She may be delighted to hear of my death, I pointed out. She was less than pleased when I refused to become her consort.
A rich, throaty laugh bubbled out of the Morrigan. Yes. I remember.
What will you do with Fragarach? I asked.
I will return it to Manannan Mac Lir. He will be surprised, I think, and then he will spend a year reminiscing about the elder days when we forged such things.
Any chance I could get it back after that?
None, the Morrigan said, her tone firm. Even the tiny brains of the thunder gods would figure that one out. No, you must give it up to secure your safety. And you still have the other.
Yes, that’s true, I said. Moralltach, the Great Fury, couldn’t cut through armor and shields, but it killed with a single blow. I had watched it work its magic on Thor. Still, it wasn’t as sweet as Fragarach. I would miss that sword, but the Morrigan was right. Giving it up was the only way to convince people I was truly gone.
Something in the Morrigan’s posture changed, and I was suddenly grateful that I was still up on the water tower and she was far enough away that I needed binoculars to see her well.
Come here, Siodhachan. Her voice in my head changed its tenor, turning all husky and chocolate, like a late-night DJ’s.
Um … why?
I have just killed a god. I want to celebrate with sex in the mud and the blood and the rain.
That’s when it clicked in my head: What had changed was that when we had shagged a couple of months ago — at length, and at her insistence — she had performed some bindings in a proto-Celtic language that had healed my demon-chewed ear. She could have easily bound her mind to mine at the same time — and clearly, the evidence proved she had. I was less than anxious to give her another opportunity to perform such shenanigans. Wow. That’s tempting, I said, but I need to go meet Coyote when he re-spawns.
Oh. So soon? Are you sure? Her left hand drifted over her body, drawing my attention to it. The Morrigan can beat a succubus when she wants to, in terms of stimulating desire in men. I knew this because my iron amulet protected me completely from succubi but only blunted whatever Horndog Lust Ray she was pointing at me now. Without the amulet, I’d already be her willing slave. As it was, I barely held on to my mental faculties; physically I was extremely attracted, much to my embarrassment and discomfort. Some people might like them, but I, for one, am no fan of boners in the rain.
I am sorry, I lied, but I am bound. You could always make a gift of yourself to one of the mortals here.
They never last long, the Morrigan said morosely.
So have ten or more. Twenty if you want. You can suck ’em dry like those little juice pouches and toss ’em away, I said, then winced at the imagery. I felt a brief stab of guilt, but I rationalized it by reminding myself that I’d be the juice pouch if I didn’t distract her.
Mmmm. Twenty men in the mud. Sounds delicious. Her lust stopped focusing on me and began to broadcast like the call of a siren. I sighed in relief.
You’re welcome. See you later, I said, then muttered an inadequate apology to the men who’d be arriving shortly to please the Morrigan. They’d not walk away unscathed, and some of them would probably get drawn into the investigation of what happened out there to Atticus O’Sullivan. Since this was murder on federal land, the FBI would be getting involved. There would be lots of tracks and evidence to pursue in all that mud, especially after the Morrigan had her fun with all the men she lured into the rain, and it would look like the mob or a cult had decided to execute me. That thought was actually kind of fabulous.
Leaving the binoculars behind, I bound my shape to an owl and flew south to my hotel. It’s not pleasant flying in rain like that, but I had to get out of there. Once safely in my room, I greeted my wolfhound, Oberon, who’d been watching Mystery Science Theater 3000 on TV. Then I took a cold shower and tried to think about teddy bears and baseball and those little bouncy air castles you can rent for kids’ birthdays — anything but the Morrigan.
Since it’s always better to clog up someone else’s drain with dog hair, I thought it would be a good time to give Oberon a bath as well. He hadn’t had one for a while, and I didn’t know when we’d have an opportunity like this again.
“Hey, Oberon,” I called, filling up the tub for him, “it’s time for your bath!”
<It is?> He sounded doubtful. <Do you have a decent story?> Oberon wouldn’t sit still for baths unless I told him a story — a real story about historical figures. He never settled for faerie tales.
“I’m going to tell you the true story of a man named Francis Bacon.”
<BACON?> He came running so fast that he couldn’t negotiate the sharp turn into the bathroom very well, and he slammed into the door awkwardly and then splashed into the tub, soaking me after I’d just finished drying off.
<Oh, this is going to be great! I can tell I’m going to like this man already. He had to have been a genius with a name like that. Was he a genius?>
“Yes, he was.”
<I knew it! I have an instinct for that kind of thing. But I hope this story doesn’t end with him chopped into bits and sprinkled on a salad. That would be tragic, and a story about bacon should be uplifting.>
“Well, Francis Bacon was quite inspirational to many people,” I said, pouring water on Oberon’s back. “He’s the father of modern empiricism, or the scientific method. Before he came along, people conducted all their arguments through a series of logical fallacies or simply shouting louder than the other guy, or, if they did use facts, they only selected ones that reinforced their prejudices and advanced their agenda.”
<Don’t people still do that?>
“More than ever. But Bacon showed us a way to shed preconceived notions and conduct experiments in such a way that the results were verifiable and repeatable. It gave people a way to construct truths free of political and religious dogma.”
<Bacon is the Way and the Truth. Got it.>
As I shampooed Oberon’s coat, I explained how to craft hypotheses and test them empirically using a control. And then I stressed safety while I rinsed him off.
“It’s best not to experiment on yourself. Bacon practically froze himself to death in one of his experiments and died of pneumonia.”
<Right! Bacon must be heated. Knew that already, but thanks for the reminder.>
I love my hound.
Chapter 3
I have a thing for breakfast. Thing is a word I usually frown upon; I consider it a crutch for the chronically confused, a signal flag that says I don’t know what I’m talking about, and, as such, I studiously avoid it, like cheerleaders avoid the chess team. But in this case I feel justified in using it, because there isn’t a precise word in English to convey the character of my feelings. I suppose I could say that I regard breakfast with a certain asexual affection, a gustatory relish that’s a bit beyond yearning yet well short of pining — or some other verbal brain-fondle that penny-a-page hacks like Charles Dickens used to take delight in crafting — but no one talks or thinks like that anymore. It’s far faster and simpler to say I have a thing for breakfast (or eighties’ arena rock, or classic cars, or whatever), and people know what I mean.