Druid Mystic: A New Adult Urban Fantasy Novel (The Colin McCool Paranormal Suspense Series Book 10)

by M. D. Massey

  “You are wounded, Fomori,” she said, blowing smoke from her nostrils and mouth.

  “Yeah, what of it?” I said, beating my chest. Blood droplets flew everywhere.

  “You are dying,” she stated simply. “This will be no revenge at all. Another time, then—I am a patient demoness.”

  The dragon beat her wings harder, and as she gained altitude she banked off away from me—and Oisín. Instead of taking an easy victory, Caoránach had chosen to retreat to a safe distance, where she’d most certainly continue preparations for a long, protracted siege on the keep.

  Ah, fuck.

  “Give it to me, Oisín,” I yelled.

  “But druid, yer dead on yer feet!”

  “I said send it, damn it!”

  Oisín did as I asked, backing up several feet so he could take a run at it. He tossed the spear in a high arc, and I watched as it reached its apex before plummeting straight at me.

  Best not fuck this up.

  As Diarmuid’s Red Spear flew within reach, I snagged it out of the air, pivoting in place to launch it with all my might. Oisín’s throw had been a graceful yet accurate parabolic arc. Mine was a gunshot, the spear an oversized flechette round hurtling at hundreds of miles an hour toward Caoránach’s retreating form.

  I hadn’t had centuries of spear throwing practice like the bard had, but I’d still put in plenty of work. Granted, when I trained with the spear it was in my human form, so the longest I’d ever thrown one was fifty yards or so. At close range, you threw a spear or pilum more or less straight at the target. But at longer ranges, you put an arc on it, just as Oisín had. The problem was, I was a hell of a lot stronger in this form—even in my current, almost bled-out state.

  You could practically hear the entire fiann hold their breaths as the Gae Dearg flew at the dragon’s back. The closer it got, the more it became clear I’d overshot Caoránach, adding an arc to my toss that wasn’t necessary considering the velocity of my throw. I’d fucked it up, and I was too damned weak to cast a spell to correct it.

  Just as the spear was about to miss, Plúr shouted something in Gaelic. At her command a gust of wind hit Gae Dearg from above, correcting its trajectory. Caoránach turned her head on hearing the demigoddess’ shout, just as the tip of the spear hit the dragon’s back between her wings. At first I thought it might bounce off, but the damned thing went straight through her spine and out her chest, like shit through a gut-sick goose.

  Fortuitously, Caoránach had yet to release all the heat she’d built up moments before. Maybe filling herself with superheated gasses made it easier to keep her bulk aloft; hell, I didn’t know. What I did know was that Gae Dearg broke something way down inside her, causing the big lizard to explode in a ball of fire that’d give Michael Bay a flagpole-sized woody.

  As flaming pieces of dragon guts peppered the fields for hundreds of yards around, a huge cheer rose from the keep behind me. Secure in the knowledge that Oisín and his crew were now safe, I started changing back into my human form. Just as I completed the shift, my vision went dark and I sank to the ground in a flaccid, boneless heap.

  Dear diary: I exploded a dragon today. Dreams really can come true.

  I awoke in the keep’s infirmary an indeterminate amount of time later, with Plúr casting vitality spells over me. Oisín sat in a chair nearby, looking pale with deep circles under his eyes. I felt wrung out like a wet towel, but I was alive and still had a chance to save Finnegas. That was all that mattered.

  “Don’t tell me,” I said, as I pushed myself to a seated position. “We’re having dragon for dinner.”

  Oisín laughed weakly while Plúr forced me to lay down again. “Relax, fool. You’ve only just regained consciousness after watering half the countryside with your lifeblood. Considering the work I’ve done on you, at least have the decency to be a good patient and rest.”

  “Maybe just for a moment,” I said as a wave of dizziness and nausea hit me.

  “See? You’ve not recovered as well as you think. Drink this.” She handed me a wooden cup containing a foul-smelling liquid. “It will restore your strength.”

  With a shrug I downed it all, gagging as I handed the cup back to her. “Next time, I think I’d rather die. Speaking of which, how’d you save me?”

  She showed me the inside of a stainless-steel pan that contained a collection of modern intravenous therapy equipment. “Transfusion. I figured Athair would share your blood type, so I volunteered him for a donation. Thus his current appearance.”

  “How’d you learn to do that?” I asked. “And where did you get the gear?”

  “Plúr went ta’ school back on Earth fer a time,” Oisín said. “All three o’ me children did.”

  “You’ve a third child? I’d like to meet him before I leave.”

  The bard put on a long face as he looked away. “T’would not be possible. Little Finn’s no longer with us, I’m afraid.”

