The Exorcism of Faeries (Morbid Realities, #1)

by J.L. Vampa

Moving a corpse in the rain is such fussy, slippery business.

This was not her first experience with a corpse. No, that had occurred twenty-five years prior, at the tender age of three.

Not a phantom or a trick of the lamplight. Not even a seedling-looking thing one could pass off as an abnormal growth of some sort. No, it was a macabre bloom of foreign flora that had taken root in the man’s lung, and flowered.

“This Infected is different,” she rushed to say. “He showed signs of—” She realised she hadn’t the faintest idea how to explain it. “His lungs had a growth. One of botanical origin.”

Though they have certain precautions advised in Dublin, they have made it clear the Plague does not pass to individuals as a communicable disease does.

She was one of those peculiar students who felt the thrill of academia every year, all year long.

Atta merely listened, letting the lecture confirm what she’d already known since she was a little girl. Since her grandfather began teaching her the intricacies of botany when he wasn’t teaching her how to autopsy a body.

Atta loved cats as much as the next reclusive, bookish girl, but she drew the line at figurines.

Lies were a rare currency meant for the Garda and politicians and pricks like Colin to keep them out of your business—but you had to know how to wield them.

Now he lives in a huge creepy house on the outskirts of Dublin, Murdoch Manor, like a total Boo Radley.”

His deep voice, like the smooth burning warmth in the first sip of whiskey,

Outside, the campus was bustling with students, a hint of the approaching autumn on the wind, stirring the leaves that would soon lose their chlorophyll and show the world how beautiful it is to die.

“Fitting in is all a masquerade, anyway. Quality over quantity is my motto. I tend to stick to myself, too. You seem all right, though.”

It has very little to do with who the man is, anyway. It’s about her, the woman in the scenario. When a woman feels sexy, she feels confident and in control. It puts a spell on men. It has nothing to do with sex and everything to do with power. It’s just another tool in a woman’s arsenal.” She laid back, resting on her elbows. “You clearly have the brains. Make people see you.”

It almost felt like she was intruding on a private moment, something special and intimate. Or was she captivated by seeing this surly man be so gentle with the book, that page-turn almost romantic.

“You know, these students are all spooked by you, but I don’t think you’re scary. I think you’re just a bastard.”

only one he had not read himself: The Canterville Ghost by Oscar Wilde.

All I’ve heard is that on the first day of class, he declares to all his students that his patients are dead, so don’t call him Dr Murdoch.”

The bell it tolls, Its song eerie, Twisting my velvet bones.

I enjoy reading for recreational value, too.” “How many recreational books do you have in there, then?” “Two.” Liar. Sonder felt his body heat, and he cleared his throat.

But Ariatne Morrow was something different. She did something different to him. Ever since he made the mistake of opening that first notebook, all he’d wanted to do was crack open her mind and swim in it.

Something in the air changed. It felt charged with that distinct dopamine hit unique to academics at the height of study.

Professor Sonder Murdoch was the cliff-jump that terrified, the majestic wolf that captivated, the risk you knew might kill you, yet you couldn’t pass it up.

Captivated as always by the personhood of the deceased, the spirit that once wielded the bones, Atta approached slowly, acutely aware of the scuff of her lace-up boots against the rough stone floor.

The leaves had all gone crimson and russet, the candles and confections cinnamon. Walking around campus was a fever dream of autumnal wonders and still, nearing the middle of October, she knew the charm had only just begun.

A flicker of something glittered in Murdoch’s gaze as he levelled her with it. “Death comes for us all, Miss Morrow.

Murdoch shook his head, a dark curl falling across his forehead. “If we were never challenged, Atta, we would never grow.”

“There’s a little phrase wise women live by. If he wants to, he will. It’s usually more romantic than our particular scenario, but the point still stands. If you wanted to murder me, you would. Now, come on.”

“I’m vintage, darling.”

“Ignorance doesn’t equate to safety.”

“Sometimes fear cleanses the soul, Atta. It reminds us to look at the important things we took for granted while at peace.”

There might be more magnificent libraries in existence, but none would ever compare to The Old Library. Not for Atta. From the moment she stepped inside, her breath was stolen each time by the sheer volume of 200,000 books, the polished floor, the long, arched ceiling and the busts of academic forefathers observing their children at study.

“Do you realise half of what you say sounds like you’re an axe murderer?” “It’s good I don’t use an axe but a scalpel then, hm? Less painful.”

To her complete astonishment, he pulled out a skeleton key that looked like it belonged to Dracula and shoved it into a lock.

He chuckled. “Secret societies like to dabble in the arcane and ominous.”

“You can be surrounded by people and still be alone, Atta.”

There was a glimmer, like gossamer wings. Then there were fangs in her face, dripping with blood. Atta gasped as the creature lunged for her, hissing.

“Atta!” Emmy said cheerily. “She lives! Frankenstein’s monster lives!”

Liar, liar, liar, a voice in her head sang. The one that sang to her of Wills-o’-the-wisp and hawthorn trees. Liars we hate, the liars we ate, under the hawthorn tree.

His gaze met hers, a smirk playing at one side of his mouth. “I like being spooky.” “You’re a regular Fox Mulder.”

Atta’s face heated at her misstep, but his eyes were glittering as he watched her like a wolf tracks a trapped hare.

“Speak of the devil, if it isn’t the dark lord himself,” Dony slurred suddenly.

If Sonder Murdoch was the dark lord, her soul was begging to be burned to ash.

Holy hell. To her tipsy ears, her name sounded like forbidden honey on his tongue.

My grandmother didn’t believe in cutting down a hawthorn, nor did my mother after her. She said it was bad luck. That the⁠—” “Faeries would be angry,” Atta finished for him.

“Superstitions and fairytales all originate from somewhere.

Any moment, Heathcliff would stomp through the hawthorns, materialising in the fog and calling out to Cathy.

She had the most peculiar feeling, looking in his eyes across the room, as if she was becoming the heroine of a Gothic novel.

It felt like magic, like one of those ethereal moments that makes one feel simultaneously filled to the brim with joy and drowning in despair because you know there will never be a moment exactly like it ever again.

Sonder was watching her, leaning against the doorframe. “I take it you like it.” “I could live here.” She craned her neck to look at the top row of books high up into the vaulted ceiling.