The names in this story are of Celtic origin and so can be unintelligible to the average English-speaker. As such, I take pity on you, the reader, and save myself the trouble of doing so later on after you flood me with e-mails asking how to pronounce the names. Here is a pronunciation guide for this story.
Caitlain (kāt-lăn/ kāt-lawn)
Cathrach Dorcha (käth-räkh dor-chä/kăth-răk dor-chă)
Avenger of the Slain
They watched him out of the corners of their eyes as he stalked up to the sheet-covered lump in the middle of the rain-slick pavement, his long, black coat and hood being tugged by the wind whistling between the three-story buildings. The stench of putrid garbage and rotting flesh was a miasma almost thick enough to cut with a knife. Add in the stale vomit, urine, and the kimchi from the Korean restaurant and you had to blink pretty fast to keep your eyes from watering. Everyone was breathing through their mouths and taking shallow breaths. Despite that, they all watched him warily.
He would have smiled to himself if he were here for work. They were reacting to him on a subconscious level, unaware of why he gave them the willies, even if they knew why he was there.
He was at the sheet. Once white, it was now mostly the deep, deep red of a spilt life. He was used to seeing the results of crime and as a reporter for the Cathrach Dorcha News' crime desk he thought he had seen everything. Until he got the call that night.
He knew the detective at his shoulder well, a tall, burly man with salt and pepper hair, cheerless merry green eyes, and a clean-shaven face with its share of wrinkles after twenty-five years in the CDPD. He nodded brusquely at the coroner who lifted the corner of the sheet just enough to show the once beautiful face and coppery hair now frozen in horror and pain, rain-wet hair the color of dried blood. So much blood in the alley told them that she was dead only a few hours, since the rain had come with sunset and dawn hours away. He lifted the sheet farther and saw the raw meat mess the killer left of his sister, only leaving the face and neck unmarked. It was a scene he had seen twice in the last month.
"Nothing new?" he demanded of the detective who was using every ounce of will power to hold himself together. He was present at Caitlain's birth, christening, confirmation, wedding, and divorce.
Detective Sean Cassidy could stand no more and so only shook his head as he turned his back on his goddaughter. "Nothing," he rasped, his breath shuddering on the ragged edges and the sheet was laid back across her face. "The sicko doesn't have a pattern other than picking pretty, young woman. The ages are a decade apart, the features are random, the areas they live are different, and, until tonight, we had no overlapping shopping or living habits. The first victim also worked at CDU, but then so do fifteen thousand other citizens of our fair city. Caitlain and Maeve MacShane never crossed paths, as far as we know. MacShane was part of the housekeeping staff in the female dorms while Caty was an assistant professor."
The detective covered a sob with a cough, pulling out a handkerchief and wiping his face. "We don't know yet. She was seen leaving CDU at five, doesn't have a boyfriend, and her ex is still in Dorcha State finishing his fifteen-to-life."
The other man tugged his hood closer, shoving his hands into his pockets. "He will kill again, Sean," he whispered direly. "He will do this again and unless he fucks up he will keep doing it."
"The FBI thinks he will make a mistake, Seosamh," Sean said earnestly, trying not to sound like he was convincing himself.
"The FBI thinks he will screw up ... eventually," Seosamh replied sourly, turning away from the sheet-covered lump to glare at his uncle.
"How do you know that is what they said?" Cassidy demanded, shocked.
"I have my sources, Uncle," Seosamh quipped mysteriously, his eyes bleak. Looking down at what remained of his big sister, the person he loved most in this world, the icy anger spread to engulf him. "Let me know when I can make arrangements for ... you know."
He walked away, ignoring Sean's reply.
It was a longer drive to his condo than he remembered it being. There was little hope he would not be reading about another victim in a week. And a week or so after that. This particular sicko had visited four other cities, each one seeing no fewer than sixteen victims before the killing stopped and another city was chosen to play host to some of the most vicious murders the FBI had seen.
And nothing would be done. Caitlain would simply join the list of victims.
Seosamh could not... would not stand by and watch the bodies continue dropping, letting the bastard vanish again.
Screeching of tires on wet pavement, honking horns, and shouted curses greeting his decision, he turned around, heading for his priestess' house on the edge of Cathrach Dorcha; a large colonial mansion fronting a sacred grove protected by magic and state law.
The house was dark but as he drove up the unpaved drive, the porch light went on and the door opened on a large man wearing a black loincloth, holding a shillelagh. His chiseled features were grimly foreboding even as he turned his head back into the house and said something. More lights flared in the windows of the living room and one of the upstairs bedrooms.
Seosamh brought the car to a stop. A woman shrouded in a white, ankle-length robe appeared at the door behind the man, her fiery hair mussed. The sight of her eased the pain in his chest he had not realized was there.
"Seosamh," she said, her voice lyrical, tinged with a hint of Ireland, "I cannot tell you how sorry I am."
That stopped Seosamh in his tracks. "You knew?" he demanded angrily, causing the staff-wielding man to step sideways.
"Arghus, gently," she murmured, laying a hand on his massively muscled arm, pushing him back out of her way. "I was awakened an hour or so ago. Arghus almost had me calm enough to sleep when he felt you coming. Niamh is getting tea ready. Come, tell us while we wait."
He was halfway through when Niamh came in with the tray of tea. She had a graceful presence that made Seosamh sure she would become high priestess after Airmeithinion.
It was her Goddess' grace that brought him to Airmeithinion's home so late. When he finished telling them the death toll of this killer, they were all pale.
"I know what is in your heart. I can only caution you that what you ask is not done lightly," Airmeithinion warned grimly, her pale eyes flicking over to Arghus, who shook his head just as grimly. She sighed resignedly. "Niamh, go call the priests. Warn them to bring their guardians. We may need them."
Seosamh sat in the living room, sipping tea in silence. Thinking about what he was doing, making sure his request was formed properly. Airmeithinion, Arghus, and Niamh were gathering supplies and changing into their robes when the first priests arrived. Faol and her guardian were joined by Aisling, Cynbel, Caiside, Macha, Siobhan, Kevan, and Nuallan and their black dogs, making the house claustrophobic with the aggressively burly guardians and the powerful priests.
Airmeithinion finally emerged from her bedroom and came down in her brilliantly white robes, Arghus following with a slim wooden case Seosamh had seen maybe three times since he became a member of this circle a decade ago. Druids don't like killing to sacrifice. They learned their lessons centuries ago. Feed a God on blood sacrifices, blood will be all the God demands.
But some things still required blood. Human blood. Most of that blood was freely given; only punishments took it by force. Tonight, the blood would be given freely. Celtic Gods were still fond of revenge and battle.
Airmeithinion led them out back to the woods along the well-worn path to the clearing several hundred feet into the oaks, hawthorns, and ash. In the center of the clearing, beside the pile of rocks from which a spring bubbled, was a waist high block of moss-covered granite. It was here when the first druid found the grove a millennium ago and it would be here that Seosamh O'Niall would ask for his vengeance.
"Form the circle. Seosamh, strip and in the center," Airmeithinion said sharply, a worry creasing her brows. "Black dogs, a step behind your charges. I am hoping you will not be needed, but I have never performed this particular rite myself so we will be cautious."
Seosamh stripped quickly, goose bumps springing up in the chill autumn air. He stood before the altar. Airmeithinion approached, already chanting in rapid Gaelic. The air became thick, pressing down on him, constricting his lungs, making him feel faint.
"On the altar, Seosamh," Arghus said, outside the circle. "Quickly!"
.... There is more of this story ...