“You wouldn’t have. We didn’t start putting people in there until—well, it was around the time you retrieved Dagda’s cauldron for Ogma down in Wales. Remember that?”
“Yeah. Back in the sixth century.”
“Right. Well, you never did hang around Tír na nÓg very much until recently, so it’s no wonder you haven’t heard of it before now. Some of the Tuatha Dé Danann—myself included—call it Zealot Island. We were bloody sheltered back in the old days, you know. Once we began to have contact with the rest of the world, we were gobsmacked by the intensity with which some people denied the existence of other gods. Lots o’ those people are dangerous, but some o’ them are so bad they’re kind of ridiculous.” Manannan smiled with nostalgia. “My favorite character there is the red-faced Puritan who looks like he’s a biscuit away from an aneurysm. When I snatched him, he was shouting this frothy sermon about the sublime grace of his god’s love, completely unaware of how his body language and voice contradicted every word he said. I know that others have contributed to the island from time to time, but I didn’t realize the Morrigan was one of them.”
That only increased my curiosity, but we spent much of the time relating the details of our run across Europe. I neglected to mention my visit to Brí Léith, however; since Manannan didn’t bring up news of the shocking death of Midhir, I wasn’t going to volunteer the information. He knew, of course, that Midhir was dead—Manannan would have escorted his spirit to his final rest. But that didn’t mean Manannan knew the details of what had happened or had investigated, or that Midhir’s death was public knowledge. It was best to keep silent.
I insisted on cooking in the morning, preparing my signature cheese and chive omelets and serving them with sausages and parsley potatoes. Fand had Blue Mountain coffee from Jamaica that she had sent faeries to harvest on the sly, so it was one of those rare breakfasts you remember long afterward. Bellies full and loving life as we bid our hosts farewell, the three of us set out on the river in the canoe, which Oberon discovered was not designed with a wolfhound in mind. <Yeesh! Shift your weight in this thing and everything moves,> he complained after he nearly capsized us. <I don’t think wolfhounds have very good sea legs. I might not be a salty dog after all.>
“Best to lie down and just enjoy the scenery, then,” I said. There was quite a bit to see. Zealot Island was about as far upstream as one could get; time moved slower there than almost anywhere. Though narrow, the island sprawled for a decent distance, so there was a rogues’ gallery lined up on the beach who would most likely fight to the death if they were left enough time to do so. An English crusader stood right next to a fighter for the Caliphate, for example, and they didn’t even know it. Millennia would pass before they could turn their heads and register that an enemy stood nearby.
Metal posts offshore rose all the way around the island, supporting an elaborate system of catwalks and machinery far above it. I didn’t know what the contraption was for, but I was sure Goibhniu had something to do with it. We’d go see him next.
On the northern side of the island, at the edge of the beach but by no means under the canopy of trees that dotted the center of the island, a craggy, stooped figure pointed an accusing finger at us, mouth wide in accusation and eyes burning with rage. The Morrigan had obviously plucked him from a cold environment, since he was bundled up in warm clothing and wearing gloves with the fingers cut off. He looked utterly alien standing on that balmy beach.
“Gods below,” I whispered. “What in nine hells was she thinking?”
“Who is it?”
“I can’t…” I trailed off, my mind spluttering to a halt like an AMC Gremlin. Granuaile paused the boat in the river, using the binding Manannan had taught us. She let me stare for a while to get my thoughts in order before she asked again.
“Atticus? Who is it?”
I shook my head. “No. I don’t know how this is going to go. I mean, now that I see him there, of course I need to get him out, but it might turn out to be a terrible idea. Or a great idea. Depends on whether he wants to help us or not. But if it winds up being a terrible idea, I don’t want you involved. It’s safer that way.”
Granuaile crossed her arms. “No. That’s not going to fly. I can take care of myself, as you well know. Tell me who it is.”
“You misunderstand. I know you can take care of yourself, and I’m not worried about that at all. I’m more worried about you killing him than the other way around. He’ll say something atrocious and you’ll have no choice but to destroy him. No, I’m sorry. This is a private matter, and I’m going to keep it private until I know his state of mind.”
Granuaile cocked an eyebrow and bobbed her head at him. “You can’t tell his state of mind by looking at him?”
I gazed at his snarling expression again. “It’s not as easy as you might think,” I said. “He kind of looks like that all the time. That could be joy we’re looking at. I simply don’t know.”
We returned to shore and found Goibhniu at his smithy, working on a personal project. Swirling rods of wrought iron outlined a threatening figure with flowing black hair.
“Is that…?”
“The Morrigan,” Goibhniu said. “Aye. Me mum isn’t too happy about me makin’ a memorial, but she can get stuffed. The spirit feckin’ moves me, y’know. The Morrigan gave me nightmares all the time, but I already miss her. Gonna put rubies in the eyes and enchant Fae lights behind ’em to make ’em glow.”
“Outstanding.”
“Kind of you to say.” He removed his goggles, wiped his hands on a cloth, and came over to shake my hand with a smile on his face. “Good to see you alive, Siodhachan. Heard a bit about that business with the Olympians, owing to your friend there.” He nodded to indicate Granuaile and then turned his grin on her. “Hello, you. And, Oberon, it’s always a pleasure.”
Oberon barked and wagged his tail as Goibhniu rubbed his head.
“Looks like you’ve healed up well,” he said to Granuaile, then included me with his next sentence. “Will ye be havin’ a beer with me? There’s a lot of rumors swirlin’ round about what exactly happened, but I’d like to hear it from you, and, besides, we have business to discuss.”
He must mean the bounty on the vampires. “That would be wonderful.”
“Delighted,” Granuaile said.
“Brilliant. Don’t worry, Oberon,” Goibhniu said, “I have something proper to eat over there too.”
<How come Goibhniu isn’t running everything? He seems to have his priorities straight.>
We followed Goibhniu out of his smithy to his brewery and taproom next door, which was decorated in dark wood and brass. There were a few Fae hanging out inside, but they exited quickly after they saw me. I shared a condensed and edited version of our escape from the Olympians while Goibhniu pulled draughts for us and ladled out some bowls of lamb stew from the kitchen. We three ate at a booth, while Oberon ate his behind the bar. I finished with the uneasy truce struck with Zeus and Jupiter, as we sopped up the remainder of the stew with some bread.
Goibhniu shook his head in wonder and raised his glass. “Sláinte, laddie. I love the way you make everybody dance.”
We clinked glasses and then I said, “What do you know about Zealot Island?”
The smith blinked. “I know it’s feckin’ tough to get anybody off it once they’re on.”
“Why?”
“Time moves so slowly there that when you swoop in to pluck them out you’re likely to break their bones. Some o’ them haven’t blinked in hundreds of years.”
“So why put anyone there?”