Morrigan Jonathan King (e reading malayalam books TXT) 📖

The Morrigan here and now opened her eyes and met his. For a split second, Abel felt caught, but she didn’t look angry that he’d been staring. In fact, she stared back. And he could tell from the look in those emerald eyes she wouldn’t be looking away anytime soon. Which was fine by him. Neither would he.

He was finally roused, not by the ending of the song or the applause that followed, but by the press of a cold mug against his fingers. Abel tore his gaze away from Morrigan and stared at the drink in his hand. He tried to protest, but Boyle was already bringing a round of drinks to the jam session, careful not to interrupt the patriarchs, who had taken up a rough-voiced a cappella whaling chant.

“Isn’t he going to card me or something?” he asked Mac as the ancient sailor heaved himself up on the barstool beside him. Not that he knew what it meant to card someone, but he had read it in a book once. It had something to do with the legal drinking age, and he knew he wasn’t old enough to drink.

Mac roared with laughter, joined by Brigid’s bubbling chuckle. “Boyle’s been drinking beer since he was weaned from his mother’s milk. He’s not about to stop a strapping young man like you from tossing one back.”

Abel eyed his drink, unable to shake the feeling that there was something illegal about it being in his seventeen-year-old hands. But Morrigan’s emerald eyes were still on him, waiting to see what he would do. He froze.

Brigid raised her glass. “To Morrigan and her safe return! Continued long life to her, and Danu’s blessings in the days ahead.”

Mac thrust his glass into the air in agreement, spilling some of its contents. “To Morrigan!”

Morrigan toasted herself half-heartedly, still watching Abel.

The moment of truth, he thought, and his mind went back to the Freedom List in his pocket. Number One on the list was “Go to a bar and have a drink taste.” Even writing the list, he couldn’t commit to a full drink. Now that it was in his hand, the idea both repulsed and attracted him; he could almost feel the taboo-ness of the glass pulling him in like a magnet. And what was the point of coming to this pub if he wasn’t even going to take a sip? He was free. No church, no rules, no father watching over his shoulder. This was his chance to try the forbidden. And he couldn’t back down, not with the gods expecting him to follow. Not with Morrigan watching.

Taking a deep breath, Abel put the rim of the glass to his lips and sucked in the tiniest amount possible.

It wasn’t the taste that got him; there wasn’t enough liquid in his mouth to wet his tongue, much less to taste it. It was the smell. The stench of spoiled grain forced its way up his nostrils and refused to come back down, soaking his eyes in tears and making him gag. He slammed the glass down on the bar, coughing like a TB patient.

Mac and Brigid laughed again, as though Abel were a toddler who had tried to sound very grown up. Morrigan looked at them wide-eyed, and then down at the table. Decidedly not at Abel.

Abel narrowed his eyes, even though he couldn’t see through the tears that way. Morrigan had described him as a hero, and now they saw through that story. Well, he wasn’t going to let them dismiss him that easily. He picked up the glass again and gulped down more of the foul brew, whole mouthfuls at a time. It was bitter and a little spicy, but still nothing compared to the smell that clung to his nostrils and made tears stream from his eyes.

He was halfway through the pint glass before Mac reached over and pushed it away from Abel’s face and down onto the counter. “That’s enough for you, Young Master Abel. Don’t hurt yourself.”

Brigid slipped off her stool and slapped him on the back, which only made him cough harder. Then she pulled the kerchief from her hair and wiped the foam from the corners of his mouth. Abel tried to push her off, but she wouldn’t be dissuaded from her motherly duties. And that’s what she was in her mind; not an equal, but a mother looking after a child who couldn’t take care of himself. If he hadn’t been red-faced from choking on firewater, he would have blushed crimson just from that. And Morrigan still wasn’t looking at him.

“Cheer up, darling,” Brigid said. “Lots of young men react that way to their first drink. The important thing is that Morrigan’s back safe. Now it’s the first flight back to Ireland, and it’ll be as though she’d never left.”

“We can’t,” said Morrigan.

Brigid stopped, and Abel pulled away.

“All these centuries of searching for you, and now we can’t go home?” Mac asked, his near-constant laugh quieted by uneasy nerves. “Why ever not?”

“Because Cora’s still alive.” Morrigan lifted her eyes to his. “And I’m going to fix that.”

Abel coughed out a chuckle. “I wondered when we’d get back to that.”

Brigid placed a hand on Morrigan’s arm. “Dear heart, you can’t mean you’re going to try to kill her. Look at how easily she bested you last time.”

“She caught me off guard,” said Morrigan. “This time I’ll be ready.”

“But you don’t have to do this. That woman kept you locked up for years, but you’re free now at last. She doesn’t hold any power over you anymore. It’s over.”

“It’s not over,” said Morrigan. “Not while that woman is still breathing.”

“Why?” asked Mac. “What’s she done that’s worth killing her for?”

Morrigan’s laugh was cold. “If you don’t know that, Mac, you don’t know me at all.”

“What’s your plan, then?” asked Brigid, hand on her hip. “Run back to her and try to slice her head off?”

“I’d think you of all