Morrigan Read online

  Morrigan

  Jonathan King

  Copyright © 2020 by Jonathan King

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or places is entirely coincidental.

  Cover design by James T. Egan, www.bookflydesigns.com

  Created with Vellum

  To my father,

  who never let me give up

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Prayer Journal #1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Prayer Journal #2

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Prayer Journal #3

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Prayer Journal #4

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Prayer Journal #5

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Prayer Journal #6

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Prayer Journal #7

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Prayer Journal #8

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Prayer Journal #9

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  1

  The paper boat sailed frantic circles in the puddle, beating against the shore, looking for some escape as the kid’s breath filled its newsprint sails.

  Looks about right, Abel thought as he kneeled by the boy, avoiding the muddy spots. The Reverend would kill him if he got his Sunday clothes dirty. Well, not kill him outright, but the private sermon he’d get would take off skin.

  Doggone it, he was seventeen, and it was a beautiful fall day right after a storm. He should be lying in the leaves, smelling the earth and enjoying the cool breeze. Instead, his father had roped him into yet another picnic fellowship. Sure, he was out in nature, but in a suit and tie listening to nice old ladies he didn’t know and eating fried chicken with a fork.

  Still, he smiled at the kid. Just because his day was miserable didn’t mean he needed to spread that misery to anyone else. “Did you make that yourself?” he asked.

  The boy nodded. “With my dad. He showed me how to fold it. He made lots of boats like this when he was little.”

  “How does he keep them from sinking when the paper gets all wet?”

  The kid grinned up at him, and even through the boy’s squinting eyelids, Abel saw a twinkle. “Magic,” the kid whispered.

  “Wow,” breathed Abel, matching the kid’s hushed tone. “Your dad sounds really cool.”

  “Your dad’s cool too,” said the boy.

  It took all Abel’s self-control to keep his smile from slipping. “Oh sure, he’s a good preacher and all, but he doesn’t know the first thing about boat magic.”

  “That’s a shame,” said a voice behind them. “I have a friend who specializes in that.”

  Abel swiveled to look and lost his balance, his leg landing in the mud. Not that he was thinking much about his clothing anymore.

  Standing behind him was a girl not much older than he was, but man was she gorgeous. It wasn’t just her raven hair, emerald eyes, and alabaster skin. Everything about her felt more alive and vibrant than anyone he’d ever known. Her eyes reminded him of the sky right before a storm, overwhelmingly present and crackling with potential energy. It made his mouth dry up and his pulse race.

  “I’m gonna guess you’re new in town,” Abel said, trying his best to sound smooth and praying to God it worked.

  The corner of the girl’s mouth quirked upward, but Abel couldn’t tell whether she was charmed or amused. She reached down, grabbed his hand, and pulled him to his feet as the kid went back to his boat. “Morgan Hammond. Just moved to Pepper’s Mill about a month ago.”

  “Abel Whittaker.” Abel got his balance and suddenly became all too aware that Morgan was a good half head taller than he was. He cleared his throat. “I’m sure you’ve met my father.”

  “Yeah, Cora gave me the whole introduction.” Morgan crossed her arms, and Abel noted how muscular they were. “Did he really leave a megachurch to come to this place?”

  “It wasn’t really a megachurch,” Abel said, hoping to avoid any follow-up questions. “Less than a thousand people. Who’s Cora?”

  Morgan nodded to a middle-aged woman chatting with a deacon’s wife. Abel winced. Cora herself looked normal, but her ruffled blouse was sea green … in that it was the green of the sea after someone puked into it.

  “Is that your mother?” he asked.

  The storm in Morgan’s eyes broke, darkening. “No. No, she’s not.”

  Before Abel could ask what she meant, Cora spotted them and charged toward them in a shrill Southern accent and a cloud of vomit-colored seafoam silk.

  “Morgan! What did I tell you about talking to strangers?” She pulled Morgan close and turned to shield her from Abel.

  What is she, five? Abel thought. Then again, I’m the one who’s going to get a lecture over muddy clothes.

  Morgan ignored her not-mother’s question. “Cora, this is Reverend Whittaker’s son.”

  Cora’s mouth formed an O, and she reached out to shake his hand. She was still turned away from him, so she had to cross her arm awkwardly across her body to do it, but she refused to let go of Morgan. “I am so sorry, young man. It’s just that I’m very selective about the company my daughter keeps.”

  Daughter. I guess she is Morgan’s mother after all. So what was all that venom about earlier?

  “You know what the Good Book says about birds of a feather,” Cora went on.

  “Do not be deceived; bad company corrupts good morals,” Abel spat out robotically.

  Cora raised her eyebrows. “You really are your father’s son.”

  Abel tried hard to fake a smile, but it fell as he heard the Reverend’s voice behind him and felt a heavy hand on his shoulder.