  “I’m so sorry to hear that,” I said, in all sincerity.

  “I attended medical school in Galveston,” Plúr interjected, expertly changing the subject. “I’m fully licensed to practice in the state of Texas, although I’ve not been able to keep up with my continuing education hours of late.”

  “Er, sorry about that,” I said, looking over at Finnegas. “How’s he doing?”

  “Stable, but I can only keep him that way for so long,” Plúr replied. “If we’re going to save him, we need to get him to Fionn’s tomb soon.”

  “Speaking of which, how are we going to get him there?”

  Oisín raised his head off his chest long enough to chime in. “Plúr’s capable o’ casting short-range portals. Nothing between worlds, mind ya’, but enough ta’ bring the Seer there—once ya’ deal with Tethra, that is.”

  “Ahem,” I said, extending a finger in the air. “Maybe this is a stupid question, but why can’t we just portal into the tomb and back out again, without Tethra being any the wiser?”

  The pretty quasi-goddess smiled at me, again with a look that said I was the slowest student in the class. “Because Tethra is a king of Mag Mell, with all the advantages that come with that office.”

  “Maybe I’m still a little woozy from nearly dying, but I still don’t get it.”

  “Ya’ know that all o’ what ya’ call Underhill is magic, right?” Oisín asked.

  I nodded affirmatively. “Right. That’s how the earthbound fae were able to maintain a position of superiority over other magic users. And when I closed the gates to Underhill—”

  “—you shut off their source of power,” Plúr said. “Here in Tír na nÓg—which includes Mag Mell, Tir Tairngire, Tír fo Thuinn, Emain Ablach, and Mag Ildathach, where most of the fae reside—ownership and control of land is power, quite literally. The more land you control, the greater the magic from which you can draw. And when you’re the master of a demesne, you can instruct the land to protect itself from invasive spells and other arcane attacks.”

  I snapped my fingers. “That’s why Badb didn’t show up in person—she couldn’t trespass on your lands.”

  Oisín frowned. “Eh, she could, if she’d wanted. But it’d be a waste o’ her power, since she could simply send the dragon ta’ attack in her stead. It bein’ a creature o’ the land, an’ not strictly excluded from entering my hold, ya’ see.”

  “So, how much land does Tethra control?”

  “About a third o’ all Mag Mell,” the bard replied sagely. “A bit less, if ye count all the independent holds such as ours. He, Labraid, and Eochaid divide the remaining land most evenly, though the boundaries betwixt them are fluid due ta’ border skirmishes and the like.”

  My eyes skated back and forth between father and daughter. “If Tethra holds power so completely in his own lands, how are we going to sneak past him?”

  “You’re not,” Plúr stated. “Your job will be to distract him long enough for me to portal into Fionn’s tomb, and that is all. Once he is locked in battle, I should be able to sneak
past his defenses.”

  An uncomfortable silence fell, and everyone began avoiding eye contact all at once. Finally, I broke the silence by clearing my throat.

  “Which leads me to address the elephant in the room. Ain’t no way I’m surviving a fight with Tethra, is there?”

  “In my estimation, after witnessing that shite-show with the dragon? No, lad. Not unless yer in possession o’ some magic we haven’t seen,” Oisín said.

  “If you could maintain that other form of yours and use druid magic to turn the land against him, perhaps you’d stand a chance. But failing that, you’re looking at certain death,” Plúr added.

  “Peachy,” I replied. They both looked at me with a mix of pity and sadness in their eyes. “You know I’m still going to do it, right?”

  “As I might have expected,” Oisín replied. “It’s what Da’ would’ve done. Here, ye’ll be needin’ these if yer ta’ attempt this lunacy.”

  The bard pulled out two bundles, each bound with rough twine. The first consisted of all my clothes, including my bullet-proof bomber jacket. While I was indisposed, someone had removed the shredded sleeves and closed up the seams with fine silk thread. When I got home I’d have to get a new one, but what remained of the jacket was better protection than nothing.

  As for the second bundle, my Craneskin Bag sat atop the pile. Beneath it was a complete set of burnished bronze plate and chainmail, almost identical to those that Oisín currently wore. Every last piece practically glowed with Tuath Dé magic.

  “It’ll turn most weapons,” the bard said, “though I doubt it’ll stop Tethra’s great feckin’ sword.”

  “And, anyone who sees you in that armor will likely mistake you for Athair,” Plúr added. “So long as you keep the helm on and don’t open your mouth, you should be able to move freely across the plains until you reach Tethra’s lands.”

  “Wow, I don’t know what to say.”

