Druid Master: A Druidverse Urban Fantasy Novel (The Colin McCool Paranormal Suspense Series Book 12)

by M. D. Massey

  “Come, sit with me child,” Maeve said. Her tone was anything but commanding—almost melancholy, really.

  I rounded the far side of the leftmost chair, taking a moment to address Maeve before taking a seat. She wore her human glamour again, taking on the guise of a fit, attractive soccer mom with a taste for brands such as Versace, Burberry, and Chanel. Today she wore a black cashmere turtleneck, plaid straight-leg ankle pants, and a pair of woven-toe wedge loafers that she pulled off with aplomb.

  Maeve’s now platinum blonde hair was styled in a shaggy, textured bob that was random perfection personified. Her makeup style was understated and natural, but since her skin and features were nearly flawless, it made sense not to cover it up. She wore no jewelry, and frankly needed none. The entire look seemed effortless but would likely take a team of stylists to achieve absent the assistance of fae magic.

  “Maeve,” I said as I gestured to take in the room. “This is—well, it’s the last thing I expected to find in this mansion.”

  “This house suits my moods, as they come and go,” she replied. “Please, sit.”

  I sat, observing in silence as The Queen of the Fae poured me a stiff drink. “Pappy Van Winkle, the 23-year,” she narrated as she poured. “The irony is amusing, don’t you think?”

  “Maeve, I can’t,” I said, waving her offer away.

  “Today, you can,” she replied. “Colin McCool, on this day I offer you the hospitality of my home and the pure food and drink from my larder and table. This I give to you guilelessly and without expectation of recompense, free from the need for parley or contract, as my word is my bond.”

  When she said “bond,” a deep note of magic emanated from the bowels of the house like a gong sounding in a temple. I couldn’t hear it, but I felt it and knew she spoke true. It still gave me the willies, taking food or drink from one of the Tuath Dé, but she might never forgive the slight if I refused her hospitality.

  As I accepted the drink, I noticed her eyes were red—and not from the smoke. “You heard.”

  “I felt his passing, yes. He was both friend and adversary for many ages, and my kind have ways of knowing when those we hold dear depart the mortal plane. I am sorry for your loss, my dear boy.”

  Cradling my glass, I stared down at the contents and nodded my acknowledgement. One did not thank the fae, not even at times like these.

  She grabbed her whiskey glass, raising it for a toast. “To Finn Éces of Assaroe, master druid, caretaker, windwalker, lover, mentor, poet, and friend. May he travel swiftly to my father’s realm, where he shall know not suffering nor torment, but bask in the dappled sunlight and enjoy the salt sea spray on his cheeks.”

  “To Finnegas,” I uttered, choking up as we clinked glasses. I downed the contents of my glass, feeling only a little guilty that I’d just slammed a few hundred dollars of whiskey. “I miss him already.”

  “Ta na daoine greannmhara uilig sa’ tsiorruidheacht,” she said. I gave her a questioning look, and she smiled sadly. “It’s the Irish version of ‘only the good die young.’”

  “Ah.” I nodded once as she held up the decanter, offering my glass for another pour. A sip this time, savoring the earthy notes of tobacco and cocoa. “This is superb.”

  “Enjoy it. I have several cases that I acquired as an investment. And please, do try the Rey Del Mundos. They came highly recommended by Yemayá, and she knows her cigars.”

  Acquired, not purchased, I noted. Despite the questionable provenance thereof, I grabbed a cigar, allowing Maeve to punch the tip for me. After I lit up, we smoked and drank in silence for a good long while.

  Needless to say, it was a surreal experience. Yet, I knew this was her way of honoring Finnegas, as well as providing her many times removed great-grandson what little comfort she could as I mourned the old man’s passing. Finally, when my cigar had burned to a stub and we’d imbibed several car payments’ worth of Pappy Van Winkle, she spoke up.

  “I know you have questions. Ask, and I will do my best to answer them.”

  Hours later, I was nearly as confused as I’d been earlier. Maeve didn’t have specifics regarding the old man’s plans, at least no more than anyone else I’d spoken to—Mom, Maureen, Samson, and Luther. She certainly agreed that the wily old coot had something up his sleeve, something big, but she admitted to not being privy to his innermost secrets.

