her mighty sword took Lugaid’s hand off at the wrist before he could complete his gruesome task. Amid his screams of pain Morrígan smiled, taking grim pleasure in her vengeance.

«Cúchulainn is mine,» she hissed to the cowards. «You are not worthy of him.»

Then the goddess wrapped one arm around her warrior and they both disappeared.

Morrígan brought Cullen across the Veil to her great castle of Tara. Gently, she removed his clothes and armour and laid him on her bed. He had lost so much blood that his heart was barely beating. It was time. Quickly she raked one fingernail across her wrist, slicing deeply.

«Cullen, listen to me,» she said. «You must drink.»

He opened his mouth and Morrígan’s blood spilled across his lips. Before he could turn away in disgust she forced her wrist between his lips.

«You must take my blood into your body, Cullen,» she repeated urgently. «It is the only way you can live. Please, stay with me.»

He drank and, when he could hold no more, he slept. For three days he lay cold and pale as a corpse in her bed. Morrígan had never attempted such a transformation before and she stayed by his side, hoping that she would not lose him to the Summerlands forever. On the third night he took a gasping breath and sat up, blinking at her in surprise and confusion.

«Liath?» he asked groggily.

Morrígan threw back her head and laughed. Only a man would return from the dead and ask for his horse!

«Liath is here, in my stables,» Morrígan informed him. «I had to beg a favour of my cousin Epona in order to save him. It is not a debt I look forward to repaying.»

«Thank you,» he said grimly.

Morrígan’s heart fell. She had hoped that things would be different once he was at Tara with her. At the very least she hadn’t expected him to behave like. well, like she had killed his favourite horse and allowed him to be slain, not by a stronger foe but by the deceitful use of sorcery. Morrígan rose from the bed and walked to the window. But that was exactly what she had done. She supposed his lack of enthusiasm for her company should not surprise her.

«My heart does not beat,» he said.

«No,» she replied absently. «It does not.»

«You should have let me go to the Summerlands.»

«Perhaps I should have,» she agreed. «But I could not.»

He was quiet for a moment and then he shook his head and asked, «Why, Morrígan? You do not love me. If you did, you would have come to me when I called you, when I needed you, over the years. What purpose does all this serve?»

Morrígan turned. «You never asked me that, you know, when we first struck our bargain all those years ago.»

Cullen snorted. «I was young. All I could think of was the glory to be found in battle. and you. But I am asking now.»

Morrígan nodded. «Faerie is not the only world that exists beyond the mortal realm,» she explained. «It is simply the one where the Veil is the thinnest. There are others, dark places filled with things far more terrifying than the gods or the sidhe. We call them the Demon Horde. Occasionally, the Horde attempts to break through the barrier between worlds. As of yet they cannot physically cross the Veil, but their evil can. The Horde has sent plague, famine, disasters of nature — all in an effort to weaken us. The pantheon believes that any death caused by their influence makes the Horde stronger, and that one day they will become powerful enough to cross the Veil. If they do, it will be the end of us all, Cullen. The inhabitants of Faerie are not strong enough to defeat them and the humans will be nothing more than lambs to the slaughter.»

He looked at her dubiously. «I am good, Morrígan, but I am not that good. What is it you expect me to do?»

«You are now a creature unique in this world, Cullen. I expect you to make more like you. And they will make more and so on until I have an army of darkness at my disposal. Perhaps then we can defeat the Horde when they come.»

Cullen nodded. «All right,» he said gravely. «I will do it, not for you, but for all those innocents who will die if I don’t.»

Morrígan’s gaze raked across his naked chest. She licked her lips, feeling a tiny thrill as he shifted his legs to hide his body’s response to her.

«No,» she agreed, «not for me. I have never been innocent.»

Castle Tara

Connemara, Ireland — 1260

Cullen leaned back against the wall and let out a ragged breath. Unable to stop himself, he glanced up at the north tower and watched as candlelight illuminated its windows. As surely as he knew the sun would rise in the morning, he knew that before this night had passed he would climb the stairs to her room. It was as inevitable as the tide.

Cullen was a liar and he knew it. But then again, so was she. He loved her and she loved him. It had always been and would always be. But too much distrust and betrayal had passed between them for either to ever utter those tender words again. And perhaps that was for the best. He was a soldier who had made a name for himself on the battlefields of Eire. She was a death deity, a goddess of war. What did such as they know of love?

In the years after his death he had firmly believed that he’d been no more than a means to an end for her — the perfect warrior to beget her legion of vampires, the perfect king to lead her dark army. But time has a way of breaking down even the thickest walls and time was something he’d had plenty of. Finally, he had seen the truth. It was in her eyes when she thought he wasn’t watching her, in her touch when the passion of their lovemaking overcame her. She had chosen him. She was as old as time and yet she had bargained with a young man for his soul. She had sworn him to a covenant whose ramifications a beardless youth could not possibly have understood. He could not help but hate her for that. But on those rare occasions when he was brutally honest with himself, he had to admit that he could not help but love her for it as well. She had tricked him, coerced him, seduced him. Of all the men who had ever been, or would ever be, under her dominion, she had chosen him.

He closed his eyes, trying to drown out the sound of hundreds of vampires tromping through his castle. This was not the afterlife he had imagined when he’d been human. It was not what the bards had promised every warrior would enjoy when his last battle was fought. Cullen opened his eyes and looked once again at the tower. No, Morrígan had cheated him of that. But then again, would he really have wanted an afterlife without her in it?

He smiled a wicked little smile and left the parapet, moving swiftly through the castle to the north tower. Climbing the stairs with determined strides, he didn’t even bother to knock at her door. Morrígan was standing in front of the window, staring down at the spot he had recently vacated. At his entrance, she turned and he felt a twinge of guilt at the sadness in her eyes.

«If you’ve come here to fight with me you can turn around and walk right back out of that door,» she snapped.

He closed the door and leaned against it, folding his arms across his chest. «But we are warriors, Morrígan. Fighting is what we do.»

She rolled her eyes. «Don’t you think you’ll get enough of that in the days to come?» she asked.

Cullen shrugged. «There are a couple of them who might give me trouble,» he replied as he pushed away from the door and crossed the room. «But I have never drunk from a human. The blood of the great goddess Morrígan runs undiluted in my veins. Not a one of them has a chance of defeating me. Now,» he said, reaching out and wrapping one lock of her black hair around his finger, «about the fighting.»

«I don’t feel like it tonight,» she said petulantly.

«Really?» he murmured, sliding his other hand over her hip. «What do you feel like?»

He pulled her against him and felt the shudder roll through her body. With a word or two whispered in her ear he could bring her to climax without ever taking off her dress. And he loved her for that.

Cullen stifled a grin as he watched her jaw clench.

Morrígan turned her black eyes up to his. «What do I feel? I am a harbinger of death,» she said coldly. «I don’t feel anything.»

«Liar,» Cullen whispered as he claimed her mouth, sliding his tongue inside as he pulled her hips against his.

They were almost the same height and a perfect fit. He knew the moment her icy reserve melted for him. She let out a ragged moan, a familiarly frantic sound that usually preceded the tearing of clothing. With a growl of triumph he swept her into his arms and carried her to the bed. Breaking the kiss, he looked down into her beautiful face. She was flush with desire — for him. Always for him, only for him. For over one thousand years they had made love and war, and they would do so for the next thousand years.

Cullen cupped her face with one battle-scarred hand. «I hate you,» he whispered tenderly.

His goddess smiled up at him. «I hate you, too.»

«Aye,» her warrior laughed, «but you will always love me.»