  “My boy was South Carolina Bible Drill champion three years running. Would have been four, but he took sick with the flu right before the last competition.”

  “Oh, what bad luck,” said Cora, pulling an exaggerated pout.

  Reverend Whittaker shrugged. “It was the Lord’s will. Must not have wanted my boy showing everyone up. Let someone else have a turn in the spotlight, right, Abel?” The heavy hand squeezed in what was meant to be fatherly affection.

  Abel pushed his glasses up his nose to hide his eyes. “Sure, Dad.”

  “Well, you must be a fine young man to make your father this proud,” said Cora. “Again, I’m so sorry. I suppose I’m a little too protective of my Morgan. She’s so impressionable at her age.”

  “How old are you?” asked the Reverend.

  “I stopped counting after my 6,000th birthday,” Morgan deadpanned.

  Abel blinked.

  The Reverend chuckled. “Sorry. I should know better than to ask a lady her age.”

  A joke. Right. Of course it is. No one’s that old. But Abel couldn’t help noticing Cora digging her fin
gernails into Morgan’s shoulder.

  The Reverend spotted someone across the crowd and waved her over. “Dorothy! Come here a minute! There’s someone I want you to meet.”

  Abel’s mother shuffled over, lips pressed tight against her teeth in a smile that reflected Abel’s but without the same skill behind it. Her eyes darted around as though looking for an escape. Cora’s stare widened as she passed, probably at how much younger she was than the Reverend. Abel was used to those looks of shock by now.

  “Dorothy,” said the Reverend, taking her elbow and posing her by his side, “this is Cora Hammond and her daughter Morgan. They’re new in town.”

  “It’s nice to meet you,” said Dorothy, her voice an octave higher than natural, the pitch she put on for her husband and his flock; everyone but her darling Abel.

  “Likewise,” said Cora. “I was telling your husband that we’ve just moved up here from Columbia and we’re looking for a new congregation to join. As well as your son has turned out under his care, I know Reverend Whittaker’s the man to shepherd my Morgan.”

  “Well, I had a little something to do with Abel’s upbringing myself,” said Dorothy.

  “Of course you did, honey.” The Reverend wrapped an arm around her and pulled Abel closer. “Our family wouldn’t be half what it is today without you.”

  Abel looked from his parents to the Hammonds and got the impression that both families were posing for a Christmas card picture, one that took too long to shoot for Morgan’s taste. He knew the feeling; it itched in his lungs.

  “Where did you go to church before, Cora?” the Reverend asked.

  Cora’s face twisted as though she were tasting rotten meat. “Oh, we don’t speak of that place. We left because the pastor was involved in the most horrible scandal.”

  “What a shame,” said Dorothy, shooting her husband a look that clearly said Change the subject NOW.

  Abel took the hint first. “So Morgan, where do you go to school?”

  “We homeschool,” Cora answered for her. “You never know what liberal lies are going to be in the curriculum these days.”

  “You’re homeschooled? Me too!” said Abel, speaking to Morgan. “Hey, maybe we’ll finally have enough homeschoolers in this tiny town to start a co-op!”

  “If Cora lets me out of my cell long enough to see daylight.” Morgan glowered at her not-mother.

  Cora’s smile tightened. “You see, Reverend? This is why I have to keep a tight leash on her. That attitude is her fatal flaw.”

  “Now Morgan, remember the fifth commandment,” said the Reverend, echoes of his booming pulpit voice creeping in.

  “Honor your father and mother, so that you may live long in the land the Lord your God is giving you,” Abel said before he could stop himself. Morgan turned her glare on him, and he shrugged. “Sorry. Conditioned response.”

  Morgan’s eyes softened, but they lost none of their anger. “Of course. Far be it from me to blame a trained dog.”

  Abel’s stomach lurched.

  “Morgan!” Cora scolded, but Morgan had already pulled away and was gone.

  “I’m so sorry,” the not-mother said to the Whittakers. “She gets this way sometimes.” She hurried off after her daughter.

  Dorothy slipped behind her husband and laid a hand on Abel’s arm.

  “Don’t worry about it, son,” said the Reverend. “Some kids turn out bad no matter how understanding their parents are.” He pulled a handkerchief out of his jacket pocket and handed it to Abel. “Now get that mud off your pants before someone else sees. I’m astonished that woman still wants to join a church where the pastor’s son goes around in dirty clothes.”

  “Yes sir,” Abel said, his voice monotone as he bent to scrub his suit clean. Why did he do that, go along with whatever the Reverend said, never fighting back? Was Morgan right? Was he that well-trained? He’d learned about Pavlov and his experiments years ago, and the comparison hit way too close to home. The Reverend rang his bell, and Abel drooled all over the place. But it had been far too long since he’d gotten a treat.