  “Finnegas was ever loath to trust the Tuatha Dé Danann after the destruction of the druid groves. It was members of my kind who engineered that loss, conspiring with the Romans to end the druids’ reign. Through druidry, humans had gained too much power, they said, and they saw The Dagda’s gift as a grave mistake that required correction. So, it would be unlikely that he’d share his innermost secrets with me.”

  “Fat lot of good it did them in the end,” I mused. “Once the Romans embraced Christianity, it was the beginning of the end for the old gods.”

  Maeve had little to say about that, but she did leave me with one final word of warning. “Know this, druid. Badb sees your rise to power as a great threat to the Tuath Dé. She and others of our kind wish to see us returned to our former glory, and few humans possess the power to stand in the way of their plans.”

  I snapped my fingers as one part of the puzzle snapped into place. “Finnegas was one of those humans—he was the power holding them back.”

  The goddess once known as Niamh graced me with a rare smile. “Just so. In every pantheon, there are those gods who subjugate humankind, and those who champion their freedom. The Dagda gave the Celts druidry to balance the scales, to ensure that my kind would never crush mortals under their heel.”

  “Finnegas was the last master druid,” I remarked. “The last threat to their reascension.”

  “Or so they thought. If you’ll recall, Finnegas had agreed never to teach druidry to more than a single student at a time. The chances of him finding a student with the talent and pedigree to master druidry were astronomical, and the gods knew it. Then, you came along—”

  “—and I’m not bound by Finn’s promise.” I scratched the back of my head as I considered the implications. “Shit, that’s why they want me dead so badly. If I were to become a master druid, I could teach others, replant the groves—basically do everything that they worked so hard to wipe out in the first place.”

  “Now you understand why they seek your permanent end,” Maeve said.

  “But I don’t get it. Doesn’t it take years to become a druid master?”

  “Centuries, in fact. In the past, any of The Seer’s pupils who showed promise would meet a gruesome and untimely end. All accidents, of course. Death from unknown but seemingly natural causes. Falls from great heights. Ships overtaken by massive, once in a century storms at sea, and other calamities of that nature.”

  “But I zipped through the syllabus in record time.”

  The Fae Queen smiled like the cat who ate the canary. “And every Celtic god knows, there’s really only one way you could do that.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I deadpanned.

  “Come now, druid, you’ve been anything but subtle about it. Seeing as you’ve gained The Dagda’s favor, your ability to seemingly be in several places at once, the way you’ve evaded capture so many times, and your meteoric rise to power—any fool could connect those dots.”

  “And you’re saying?”

  “I’m saying that Badb, Fuamnach, Aengus, and the rest of the Tuath Dé who stand against you know you command a Druid Grove, and more than one Oak as well. And they keenly understand what an advantage that gives you. What they can’t figure out is how you’re hiding the other Oaks you’ve planted.”

  She was referring to the fact that druids used to be able to travel between Oaks by using them as portal gateways. Portal magic was a talent and skill that took ages to master, and it required massive amounts of magical power to use. But using the Oaks, even the weakest of druid acolytes could move from place to place at will like gods. This
provided the druids a tremendous tactical advantage, and it was certainly one of the reasons why the gods destroyed the groves.

  What Maeve and the rest didn’t know was that The Dagda made my Oak special, and now I knew why—because you couldn’t kill what you couldn’t find. I was certain that Badb, Aengus, and Fuamnach had been wracking their brains looking for Oaks everywhere I’d shown up over the past year or so. They also likely thought that the Oak connected to my Grove was located in the junkyard, and it had been for a time.

  They’d probably even sent human spies in to find it, and the lack of a conclusive location was probably the only thing keeping them from making an all-out assault on the place. Plus, you didn’t beard the lion in his own den. But now that Finnegas was gone, they might try it. Shit, I needed to shut the place down and get Maureen out of there, pronto.

  Turning my mind once more to our conversation, I gave a blank-faced shake of my head. “Again, Maeve, I’m clueless as to what you’re insinuating.”

