Silversmithing, I decided, would be my next cover job — it would fit my assumed name if nothing else. I’d do some farming too and maybe get some sheep or goats for Oberon to tend. Now that I was free of all obligations and everyone who wanted me dead thought I already was, I could consider such things.
We drove Coyote’s truck up to Hart Prairie, a beautiful place on the west side of the San Francisco Peaks largely watched over by the Nature Conservancy. There was a tether to Tír na nÓg there, and it was there that Granuaile experienced her first shift to another plane.
We spent very little time in Tír na nÓg — I shifted us to Scotland right away, before any faeries could spot us and report that the Iron Druid bloke wasn’t dead after all.
Those few days were probably the best time I’ve ever had in Scotland. Oberon was able to run confidently after another three days of healing — he called it “Intensive Sausage Therapy.” And I got back the use of my hand after three days of healing as well; the Highlands elemental was only too happy to help me out with that. The tattoo was indeed ruined on the back of my hand, however, and I wasn’t looking forward to having the Morrigan touch it up.
Once we were fully functional, Oberon and I shifted to the southern hemisphere, where it was summer, while Granuaile stayed behind to tour castles and politely deflect the come-ons of randy Scottish lads. Or maybe she didn’t deflect them; I don’t know, it’s her business anyway, and she deserves whatever happiness she can find.
There was plenty of time for me to think as I stalked Australia with Oberon on a sunny day in Queensland. Though I usually try to live in the present and avoid dwelling on the past, I found time there to gnaw on some regrets. I wished I hadn’t been tricked into killing Zdenik and the two skinwalkers; I mourned the deaths of Darren Yazzie and Frank Chischilly, and it was a shame that Hel had escaped — especially since she took the widow’s body with her. I was worried about what Hel was up to more than anything else at this point, but as there was very little I could do about it until Granuaile was trained, I decided I would not let the daughter of Loki steal away the few moments of sunshine afforded to me now. Ganesha’s mysterious League of Jungle Gods seemed to want me to lay low anyway. The omniscient deities all knew I was still around, of course, but Jesus and that lot weren’t the types to share information with the pantheons who’d like to cast my ashes into the sea. That meant nobody was looking for me, and for the first time in millennia I could ease back on my paranoia and relax.
Oberon and I found a field of red clover and we flopped down onto our backs for an epic wriggling session. Wriggling around in clover is one of the finest perks of walking the world as a hound. It’s not the same when you do it as a human.
Oberon sneezed and then we rested, legs in the air, enjoying the sun on our bellies.
<This field is awesome, Atticus,> he said.
<I agree.>
<Will there be clover like this at Many Farms?>
<No, it’ll be a much drier place than this. But I’m sure it will have its own charms, as any place does. It will have plenty of room for you to run, unlike at the house in Tempe.>
<Excellent! Think there will be any French poodles in Many Farms?>
<I doubt it. Mostly working dogs. They tend sheep up there, you know. Not enough grassland to support cattle. We can maybe get you a small herd to look after if you like and make lamb sausage.>
<Oh, I like the sound of that! “Snugglepumpkin’s Sausage Farm.”>
<Why not Oberon’s?> I asked.
<We can continue the Great Snugglepumpkin Experiment that way. When all the ladies come to the sausage stand, you will introduce me to them and we can compile mounds of irrefutable data.>
<Yeesh. I really need to give you another bath.>
<Maybe so. You were going to tell me a story about a samurai.>
<I’ll probably have to reconsider that. I’m worried about what that story would do to your psyche.>
<Aww! Hey, you know what, Atticus?> Oberon said, rolling right side up, ears perked, bath and story forgotten. <I think the clover on the other side of the field looks even more luxurious than this clover right here. I think we should race each other to the other side and wriggle around in that clover to see if it’s true.>
<Now, that’s a hypothesis worth testing! You’re on, buddy!>
<Let’s go!>
I cannot tell you how wonderful it feels to run when you no longer have to do it.
Dedication
For Alan O’Bryan,
who bravely stands in front of my word vomit
and tells me to clean it up.
He is an outstanding alpha reader
and the finest of friends.
This is not a trick.
Acknowledgments
Since the first three books came out blam-blam-blam, I never really got a chance to say thanks to the readers. So I want to thank you, first, for your support of the series, and for buying books, period. Authors don’t get to keep writing unless readers buy ’em, and this book wouldn’t have been possible without you buying Hounded way back when and telling your friends to go buy it too. Many of you have said howdy to me on Facebook, Goodreads, Twitter, and on my blog, and I appreciate you taking the trouble! You’re all very kind.
My family is incredibly supportive and pretends not to notice when I walk around talking to my imaginary friends; thank you for the love.
Tricia Pasternak is my editor at Del Rey, and I think she’s five kinds of brilliant. We agree on things like the greatest Metallica song ever recorded and the potential for mayhem inherent in a bag of marshmallows. She is my shepherd through the Valley of the Shadow of Doubt, and I am so grateful for her encouragement, guidance, and the unseen work she does to make each book the best it can be.
Thanks also to the scads o’ fabulous people at Del Rey who contribute to the series’ success: Mike Braff, Nancy Delia, David Moench, Joe Scalora, Scott Shannon, April Flores, and Gina Wachtel, among many others.
Evan Goldfried, my agent at JGLM, deserves bounteous thanks for all his advice and help.
Thanks to Detective Dana Packer in Rhode Island for tips on how to fake a death scene. Anything that sounds stupid or implausible is entirely my fault, and if you try to fake a death in her jurisdiction she will find you.
Sincere gratitude to Tammy Gwara for uncomfortable conversations about poison chemistry. She will probably never come over for dinner at my house now.
Mihir Wanchoo is a font of Indian stories, so thanks to him for the heads-up on the very interesting history of Indra.
To the Confederacy of Nerds — Tooth, Martin, Andrew, Alan, and John — thanks for the laughs and the Insanity Points.
As in my other books, I do try to set these fictional events in the real world as much as possible. However, this particular story inserts two more drugstores into Kayenta than it currently has; the town’s pharmaceutical needs are handled by the Tribal Health Office. While the Double Dog Dare Gourmet Café in Flagstaff is entirely fictional, you can visit the Winter Sun Trading Company, Macy’s European coffeehouse, and Granny’s Closet “for reals.” They’re all spiffy places, and writing about them took me back to my happy college days at NAU.
The Navajo creation story, the Diné Bahane’, is a constantly changing and evolving work meant to be performed orally by a singer and tailored to the audience and purpose for the ceremony. The written versions, therefore, often differ significantly in the details — and my fiction, while based on a couple of well-documented accounts, should definitely not be viewed as an authoritative source on the subject, nor should the ceremonial procedures depicted herein be construed as genuine. In some versions of the story there are five worlds instead of four, but since four are taught at Diné College in the Navajo Nation, I went with that. My source for the two Coyotes, the spirits of First World, and more was the version Hastin Tlo’tsi Hee (Old Man Buffalo Grass) told to Aileen O’Bryan in 1928, originally published as Bulletin 163 of the Bureau of American Ethnology of the Smithsonian Institution in 1956, but now available under the title Navaho Indian Myths; I also consulted the work of Paul G. Zolbrod, Diné Bahane’, published in 1987 by the University of New Mexico Press.