by Kevin Hearne
Goibhniu brought over our draughts, and I noticed it was a different beer than the first. “This is my Ballyshannon Blond Ale,” he said.
We clinked glasses and took an appreciative sip. “Did the yewmen get any more after Rome?” I asked.
“Oh, aye,” Goibhniu said, nodding. “They’ve been making hits just about every other day, spreading throughout Italy. It’s driving the bloodsuckers crazy. They’re upgrading their daytime security and hissing at one another, and I’m over here eatin’ popcorn and laughin’ me ass off.”
“So what’s the count?”
“They’re able to hit around twenty to thirty a night, but that’s only every other day. So right now we’re at a hundred sixty-two vampires who are finally dead for real.”
That was a fraction of the world’s vampires, but, so far as I knew, they hadn’t ever suffered a loss like this in my lifetime. And it came in territory they’d long considered safe, to vampires who were amongst the most powerful of their kind.
“That’s quite a bit of bounty to be paid. Can I bring you that money plus an estimate for more when I pick up my man from Zealot Island?”
“Sure, that would be grand. Want to see the heads or shall I destroy them?”
“Destroy them. There’s really only one I’m interested in getting at the moment, but I doubt he’ll be in Italy. He’ll be one of the lads sending in minions.”
Goibhniu frowned. “Who’s this?”
“The name’s Theophilus. He’s the one who all but wiped out the Druids back in the old days. It was his idea to use the Roman legions. His organization.”
A spark of genuine anger flashed in the eyes of a god whose good nature was rarely disturbed. “I didn’t know that. When did you discover this?”
“Not long ago. While I was binding her,” I said, nodding my head toward Granuaile. “He’s after us again. That’s why I wanted to push back against the vampires now. Keep him busy. But it would be even better if we could take him out. I think he’s more powerful than he lets on.”
“Hmm.” Goibhniu tapped his glass in contemplation and peered through slitted eyes at me. “You know, there’s a hundred more yewmen at the Morrigan’s Fen with nothing to do.”
Granuaile saw what he meant immediately. “You think we could recruit them to join in?”
“Quite possibly. Say that I can. Where should I send them?”
“Break them up into four pods,” I said. “Send one each to those three cities you mentioned and one to Thessalonika. Free range after that.”
“Hell yeah,” Granuaile said.
Her keenness for the idea surprised me. “Aren’t you concerned about the collateral damage to their thralls? I thought this was the kind of thing you found distasteful. Immoral.”
“Normally it would be. But I’ve had time to consider. Time to be hunted, I should say. I suppose my view grew darker after you died, Atticus—”
“Hold on,” Goibhniu interjected. “You died?”
“Long story,” I waved a hand to dismiss it and let Granuaile finish.
“When the decision is either your life or theirs, it ceases to be complicated. There are issues of dignity and justice to consider, but when it comes to vampires and their thralls, I think I can put that aside. Any one of them would kill me without hesitation, and it’s naïve to think that they’ll change their minds and wish me well someday if I just leave them alone. Those thralls not only are in the business of defending monsters but wish to become monsters themselves. I want to protect life, and they want to eat it. It’s not as if we have a difference of opinion on politics or religion, where violence would be an unacceptable solution. Vampires want to end me. Since abandoning the planet isn’t an option, my only choice is to end them first.”
I nodded and did my best to keep my expression neutral, though privately I was saddened. Granuaile’s generosity had once been unconditional; now it was tempered with a soupçon of bloodthirstiness. But battle hardens you and leaves little room for ethical niceties, and since becoming a full Druid she had seen far more conflict in a month than I saw in my first few years. I’d always known that such scarring would occur eventually, but I’d hoped she could experience the wonder of her new powers unsullied by violence for a while longer, during which she could revel in her connection to Gaia and perhaps let that smooth away some of the anger she had always felt for her stepfather.
I think his fundamental selfishness had shaped her in a manner simultaneously beautiful and dangerous. Her determination to defend the earth was a direct result of what she perceived as his criminal trespasses against the planet—and it behooved her to punish that behavior. I had felt that outrage too, in my youth, and so had many other Druids, and there was no denying that Gaia needed her champions. But during the Industrial Revolution I realized that such outrage was poisoning my spirit. There was nothing I could do to stop the world from changing, so I had to change with it and seek a balance. I didn’t think Granuaile was completely unbalanced yet, but I could see which way the seesaw was tipping, and I wished it would go the other way.
