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I handed theAwaken the Celt to Julie. Of the four, it was by far the easiest to read and it had pretty pictures. I grabbedMyths and Legends myself, hoping Esmeralda underlined the important passages. I turned to the index and came to a page with three bloody fingerprints in the middle of theM ’s. Esmeralda had dipped her hands into the chicken blood and didn’t wash them before reading the books. Did she feel anointed? I studied the lines by the prints: Mongan, Mongfind, Morc, Morrigan…Oh shit. I flipped the volume to articles starting withM . Please don’t be Morrigan, please don’t be Morrigan…A big fat bloody fingerprint on the two-page spread on Morrigan.
Why me?
I felt like throwing the book against the wall. Found a good goddess to worship.“Bestoloch.”
“What does that mean?” Julie asked.
“It means ‘imbecile’ in Russian. Looks like your mom’s coven worshipped Morrigan. She isn’t a nice goddess.”
She thrust her book in front of me. “What’s wrong with him?”
On the page, a giant of a man swung a huge sword. Gross bulges broke all over his body, the monstrous muscles swelling above one shoulder, threatening to envelop his head. His knees and feet twisted backward, his colossal arms could’ve brushed the ground, his mouth gaped open, and his left eye thrust out of its orbit. A glow, indicated with short strokes of the ink pen, radiated from his head.
“That’s Cú Chulainn. He was the greatest hero of ancient Ireland. When he got really mad during battle, he went into frenzy and turned into that thing. It’s called warp spasm.”
“Why is his head shining?”
“Apparently he got very hot during the spasm and after the battle people had to dump water on him to cool him down. In one story he jumped into the cauldron filled with water and the cauldron broke…”
I stared at the cauldron in the middle of the room.
Julie tugged on my sleeve. “What?”
“Hold on a minute.” I approached the cauldron and took the iron handles.
“Too heavy,” Julie said.
I grunted, picked it up, and moved it aside. The lid shifted a little, spilling the rancid broth, thankfully not on me.
Under the cauldron lay a small pit. Narrow, barely large enough to permit passage to a small animal, maybe a dog the size of a beagle. The edges were smooth, the circumference perfectly round, as if sculpted with a knife. I looked into it and saw darkness. The odor of earth and the cloying stench of decay rose from the gloom.
Déjà vu.
Julie pried a clod of dirt from the ground and headed for the pit. I caught her.