Hexed

beautiful, sultry woman in next to nothing appears mysteriously; a ghost wind generated off camera blows her hair in a way that suggests wild abandon; she pouts sexily at this utterly regular schmoe with a weak chin; and he completely suspends his disbelief that she’d ever be interested in him, because he’s got an ice-cold beer in his hand. The mysterious wind in this case was almost certainly generated by Brighid herself, and it wafted her scent to me, which was just as I remembered it: milk and honey and soft ripe berries. Damn.
    Now, I’m not a regular schmoe, and I certainly don’t have a weak chin, but I’m as susceptible to beer commercials as the next fella, even though it’s just living vicariously in a pubescent male fantasy. None of those commercials came close to the real, live goddess that confronted me in my doorway.
    Brighid looked as if she had jumped out of the pages of Heavy Metal . She was wearing several layers of sheer blue material, tied or bunched in such a way as to barely cover her naughty bits, yet providing a tantalizing glimpse of each through the fabric. A golden torc circled her throat, and another accentuated her left biceps, while delicate ropes of twisted metal adorned her wrists. Around her waist were several thin golden chains. Her red hair cascaded around her face in languorous waves like Jessica Rabbit’s, and she had gold thread braided into it here and there. And the pouty come-hither look, achieved by pursing the lips a bit and looking at me with sleepy eyes? She had that down . The ladies in the beer commercials were hot, no doubt, but when a goddess wants to make an effort, no one else can even open the jar of mustard, let alone cut it.
    Brighid was much more my type than the Morrigan. She didn’t eat dead people in any of her forms, for one thing, and it was she who ignited the fires of creativity and passion within the hearts of all Irish. But even if I wanted to give Brighid whatever she had come for—and I wasn’t sure I did—I realized that the Morrigan had done her best to ensure I couldn’t.
    The entire cast of the Morrigan’s visit changed for me now that Brighid was standing in front of me. The two of them had never been antagonists, but neither had they been fast friends. A healthy respect and perhaps an unhealthy envy existed between them, a rivalry of equals to see who could be first among them all. What had kept each from the other’s throat before was Aenghus Óg and his cabal, but now that there had been a purge in Tír na nÓg, perhaps the two of them were clawing at each other and I was either a prize to be won or a means to a different end. The scratchy sex, the ear, the second omelet … it was all the Morrigan’s Machiavellian machinations!
    › Atticus, you know I can hear you when you’re all spazzed up, right? That was a lot of alliteration for a doubtful Druid deliberating over a deity’s dubious designs. ‹
    » Welcome, Brighid. You’ve left me speechless, « I said over the end of Oberon’s mockery. She might wonder what I was thinking.
    » Atticus, « she purred. I’m not kidding—she purred at me. Brighid can not only beat Hank Azaria at producing voices, she can do multiple voices at the same time. She can sing three-part harmony all by herself in addition to the lead. It comes in handy when she’s crooning ballads as the goddess of poetry, and now I saw—or rather felt—how it could be used for other purposes. » I hope I have not come at an inconvenient time, « she said in voices evocative of rose hips, caramel, and silk. It made me feel warm inside but I shivered outwardly, like a tuning fork quivering in hot chocolate.
    » Not at all. Won’t you please come in? « I stepped aside and gestured for her to enter, the Bronze Age host once more.
    » Thank you, « she cooed as she slunk by, a shimmering vision of soft blues and pulsing gold. Damn .
    She flicked her eyes around the edges of my living room. » Your modern home is interesting. «
    » Thank you. May I offer you any refreshment after your long journey from Tír na nÓg? «
    » Ale, if you have any, would be splendid. «
    » Coming right up. « I shot forward into the kitchen, beckoning her to follow, and grabbed a couple of Newcastles out of the fridge, tucked back behind the Stellas. She thanked me as I handed her one, then said, » There has been much unrest in Tír na nÓg since you slew Aenghus Óg. His confederates finally revealed themselves, and I was