  She chuckled softly. “Keep your secrets, druid. I’m not your enemy, but you are wise to hold your cards close when dealing with the Tuatha Dé Danann. Now, the hour is late, and you must be on your way. By now, Badb’s spies certainly know of your visit here, and it won’t be long before I receive an official visit from one or all of the Morrígna.”

  “Can’t you just tell them to piss off?”

  Maeve’s eyes narrowed. “I may be a goddess and queen over all the Fair Folk, but even I do not dare to insult those three.”

  “Huh. What if I told you that one of them had helped me?”

  “Then I would tell you to be on your guard. Getting on the wrong side of the Crows is bad enough, but being a pawn in one of their quarrels? I wouldn’t wish that on my worst enemy.”

  The existence of the Oak and Grove wasn’t the only thing I held back during my visit with Maeve. Instinctively, I also failed to mention the journal thingy that Finnegas had left me, choosing to keep it safely hidden within my Craneskin Bag. Maeve might have been nominally on my side, but that old hag craved power like a junkie craves their next fix. If there was power to be had in that book, she’d do her best to relieve me of it.

  Thus, I was keeping that secret to myself. But if I couldn’t ask Maeve for help in opening and deciphering it, who could I trust? Those questions and more spun around inside my head as I exited into the hall outside the smoking den, where I found Sabine lounging languidly on the settee.

  “Ugh, finally,” she remarked, covering her eyes with a touch of drama that she’d never previously displayed. “I thought you’d never finish in there.”

  She sat up, tucking her phone away in some unseen pocket where it disappeared. Fae magic was weird, and it occurred to me that her easy use of it indicated that she’d been studying since I saw her last. In that instant, I saw my friend in a different light. This sudden change in attitude towards me—was it sincere, or was she working as an agent for my enemies?

  I shook the thought off before Sabine could read it on my face. I’d just gotten her back, and the last thing I needed was to screw up a good thing for no good reason. Flashing her a smile, I gestured down the hall.

  “Ready to escort me out of here?”

  “Sure, but that’s the wrong way. If you went down that hall, you’d end up in a part of Maeve’s dungeons that you definitely don’t want to visit.”

  My brow furrowed as I struggled to orient myself. “Isn’t that the way we came in?”

  “Oh, it looks like the way we came in, but trust me, it’s not. C’mon, Lothair’s still pissed at you, and the only thing keeping Dufgal from going another round is Maeve’s hospitality. And that’s going to end in, oh, thirty minutes or so.”

  “Wait a minute—were you spying on us?”

  She rolled her eyes, fluttering her eyelids. “Seriously, Colin? For one thing, this is Maeve we’re talking about here. Duh, she met you in that room for a reason. It’s like her own personal SCIF; no info goes in or out of there without her say so. Besides, you should know me better than that.”

  But did I? Why was I suddenly feeling an insane amount of paranoia where my old friend was concerned? Was it because my conversation with Maeve made me realize just how high the stakes were right now? Or was it because I was getting to the point where I didn’t trust anyone connected with the fae and Tuatha Dé Danann?

  She had plenty of time to contact someone while I was speaking with Maeve. If she wanted to fuck me over, she could just lead me out of here and right into Badb’s arms. But the fact was, I had no reason to distrust Sabine. She’d always been a tried and true friend, and even after our spat, I didn’t think she’d betray me. Anyway, I’d find out soon enough.

  “Right,” I said. “Sorry about that. It’s just that I’m a little jumpy these days.”

  “No wonder, with all the trouble you seem to attract. Ever consider retiring from druiding and choosing a less dangerous career? Something more sedate, like bullfighting or becoming a skydiving instructor?”

  “Druidry, you mean. Druid isn’t a verb.”

  “Whatever,” she said as she bustled down the hall in what I was certain was the opposite direction from whence we’d come. “Correct me all you want, but I’m pretty sure a person can ‘druid,’ just like they can ‘magick’ something. As far as I’m concerned, Webster’s can stuff it.”