  Did Pavlov ever worry about keeping his dog happy for fear of it biting back?

  But Abel had no bite, and he knew it.

  He was sure that would be the last time he saw her that day. But as the picnic wound down and Miss Everett from the singles’ Sunday School class cornered him in another longsuffering conversation, he spotted Morgan waving to him from behind a tree. He excused himself as tactfully as he could—two or three times, and then he gave up and left her still talking about the upcoming Fall Festival—and hurried over to the girl.

  “I don’t have long,” she whispered. “Cora’s probably already noticed I’m missing. Listen, what I said earlier, the dog thing, was out of line. I’m sorry.”

  “You weren’t wrong,” said Abel.

  “Yes, I was,” said Morgan. “It’s just that I hate seeing someone kowtowing like that when they could stand up for themselves. If I could stand up to Cora…”

  “Why don’t you?” Abel asked. “It’s not like you like your mother, or whatever she is to you.”

  “Nothing to like. She’s a monster.”

  “Define monster.”

  Morgan eyed him. “I wouldn’t want to give you nightmares.”

  Abel leaned in closer and whispered, “There’s no … abuse going on, is there?”

  Morgan snorted. “No, she treats me well enough. It’d be a lovely little palace if it weren’t a cage.” She turned away and stared at the clouds wandering across the sky. “Did you ever feel like your own skin was a prison? That if you were someone else, anyone else, life wouldn’t be so cruel?”

  “That does sound familiar,” said Abel. “All that pressure to act a certain way, look a certain way, be a certain way, and all coming from someone who’s supposed to love you no matter what.”

  “So she says,” Morgan muttered. “And there’s so much I need to do, so many people who need me, and I can’t be that with her around.”

  “Just once I’d like to be able to decide what my own life looks like,” Abel went on. “But next year I’ll be at some private Christian college he’s picked out for me, and it’ll be more of the same, just from different people.”

  “So don’t go,” said Morgan. “You’re a man. Tell your father you’re living your life, not his. Go to college where you want to go.”

  Abel chuckled. “No one tells the Reverend anything. He tells them. It’s in his job description, and he’s very much aware of it. Besides, I’m still a minor. I’m not going anywhere on my own until I’m eighteen, and I’m sure not paying for college myself.”

  “People younger than you have fought in wars, and you can’t even leave home?” asked Morgan.

  “That was ages ago,” said Abel. “It was normal. And I’m not exactly the warrior type. I’m just me, and I don’t exactly have a lot of options, you know?”

  Morgan stared at him, her eyes piercing his. “What if I could give you options?”

  “What?”

  “A chance to fight back. You got a pen?”

  Abel pulled one from his coat pocket, and she grabbed a napkin from the food table and scribbled a note on it. She folded it and stuffed it back into his hand, slipping his pen into the pocket of her jeans. Abel started to protest, but the mischievous arch in her eyebrow told him he wasn’t going to get it back.

  Instead, he held up the napkin. “What’s this?”

  “Read it the next time you’re alone. If you’re up to it, we might both find that freedom we’re looking for.” She grinned and winked at him. “There’s a fighter in you somewhere. I know it.”

  Before Abel could ask any more questions, Morgan melted back into the crowd, snatching up a leg of fried chicken as an alibi. None too soon, either, as Cora’s shrill tones called out her not-daughter’s name.

  Abel slipped the napkin into his pocket, rubbing his fingers across it and smiling at the memory of Morgan’s face. Maybe this picnic wasn’t all bad after
all.

  Sunday, October 27

  4:33 PM

  Hey, God. It’s me, Abel.

  So there’s this girl.

  I know you probably get that a lot. I’ve even said it before. Remember that crush I had on Sally Arrowwood and her gap-toothed smile? Back before we left Open Hearts Baptist. We swore we’d keep in touch, and then years go by without a word, and she’s dating some punk with a nose ring and won’t accept my friend request?

  Ahem. Well. This is different.

  Maybe it’s not. Morgan didn’t seem to like me very much. And she could be kinda mean sometimes. But gosh, was she gorgeous. Just being near her and looking into her eyes made me feel more alive than I’ve felt in years. And we both feel trapped by our parents. Maybe we have more in common. Maybe I’ll find out someday. If she’ll talk to me again. If she doesn’t feel like our parents are setting us up.

  Give me patience, God. I want to get to know everything about her right now, to spend every last second with her, and I only just met her today. Show me the brakes on this thing before I drive it over the edge.

  Thanks, God. Abel out.

  2

  Abel breathed a sigh of relief as he pulled the tie from around his neck. At last the sensation of being hanged was gone. He shrugged off his jacket and hung it up in the closet, giving it plenty of room to avoid wrinkling. Off came his shirt and undershirt, which he crammed into a ball and slam dunked into the hamper.