«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.

Ten

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.

Eleven

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.»

Twelve

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.»