Her mother, offering her nothing but lettuce and a glass of water for dinner—because she’d looked chubby in her cheerleading uniform the night before.
Reading her fiancé’s texts to another woman, the texts that said how much sexier the other woman was, how much more beautiful she was, than Stacy.
Stacy getting caught shoplifting by the store manager—a middle-aged man with a wife and a terrible comb-over—who kept it quiet and didn’t call the cops or her parents, but for a terrible, unforgettable price.
"Stop," Stacy whimpers, her voice barely a whisper. "Please..."
But the Morrigan is relentless. She peels back the layers of Stacy's carefully constructed facade, exposing every insecurity, every fear.
The shadows slither higher, wrapping around Stacy's legs. Her perfectly manicured hands claw at her own face, leaving red trails across her cheeks as she tries to escape the visions the Morrigan forces into her mind, a barrage of every humiliation, every rejection, every moment of self-doubt, and every last drop of emotional pain the girl has ever felt.
All of it at once, in living color. She’s experiencing each incident as if it was happening in real time again. No one’s mind can withstand that.
"Do you see now?" The Morrigan's voice drips with false sympathy. "Do you understand how small you truly are?"
Stacy's knees buckle, and she collapses onto the pavement. The portfolio she was clutching spills open, scattering glossy real estate flyers across the ground. Her painstakingly built image of success lies in tatters around her.
I struggle against the Morrigan's control, horrified yet mesmerized by the display of power. Part of me—a dark, twisted part I've tried to ignore—revels in Stacy's anguish. Years of torment and ridicule flash through my mind, and in that instant, I want to let the Morrigan continue.
But then I see the pain in Stacy's eyes, the way her body trembles uncontrollably, and I want it to stop. This isn't justice. It's cruelty.
My stolen hand twitches. The shadows recede.
Stacy falls onto the curb. Her silk blouse gapes where buttons popped loose. Tears streak her carefully applied makeup, leaving dark trails down her cheeks. "I'm sorry," she sobs, her words barely audible. "I'm so sorry, Brigid. Please make it stop."
For a moment, I feel a flash of triumph. This is what I've wanted for so long, to see Stacy broken, to hear her beg. I wanted Stacy to feel the kind of pain she caused me, with the torment she put me through. But as quickly as it comes, the feeling sours. This isn't me. This isn't what I want to become.
No more.
I push against the goddess's control with all my strength. "Enough," I whisper.
The real estate agency door slams open. High heels clatter on pavement.
The Morrigan turns my face toward the crows, and they take flight in a whirl of black feathers.
When I blink next, we’re three blocks east. My knees buckle against a bus shelter wall, and distant sirens wail.
She lives, the Morrigan whispers inside my skull.
For now.
Chapter Five
Marius
The scent of burnt sage from whatever Tiernan is doing in the other room assaults my senses as I step into Lochan’s space. He doesn’t retreat. Never does. Just plants those tree-trunk legs wider, arms crossed over a chest that could double as a battering ram. His nostrils flare when I smirk.
“You’ve never trusted her,” I say. The words taste like rusted nails.“Not really. All that time training Brigid, and what was it? A leash disguised as lessons?”
His hazel eyes darken to swamp mud.“Says the bastard who’s about to let an immortal shadow mage hitchhike in his skull.” A muscle twitches near his temple—the only tell in that carved-stone face.“Tell me, Marius. When the Raven King starts peeling your mind apart, which memory dies first? The one where you lied to Brigid about who you really were? Or the one where you—”
I’m already moving. My forearm slams against his throat, pinning him to the wall.“Careful, fae. You don’t know what claws through my blood after dark.”
He doesn’t choke. Doesn’t even blink. Just rasps,“Prove me wrong.”
Footsteps smack the floorboards like gunshots. "Boys!" Fiona’s voice slices through the room, all sugar-coated arsenic. She leans against the doorframe, picking at chipped fuchsia nail polish, scarves swallowing her tiny frame whole. A silver nose ring glints when she tilts her head. "You done measuring dicks? Or should I grab popcorn and enjoy the show?"
Fiona—or Sirona, rather—waltzes between us, reeking of incense. Her necklaces clatter—a pentacle nestled between carnelian and rose quartz. When she grins, it doesn’t touch her eyes. "Marius, sweetheart." She pats my cheek. Her palm leaves heat. "It’s time to stop playing chicken with your great-great granddaddy’s ghost."