Skipping over her words without comment, I said, “What’s going to happen to the Fen now?”
“Not sure,” Goibhniu said. “It’s not exactly prime real estate. Right gloomy swamp, it is, so no one’s leaping after it. You remember the old hag Scáthach? Trained Cu Chúlainn?”
“Sure.”
“My bet is she’ll pop in there.”
“Huh. Didn’t know she was still around. What about the Morrigan’s duties?”
Goibhniu took in a deep breath and sighed heavily through puffed cheeks before answering. “Manannan will take care of those who die—he was already doing half of it anyway. But I don’t expect anyone will take over choosin’ the slain or fuckin’ people till they bleed. People will still pray to her, of course, and she’ll probably act from time to time from beyond the veil, just like Lugh Lhámhfhada does, but we’ll never see her like again.”
Perhaps it was the high alcohol content of Goibhniu’s beer, but his words hit me palpably and I suddenly missed her. She’d made life more poignant for the Irish. The terror she inspired gave peace its serenity; the pain she caused gave health its lustre; her failure to love made me grateful for my ability to do so, and I realized, far too late, that though I never did or could have loved her as she might have wished, I should have loved her more.
“To the Morrigan,” I said, throat tight with emotion as I raised my glass.
“Aye, the Morrigan,” Goibhniu said, lifting his glass and clearly as overcome as I was. Granuaile joined in with a bit of puzzlement but politely declined to notice out loud that Goibhniu and I were tearing up. We knew it was the end of an era; the sun cannot shine as bright without a proper darkness to counter it. The world had gone a bit gray.
Epilogue
We had two weeks before Goibhniu’s apparatus over Zealot Island would produce any results, so we took the opportunity to fulfill a long-overdue promise. Without telling my hound what we intended, the three of us shifted to a certain Irish Wolfhound Rescue in Massachusetts. It was the same place where I’d originally found Oberon, and we were hoping that they’d have another suitable hound to adopt. Oberon had been alone far too long, and we had a promise to keep.
Tall chain-link fences stretched away on either side of the main house, with expanses of green grass behind them—acres of turf that served as a massive dog run for a pack of wolfhounds. Seven of them barked and gamboled back and forth as we approached. Oberon’s tail wagged and he woofed a greeting to them.
I hope so. We need to let Granuaile go first and see if one of them is a suitable match for the two of you. As we paused outside, Granuaile smiled at me and gave me a quick kiss.
“Fingers crossed,” she said, and left us to go inside.
We need to find a wolfhound bitch who will get along with
both you and Granuaile, and there’s a chance we won’t find one here.
Oberon leapt and twisted in the air in extreme excitement. He kept spinning around as he spoke.
Maybe, Oberon, maybe. And I’m not adopting her. Granuaile is, if she can find a smart one that you both like. And, by the way, she has to like you too. You need to be a gentlehound and win her affection by yourself. We’re not going to adopt one unless she genuinely gets along with both of you.
Oberon’s enthusiasm wasn’t dampened in the least by my cautions and disclaimers. He spun around so fast he was making me dizzy, and the independent enthusiasm of his tail eventually overbalanced him and he wiped out. Undeterred, he leapt back up and tried to execute something gymnastic, for which wolfhounds are decidedly not renowned. He wiped out again. Realizing he felt too awesome to stand right then, he wriggled around in the grass of the front yard, every inch of him in motion.
Well, to be fair, Oberon, sausage wasn’t really my idea. It was just my idea to feed it to you.
Are you saying you’d give up sausage for a companion?
That admission made me feel more than a little ashamed. I’m sorry we waited so long, buddy. And, remember, we might not find the perfect bitch here today, but if not we’ll keep looking. It’s a quest now.
“Auggh!” I cried aloud, half in alarm and half in amusement. “Shit! Oberon, get off me!”
“Gah! Ha! Oberon, stop!” It was simultaneously horrifying and hilarious, and I couldn’t keep from laughing. “Someone’s going to see!”
“What in the world? Oberon! That’s enough!” She sounded mortified. It was not the first impression she wished to make on the owner of the ranch. I’m sure she must have reinforced her verbal command with a telepathic one, because Oberon finally ceased and apologized—to her, not me.
