The rain nipped at Morrigan's skin as she pulled the knife from her palm. The wound burned as the blade fell to the ground. She took in a slow, calming breath and caught the scent of blood, a smell so thick she could taste the iron.
She reached up with a clean hand and ran it through her hair. The hand was soaked when she pulled it back. Blood? She lathered it between her fingers. She knew it wasn't hers.
She heard a voice. It came as a whisper. The voice was familiar, but her predicament was not. She didn't know where she was, or how she got there. Her heart raced and her lungs hurt from the rapid breathing. Whatever she was doing, it took tremendous effort. A battle?
After another slow breath, she realized what was happening. She gave in to passion, as she did many times before. This time, however, was different. The Passion was a journey. It was a fundamental part of her art, a voyage to the darkest place the mind can ever go. It was to be intimately acquainted with one’s own shadow, and Morrigan's shadow was long and dark.
She stood at the center of a grisly scene, a masterpiece of death. Surrounded by blood and viscera, she felt eyes on her from all directions, her "allies". They were afraid, but also in awe. They marveled at her power, unaware of how it felt. She wished they could feel it too. She needed them to feel it. To them, The Passion was a sickness. To Morrigan, it was proof of the goddess's love.
Another watched as she tried to gather her thoughts, something beyond the here and now. The goddess watched her every move. The voice spoke again. Morrigan didn't need to understand the words. Just hearing it filled her with joy; with warmth. It didn't take long for the afterglow to fade.
She felt the cold of drizzling rain, the blood that soaked into her clothes and stained her skin. Whispers lifted from the crowd, their eyes still watching. She couldn't move. Her body refused. As the passion faded, she regained control.
She heard footsteps approaching from behind. Beatrice? she thought. She took another breath. New scents emerged, the smell of generic aftershave and earthy cologne. A man... Damon.
He was quiet, each step carefully chosen to avoid ruining his shoes. She gave a gentle tilt of her head and the man stopped like an animal catching wind of a hunter. He refused to speak or even move until she spoke.
"Damon," Morrigan called, rolling her eyes. He knew better. Was he still so easily frightened?
He let out a long-held breath, "Morrigan?"
Morrigan took a moment to prepare for the answer before asking the question, “Did I hurt anyone?"
"I mean," he paused, likely surveying the scene surrounding them. Finally, he answered, "Yeah.”
Morrigan shook her head and added, “That I would care about.”
“A couple of friendlies got caught in the crossfire, but it was a quicker death than what was coming for them. How are you feeling?"
"Like hell," Morrigan whispered, her hands shaking as she gripped her cane. She wondered if she could move yet. The ache suggested otherwise.
"This..." Damon began, pausing to reconsider his words, "What happened?"
"Not sure," she said, barely able to muster the words.
"You tore them apart. If you could see what I'm seeing-”
“I have seen it.” Morrigan said. She sighed. She finally started feeling normal again.
“Are you okay?"
She stayed silent for a time, choosing to ignore the question. She turned to him, tapping her cane on the ground to guide the way as she walked.
Damon reached forward as if to help, but pulled back to avoid the blood, “Morrigan.”
“This is going to sound strange, but where am I?”
Damon, scoffed, following her as she stumbled, “Maine. Can you really not remember?”
The memories were returning to her, but slowly. They dripped in steadily like a leaking faucet. "I've never blacked out before."
"That's a problem."
"I'll handle it. Who's behind all this?"
"A local cult, and some from out of town that answered a call for help."
“Should we look into it further?”
Damon sighed. “That could piss off the wrong kind of people."
Morrigan stopped and turned around to face him. “Too late, I'm already pissed."
“Please be careful,” Damon said, stepping forward to block her progress. "You know what I mean.”
She scoffed. “I'm harder to kill than you are." She smiled and stepped forward.
Damon sidestepped around her but never replied.
"I need to wash up.” Morrigan reached out for his shoulder and giggled at him when he pulled away.
He responded with a chuckle of his own as he watched her attempt to navigate the uneven ground. She stumbled over roots and swatted branches away as they brushed her face. “In a hurry?” he asked.
“Yes, as a matter of fact, I am,” she replied. She took great care as she walked, her cheeks warm. “You won't be hearing from me tonight, I wager.”
“Why not?”
Morrigan wondered if she should answer. For a moment she wondered if the news would hurt him. Finally, she replied, “I have a date."
