“Your kind don’t get headaches,” I reminded him. We stuck to vague words because it wouldn’t be wise to have terms like pack and werewolves bouncing around communications satellites.
“That doesn’t mean you aren’t one,” he said. “To answer your question, I believe there is someone nearby, yes.”
“Can someone meet us at a restaurant called Le Grand Bleu and drop a wad of euros in my hand and you wire them some reimbursement from one of my accounts?”
“Of course I can. But what sort of trouble are you in now?”
“Everyone’s trying to kill me. So far they’ve only managed to do it once.”
“What?”
“The good news is that Granuaile is now a full Druid.”
“That’s great, but who’s after you?”
I couldn’t very well tell him plainly without making eavesdroppers raise a red flag, so I improvised a toupee for the bald truth. “Well, I’m running from several different LARPing troupes.”
Hal caught on and said, “Of course. Which ones?”
“The Fae, the Svartálfar, all the vampires, and the Olympians. Plus Hel and Loki.”
Hal ignored everything except the last. “Loki! Loki is free in the world? LARPing, I mean?”
“Well, to some extent, yeah. The backstory for his role is that he busted out of his binding a few months ago, but he’s been napping for much of that time, trying to heal up a bit after centuries of scarring and sleep deprivation. I’ve been able to distract him from the business of Ragnarok with one shenanigan or another, and right now he’s under the control of Malina’s coven in Poland. Oh, and before I forget, do you remember that cabin in Colorado I had you buy for me?”
“Yes.”
“Good. I need you to buy a case of fifteen-year-old Redbreast whiskey and somehow get your hands on a gross of Samoas and put them in the cabin right away. Send Greta to do it or something.”
Silence greeted this for several seconds, and I began to fear I’d lost the connection. Just as I was about to check, Hal said, “Pardon me, is this some kind of social experiment? You want me to get a hundred and forty-four Samoans and cram them into your cabin with a case of whiskey?”
“No, I said Samoas. The Girl Scout Cookies with chocolate and coconut. Luxury item outside of the States, you know. I’ve seen them go for fifty bucks on the Malaysian black market, but they’re only four dollars a box for us. The problem is they’re out of season right now, so it’s going to be tough.”
“Out of season?”
“Yeah, they don’t sell them year-round, Hal. It’s usually January through April and here we are in October. I’m sure you can find them somewhere, but it’s going to be tough. This is a major quest I’m giving you here.”
“I’m too old to be chasing after Girl Scout Cookies.”
“Well, I’m older, and I’m paying you to be my lil’ cookie monster.”
“This is not why I have a law degree.”
“No, but the law degree is why you get to charge me that hourly rate.”
Hal sighed audibly through the phone. His frustration carried across the Atlantic very well. “How did our conversation get to this place? I mean, didn’t we start with everyone trying to kill you? Let’s go back to the part where you said they already killed you once.”
“Hal, I don’t have time to explain. I borrowed this phone and need to give it back. Just have an associate of yours show up at Le Grand Bleu with a fat stack of bills and get that contraband to the cabin. Pretty please.”
“Fine, but I’m going to bill you for my therapy session.”
“You do that. Oh, and we have a few local vendors who would probably appreciate some reimbursement for my activities today. Have your dude also drop off a few hundred euros at this store.” I gave him the address of the clothier as well as the café from which we’d snaffled lunch, and he quickly rang off before I could think of anything else for him to do.
I slipped the phone back into the teen’s purse and then dissolved my camouflage. Granuaile was about a half block away with Oberon sitting by her side, and he was getting plenty of attention.
<Ah, the French are so lovely,> he commented as a pair of women paused to smile at him and scratch him behind the ears. <Great food, amusing little bulldogs, and super-hot poodles. They have made their mark on the world, have they not? But yet they also appreciate the greatness of the Irish—me—and that is why their hands are so soft. They honor me with their soft hands.>
Oberon, you’re doing that thing again where your ego replaces your reason.
<Sorry? I didn’t get that; I’m too busy being adored. What’s that they’re saying right now? They’re telling me I’m a good boy in French, aren’t they? They sound so sweet. It’s like they’re feeding my ears with sugar while massaging them with those wonderful fingers at the same time—>
Don’t get carried away, now.
<I can’t help it. They moisturize. Haven’t you ever heard of lotion, Atticus?>
I ignored his gibe and said, We’re going to be heading indoors to eat. Ready to squeeze underneath a table?
<Not really. Can I take a nap while you go do your knife-and-fork thing and then you can bring me something in a doggie bag?>
Okay. Where do you want to plonk down?
Oberon wandered around to the rear of the restaurant and stretched out against the wall. <Unconsciousness in T-minus five minutes! Five! Four!>
You mean seconds?
<Whatever.>
I cast camouflage on him to prevent someone from calling in a stray and then took Granuaile’s hand and squeezed it gently. For another hour, perhaps two, we would have some time to enjoy our lives instead of running for them. She smiled at me and leaned in for a quick kiss. We decided, however, to give it an extended run.
<Oh, barf! Human mating habits. If this was a movie, I would skip to the next scene.>
You’re supposed to be asleep.
<Well, I would be, except that there are these people mashing their faces together in front of me.>
We granted him mercy and circled the building to get a table in the restaurant, camouflaging our weapons and taking them inside. Tables of a light wood awaited us, along with rattan-style chairs in a cold gray. We eschewed alcohol—we’d be swimming soon—but ordered some challenging items for our digestive systems.
I opted for something that translated literally to monkfish in an algae shirt, but monkfish are famously unconcerned with wearing clothing. It really meant that the monkfish was wrapped in seaweed, but privately I thought the Algae Shirts would be a great band name. Incredible merchandising potential.
Granuaile wanted fish too but wasn’t feeling up to the monkfish, so after asking me for a wee bit of coaching on pronunciation, she ordered “turbot Hollandaise au citron vert, écrasée de pommes de terre, crème de ciboulette.”
The waiter, a tall gentleman with heavy eyelids, bobbed his chin and said, “Oui, mademoiselle.”
She grinned with victory as he departed. “That was fun to say. I’ve enjoyed all these little phrases I’ve picked up today. I think I should learn French next.”
“I agree. Let us begin. Repeat after me: J’ai l’air ridicule quand je ne sais pas ce que je dis.”
“Wait. I heard a cognate in there. Something about ridiculous. You’re setting me up to say something stupid, aren’t you?”
“Auggh! You caught me.”
She smiled briefly before her expression turned serious. “How long do you think it will take us to cross the channel?”
“It’s a twenty-one-mile swim, so however long it takes Oberon to dog paddle the whole way. It might be a very long time, unless you think you’d be strong enough to kind of tow him along and speed up the process?”