With the show over, the hounds inside the fence turned their attention to Granuaile and the owner of the ranch. They crowded around Granuaile and jockeyed for a position underneath her hands, since she was doing her best to pet all seven with only two limbs. Eventually she isolated one from the others, a cream-coated hound with kind brown eyes.
“Could I spend a bit of time with this one?” Granuaile asked, to which the owner nodded. As Granuaile and the owner walked back toward the house, all the hounds followed, not just the one Granuaile had asked about.
Oberon stopped spinning and pricked up his ears as they passed out of sight.
They’re going to chat for a little while. She’ll make a decision soon enough. Flop down and I’ll give you a belly rub while we wait.
Now, remember, buddy, regardless of which hound we adopt, she’s not going to know how to speak at first. We have to teach her.
All right, buddy, time to be on your best behavior. Sit up and don’t move. Follow Granuaile’s lead.
He posed like a show dog, perfectly still except for his tail, which swished madly across the grass.
“Hello, Oberon,” Granuaile said aloud, clearly for the owner’s benefit. Dog owners were used to people talking to dogs and wouldn’t find it strange. “This lovely lady is Orlaith. Would you like to say hello?”
Oberon gave a short bark of affirmation, but mentally he said,
Granuaile must have answered him, for there was a pause before he said,
Orlaith approached, nose aquiver and tail sawing the air, and Oberon rose to his feet, similarly enthused. He was very patient as she snuffled all around his face, and then she did a quick once-over of his torso before sliding down to his posterior.
Granuaile laughed and looked at me. “She likes him.”
I grinned and nodded. It was pretty obvious from the hound’s behavior, but it was good to have confirmation of Orlaith’s feelings from Granuaile. I would be very careful not to tap into Orlaith’s head for a few weeks, to make sure she bonded properly with Granuaile.
Oberon heard the comment, of course, and said,
I asked Granuaile, “Do you think you’ll get along with her?”
“Oh, yes, no problem,” she replied. “Orlaith’s quick and very sweet.”
Oberon broke out of the circle and took off across the lawn, Orlaith hot on his heels.
The owner of the ranch chuckled and said, “Well, they certainly seem to get along.”
Granuaile clapped her hands together in delight and gave a little squee. “Yes, they do. We’d like to adopt her if that’s okay.” She introduced me to the woman, who was named Kimberly. Her mother had owned the ranch during the time I’d adopted Oberon, and now she looke
d after it. We couldn’t tell her Oberon had ever been there, of course, because he was far older than any normal wolfhound now. But we could show Kimberly that we were pretty good with hounds.
Oberon, come on over here and be brilliant for a second so this lady will trust us with Orlaith. Aloud I said, “Oberon! Here, boy!”
“Sit,” I said. He sat. “Lie down.” He did so. “Belly rub.” He rolled onto his back.
No worries. “Come to heel.” He got up and moved to my right side, facing the same way I was facing, and wagged his tail. Orlaith did the same thing with Granuaile, standing on her left side, though Granuaile hadn’t said anything aloud.
Kimberly let out a low whistle of appreciation. “Well, I guess you know your hounds,” she said.
We filled out paperwork with Kimberly and made a generous donation to the rescue, then we left with Orlaith and shifted through Tír na nÓg to our cabin in Colorado, where Orlaith would have plenty of time to bond with Granuaile and begin to learn a few words here and there.
You’ll need to be very patient with Orlaith on the talking thing, I explained to Oberon. You’ve been with me many years now and probably don’t remember how tough it was at first.
When Granuaile thinks she’s ready. It will probably be a while, buddy. Bonding them too soon might overwhelm Orlaith, and I needed to remember to remind Granuaile of that. You can just enjoy her as she is in the meantime, right?
The days passed quickly with training and play until it was time to travel back to Tír na nÓg. I’d asked Hal Hauk to start liquidating some of my assets and converting them to gold, and one of his pack members, Greta, was tasked with delivering it to the cabin. It was her second trip there—a rather long one from Tempe—and she made it clear that she hated the drive. She turned her car around on the road and honked, never getting out. Once I walked around to the driver’s side, she rolled down the window and dropped a heavy sack on the ground in front of me.