  I laughed despite my apprehension as I scurried after her, wondering again how she managed to outpace me with her much shorter legs. “Yeah, but think about it—you can’t ‘fae’ things, any more than you can ‘human’ something.”

  “Ah,” she said, looking over her shoulder with her finger raised in the air, “but you can do ‘peopling.’ Yep, I’m pretty sure that’s a verb.”

  “No, it’s not. Sheesh, when did you decide to just throw out the dictionary and start making up your own language?”

  “Colin, you are horrible at peopling, absolutely dreadful at it. If that’s not proof it’s a verb, I don’t know what is.”

  “Point taken, but it still doesn’t make it a verb, any more than druiding is—”

  I stopped to take in our surroundings because I didn’t recognize a damned thing. We’d entered through a series of hallways, avoiding entering side rooms to take a somewhat direct path to Maeve’s SCIF. But now, we were in some kind of hall—not a hallway, but an actual medieval-looking hall, with a long table, straight back chairs, flags displaying heraldry overhead, and weapons and tapestries on the walls.

  “Sabine, where the hell are we?” I asked.

  Sabine turned to look at me, but the warmth I’d seen in her eyes moments before was gone, replaced by a bitter sadness. “I’m sorry, Colin, but she made me do it. They left me there, you know, in Underhill, after she captured me.” Sabine shivered. “It was horrid.”

  “Who captured you, Sabine?”

  As I watched, Sabine’s face began to change as her clothing and appearance shifted to reveal her true nature. She grew taller and thinner, her purple hair faded into long, stringy blonde locks, and her strong, pretty facial features melted into a sunken-cheeked face that only vaguely mirrored its former model-perfect beauty. This girl’s eyes were sunken, her cheeks hollow, and her body wasted, leaving only a pale shadow of her former self.

  But I’d recognize her anywhere.

  “Siobhan.”

  15

  “I’m surprised you remember me,” she said, flashing a smile that revealed yellow, rotten teeth between chapped lips so pale they were almost gray. “Considering you left me to rot, along with Maeve and the rest of her court.”

  She wasn’t lying, although I didn’t think she was telling the whole truth, either. Once, Siobhán was Maeve’s favorite girl Friday, a sort of personal assistant and steward to the queen. More than a year ago in Earth time, Maeve discovered that Fuamnach had replaced Siobhán with a doppelgänger. During my first trip to Underhill, Fuamnach herself boasted that she’d infiltrated Maeve’s palace on several occasions.

  Du
e to the falling out I’d had with Maeve shortly thereafter, I never conveyed that information to her. At the time, I’d assumed that Maeve would negotiate Siobhán’s release, maybe through a prisoner exchange or something. Obviously, those efforts had failed. I doubted Maeve would leave a loyal subject in Fuamnach’s hands, not if she could help it. The queen was many things, but disloyal, she was not.

  “Siobhán, where’s Sabine? Did you do something to her?”

  She demurred, looking down and away as she fussed with the frayed edge of the worn, thin, stained shift she wore. “Don’t worry, I didn’t hurt her. She’ll wake up before long and alert the palace about what happened. Silly of them not to change the wards to prevent me from entering. A foolish mistake, one they’ll regret shortly.”

  Wherever she’d led me, I had zero contact with the Oak and no way of knowing how to escape Maeve’s madhouse. That was, if I was still there. Maeve’s halls led to many different places. As I’d discovered when she sent me into Underhill, parts of her home existed far, far away from her address near downtown Austin.

  I lunged forward, grabbing Siobhán by her spindly, emaciated arms. She’d always been model-thin, the typical example of the almost severe standard of fae beauty. But now she was less than a waif, so light as to be nearly insubstantial, and I feared I’d break her if I failed to handle her with care.

  Yet, I was angry, and more than a little spooked by the current situation. So if I handled her a bit roughly, it was much less than I felt the circumstances demanded.

  “Siobhán, who are you working with, and why in the hell did they have you bring me here?”

  She craned her neck, cackling up at the ceiling and revealing several rotted and missing teeth as she did so. “Oh, I think you know the answer to that, Colin. Fuamnach, of course. She sent me here to bring your pretty little head to her on a platter.”