At least that is how I imagine it is for people cursed with self-awareness.
Two regrets pulled me out of the gray. If I did nothing, I would never see Granuaile’s freckles again. Or those green eyes. Or smell her strawberry lip gloss … Well, okay, it was more than two regrets. Three. Three regrets. And damn if Oberon didn’t deserve a poodle or some kind of companion besides me. All right, four regrets. Probably more, the longer I thought about it.
A fair measure of pride had something to do with me clawing my way to the surface as well. I couldn’t stand the thought of Theophilus smiling a smug smile and drinking a goblet full of blood, toasting the final demise of Druids on the earth. He had a metric fuckton of bad karma due him, and I hoped I’d be the one to back up the truck and dump it on his undead ass.
And, gods below, didn’t the Morrigan deserve a shred of effort on my part after what she’d done for me?
I clutched Fragarach tightly as Saxony helped me rise to the surface. //Query: Where is Fierce Druid and Druidfriend?//
//No longer in my realm//
They must have already left Germany. If Granuaile had decided to follow the plan, they could be in the Netherlands or even Belgium by now.
//Query: Plot straight line to them for me?/ Speak with neighboring elementals?//
//Pleasure / Harmony//
//Harmony / Tell Fierce Druid nothing// I didn’t want Granuaile and Oberon to slow down or decide to wait for me when the huntresses would be close behind. And since they were still probably being watched, I didn’t want to tip anyone off that I was walking the earth again.
//Harmony// Saxony said once more.
When I emerged into the air, it was deep night. If Saxony could trace Granuaile through a neighboring elemental, then it was probably the same night that I had been shot. It was entirely possible. Brain tissue is not so heavy or dense as muscle tissue, and I hadn’t needed to replace all of it—just the few ounces of a bullet’s path. Tracks led to the northwest—dogs and deer. The huntresses had been through here already, and their hounds were sniffing out Granuaile and Oberon.
Saxony pointed me just south of west. I shifted to a stag, picked up Fragarach between my lips, and ran, more worried than I’d ever been. Once, when I’d taken a knife in a kidney and another between the shoulders from the Hammers of God, no less a deity than Jesus had told me the pain I’d felt then was a fraction of what I’d feel if I followed through with my chosen course of action, and while I’ve never worshipped him, I do know he’s not the sort of god who lies to people. At the time, I couldn’t imagine anything worse than my current pain, because I was out of magic then and damaged kidneys fucking hurt. But now I thought I knew what Jesus meant. Free of the gray wash of depression and thinking straight, losing Granuaile and Oberon would be … well, I didn’t have words for that kind of agony. Maybe I had my own dump truck of bad karma waiting for me somewhere ahead. I had certainly earned it, but I raced to avoid it if I could; there was no way I wanted to feel that.
Chapter 13
Oberon and I run much faster now that we have a destination and a purpose, even though the Netherlands has proven to be something of an obstacle course. We have had many more roads to cross, and skirting the population is a challenge, but it’s aided by the night; millions of Dutch folk slumber in peace—spooning, perhaps, with someone they love, snoring the snores of the unhunted—and remain blissfully unaware that magic is real and a very old branch of it is doomed to perish in their borders.
As the sky broadcasts a pale gray warning of an incipient sunrise, I spy a sign welcoming me to Veluwezoom National Park, except that the Dutch spell it Nationaal—which I kind of like. The bonus vowel suggests abundance, as if their country is stuffed with a surpassing bounty of natural gifts. It is a not unreasonable conclusion. Veluwezoom is a serene stretch of heath and assorted trees, the latter huddled together around the perimeter of the park and giving shelter to innumerable critters that Oberon, were he not so forlorn, would have loved to harass. The leaves on the trees fly flags of red and orange and yellow, heralding with the brightest pageantry the decline of their vigor. Seeing that, Atticus would be smiling and starting to talk about celebrating Samhain soon. If he were here.
Missing people in our lives are like wounds we reopen with thoughts.
Our destination lay at the far end of a field of grass and heather that sloped ever so gently up to it. Once there, at the base of the small tree-topped cliffside the elemental had shown me, I shifted to human and turned to survey our trail. I beheld a vista of fading green and pale lavender, contoured slopes of plants crouching patiently in the predawn gray, waiting for the first blazon of the sun to light their edges with fire and joy. Oberon turned with me, nose in the air, sampling its scent, and ears twitching at the sound of birds waking up for the morning’s natter. They were located in small handfuls of trees on either side of the cliff that constricted our view of the periphery. Perhaps they found the prospect of the heath as stunning as we did; it was a shy, muted beauty ready to be seen and applauded.
<Is this the place, Granuaile?>
“This is the place. Backs to the wall like I promised.”
<And no choppah.>
“That’s right, no choppah.”
The great hound gave a sigh and stretched himself out on the grass, paws in front, sphinxlike, and kept his eyes scanning the horizon. <There are worse places where one could make an end.>
Much worse, I agreed, though this time I spoke mind-to-mind. If this was to be my final sunrise, I wanted to appreciate the soundtrack without my voice stomping on it.
I petted Oberon and he let me do it, but I noted that he didn’t wag his tail even a little bit.
<You know what would be totally pie to have along right now, since we can’t have Atticus?> Oberon said as we waited.
What would be pie?
<Some hogs-o-war. Mounted with special-ops spider monkeys. Nobody would expect that. Or the Spanish Inquisition.>
What are you talking about?
<You know what I mean! It’s from that play by Shakespeare, and I figured Atticus would have appreciated that.>
Shakespeare had a hog-mounted monkey cavalry? In which play?
<I don’t remember the whole thing, because it was very long, but Atticus recited it for me once, and there was a line that went like this: “Cry ham hock and let slip the hogs of war!” I know you might not agree, but for me that was the best thing Shakespeare ever wrote.>
You mean, “Cry havoc and let slip the dogs of war” from Julius Caesar?
<No, I don’t think that’s it. There was ham in there; I’m sure he was talking about ham. They were going to battle hunger.>
I think you might have been hungry when you heard it, Oberon.
A clipped puff of wind was echoed by another, and in another few seconds these could be recognized as the distant barking of hounds. A horn, much clearer than before, rode the air behind it. The huntresses were approaching the bounds of the park, with their pack leading the way. I wasn’t looking forward to meeting the pack, but it was necessary if we wanted to have a shot at Artemis and Diana. And these weren’t going to be cute little snuggly-wuggly puppies. They’d be trained killers. If I didn’t treat them as such, I’d be dinner.