Granuaile frowned. “I don’t know that comedian, sorry.”
<Poor Atticus. Another fruitless analogy.>
Augh! Oberon, that was dreadful!
<But not a Schwarzenegger pun! Fruit was never part of the treaty, so neener neener!>
“Why not just ask Hal to send you a picture from his camera phone or something?” Granuaile said. “You don’t need to risk it. Wait until things stabilize.”
“Well, you’re coming to Flagstaff with me tomorrow anyway.”
“I am?”
“Yep. It’s time for you to die.”
Chapter 14
Granuaile’s face deflated. “I think my mother’s going to be upset about that. Dad might shed a tear too. My stepdad will laugh, unless my mother’s watching.”
I reminded her that it didn’t have to be that way. She could always go back to being a barmaid with a philosophy degree and hang around with normal people.
“No, that’s not an option. The fact that I’m expressing my dismay over a necessary course of action doesn’t mean I’m not willing to go through with it. But let’s not talk about that right now; let’s talk instead, if we’re finally allowed, about what just happened. That woman was astoundingly rude to us. To you.”
“Yes, she was.” We exited the sub shop as an act of mercy on our optic nerves. As we drove back to the hogan, I explained to Granuaile the finer points of dealing with werewolves when one is a shape-shifter but still not part of the pack. Challenge with the voice, not the eyes, and you can get away with quite a bit.
<I still say everyone would get along better if werewolves would just accept snacks gracefully,> Oberon insisted.
To the werewolf, snacks are something to be taken, not given, I reminded him.
The hogan, once we reached it, was in considerably better shape. The walls and the roof had been coated with a thick layer of insulating mud, and in the magical spectrum the walls were covered completely by the ward of the Blessing Way. The only way the skinwalkers could hope to break through tonight without burning themselves was through the roof. They knew it, and they knew we knew it and would be waiting for them to try it. And, in all likelihood, they were still in no shape to try such shenanigans.
The ceremony was in progress when we entered. Frank Chischilly looked tired but determined. Ben Keonie and his crew were in there, and so was Sophie Betsuie. Surprisingly, Coyote was present in his role as Mr. Benally and lending his own mojo to the final night of the ceremony. He was wearing a gray hoodie sweatshirt but still had on his black cowboy hat. He smirked when he saw my neck brace and black undershirt. We received tight nods as greetings, and we gave them tiny smiles in return and tried to keep out of everyone’s way.
The skinwalkers came but did not attack the hogan. They were still nursing injuries, as I suspected. We heard them out there in the night, both of them. They circled the hogan for about a half hour, snarling and hissing and issuing threats, and then the noises stopped. No one believed they had truly gone; they were simply waiting to see if anyone was stupid enough to go outside and check. No one was.
I wondered if their appearance meant that the Famine curse was still in effect despite Garm’s meal or if they were here purely for revenge and to protect their territory. They did not renew their demands to feast on my flesh, so that was a hopeful sign.
The downside to being so well protected was that I couldn’t see the skinwalkers anymore unless I used magic to create my own wee peephole. I would have liked to see if they were just as fast as before or if they had slowed a bit due to their injuries. The fact that they were out there at all was testament to healing powers that rivaled my own, but how bad off were they?
There was very little for us to do, yet we couldn’t go to sleep with all the chanting, singing, and praying going on. I wouldn’t want to take a nap around Coyote anyway — the only way to sleep comfortably near him is to make sure he’s sleeping too. To pass the time, Granuaile asked me to talk about when I first came to North America.
<Yeah, I’ve never heard you talk about that!> Oberon said. <Too bad we don’t have any popcorn.>
“All right,” I said, speaking in hushed tones. “We might as well.”
Long, long ago, when every collection of humanity smelled of shit and there was simply no helping it, I longed for a new, fragrant land. My longing was based on more practical matters than simply my sense of smelclass="underline" My tattoos made me a target wherever I went in Europe, and I was running out of places to hide. The Romans had wiped out the Druids on the continent and burned all the groves that allowed us to shift planes, and on the islands, missionaries like Saint Patrick destroyed us through proselytizing and patience. I spent years traveling constantly, living off the land or eking out a meal from this farm or that, and slowly adjusting to the new reality: Druids were no longer the powers they once had been, and if I wanted to survive in the villages, I would need to pretend to be illiterate, know nothing of herbalism, and laugh at everyone’s lame jokes.
I needed those villages; I decided that they were the lesser of many other evils. If I spent my time in nature, Aenghus Óg’s blasted spawn would find me. After Rome fell and Europe began its long night in the Dark Ages, I wondered aloud in the Morrigan’s presence if there might not be a nicer place to live for a while — somewhere I wouldn’t have to dodge both Aenghus Óg and mobs of people looking for someone to burn at the stake. She said she would think about it, and the next time I saw her, she took me to meet the Old Man of the Sea, Manannan Mac Lir.
I was terribly nervous. Fragarach was his sword, you know, and he had much more right to feel affronted that I had stolen it than Aenghus Óg ever did. It turned out I didn’t need to be afraid at all.
When the Morrigan introduced us, Manannan pointed at the hilt peeking over my shoulder and said in a slow, sonorous voice, “Heard you’re keeping that away from Aenghus Óg. Good on you, lad.”
“You’re not angry?”
“Angry? Wave and tide, me boy, why would I be angry? Aenghus is a whiny tit, and everybody with a lick of sense in their head knows it. Ye have me blessing and then some.” And then he grinned at me. He was taller than me, blue-eyed, with black hair and a full beard and a kind face suggested by laugh lines around his eyes. He wore a watery blue cloak swirled with patterns of lighter blue, fastened at his right shoulder with a silver brooch. “Come on, then, let’s have some ale.”
He led us to a poor stone hut on the edge of a cliff overlooking the Irish Sea. It didn’t look like the dwelling place of a god. The doorway, however, shimmered at his command to form a portal to his home in Tír na nÓg, which was much larger than the interior of the hut and far richer than anything I had ever seen to that point. Lush woven rugs on wooden floors, exquisitely carved furniture, statues in bronze and glass and polished hardwoods displayed in niches and on shelves. We were served by faeries, for at that time I did not have my amulet and my reputation as the Iron Druid was still centuries in the future. Faeries actually liked me back then — at least, those who weren’t descendants of Aenghus Óg did. These faeries owed their allegiance to Fand, Manannan’s wife, who is often referred to as Queen of the Faeries. Manannan tended to prefer selkies and kelpies — go figure — but Fand loved them all.
We sat at a broad oaken table with ale and bread in front of us. “The Morrigan tells me you’d like to leave the neighborhood for a good while,” Manannan said to me.
“Yes, that would be nice. Preferably out of a certain love god’s sphere of influence.”