  Oisín held up a hand. “Say nothing, as I’ll not be thanked fer helping family, no matter how distant the relation. ’Sides, anyone handpicked by the Seer ta’ be his successor deserves all the help the fianna can provide.”

  “Worry not, we’ll watch over Finn Eces while you are gone,” Plúr said. “And your other traveling companions. Although, should you fall in battle, I daresay we might never release them from our dungeons. The neamh-mairbh are no friends of the fianna, and we’d not willingly loose them on the inhabitants of the Joyful Plains.”

  “That’s perfectly understandable,” I replied. “But how will you know when it’s safe to send Finnegas through the portal?”

  She reached into a pouch at her waist, pulling out a large brown and white-striped snail shell. “Speak into this when you wish to contact me. I will hear your voice, so long as you remain anywhere in Tír na nÓg.”

  “Great. One last question—how the hell do I find this place?”

  Plúr’s amused expression told me I was not going to like the answer to that question. “My brother will guide you most of the way, with a small detachment of his warriors.”

  “Seriously? I’m pretty certain that dude hates me. You sure he won’t stick a dagger in my back as soon as we’re out of sight of the keep?”

  “Nonsense,” Oisín said as his daughter snickered softly behind her hand. “Oscar might well be stubborn, and a horse’s arse at times. But, he’s also honorable and loyal ta’ a fault. Mark my words, he’ll guide ya’ ta’ the edge o’ Tethra’s lands, safely an’ without incident.”

  “Are you feeling better yet?” Plúr asked.

  “Now that you mention it, I feel great.” I tossed the covers off and jumped out of bed, naked as the day I was born. Blushing like a Catholic school girl at a stag party, I quickly pulled the fur blanket around me as I avoided looking at Plúr. “Ah, yep—much better.”

  “Good,” she said, pointedly ignoring my embarrassment. “All that’s left is for you to gather your things and meet my brother in the courtyard. Athair will show you how to don the armor”—she glanced down at my bare legs with a wry smile—“after you’ve dressed.”

  With that, she marched out of the room. Her father turned his chair around while I got dressed, chuckling quietly to himself as he waited. When I was finished, he began fitting me into my new armor.

  “Don’t let it bother ya’, lad,” her father said as he helped me into the chainmail and chest plate. “Like her mother, she has a way o’ making ya’ feel two inches tall.”

  “Maeve’s a pain in the ass,” I said, before realizing he might take that as an insult to his daughter. “What I mean to say is, Plúr is basically a much nicer version of her mom.”

  “I know what ya’ mean,” he replied as he showed me how to fasten the bracers and greaves. “When I look at Plúr, I see her mother in everything she does.”

  “I hope I’m not overstepping my bounds here, but do you think you’ll ever reconcile with Maeve?”

  “She’s apologized more times than I can count, but I’ll not forgive her fer keeping me in Tír na nÓg, all while me family lived and died without me. And that trick she pulled with the steed—oh, don’t get me started. Nay, never.”

  I couldn’t blame him. Although I’d never experienced it myself, it had to be incredibly heartbreaking to be betrayed by someone you loved.

  “She’s not my favorite person either. Even knowing she’s my ancestor, I still can’t forget how many times she’s manipulated me just to accomplish her own ends.”

  “That’s the Tuath Dé for ya’—always feckin’ with mortals.” He winked at me. “Oh, I fergot ta’ mention, the Spear’s in the Bag. If ya’ get a chance, stick it in Tethra’s eye fer me. That wanker has it comin’, he does. Now, times a’ wastin’ while we sit here flappin’ our jaws like two old hens. Walk around a bit and tell how that armor feels.”

  I did as he asked, grunting my approval. “It’s lighter than I expected and easy to move in as well. Did you make this?”

  “Nay, Lugh gifted it ta’ Father. It was his armor. Now, it’s yours.”

  “I’m honored.” The satisfied look on his face told me I’d said enough. I glanced over at my mentor, and as I did, his eyes followed mine. “Say, could you give me a minute alone with Finnegas?”

  “O’ course,” he said before exiting the room and shutting the door behind him.

  I watched the old man as he lay weakened and slack-jawed, the mighty druid laid low by our mortal enemy: time. His breaths were ragged and shallow, his skin pale and ashen, his pulse faint. I reflected once again that it was my fault he was in his current state, all because I’d refused to take up the mantle he’d wanted to pass on to me.

  I laid a hand on his shoulder, wiping away my tears as I gathered my resolve.

  “Don’t worry, old man,” I whispered. “You’ve protected me long enough. Now it’s my turn to protect you for a change.”

  A tear ran down the old druid’s cheek, which I gently wiped away with my thumb. I leaned over to kiss him on the forehead, allowing myself one last moment of pain and regret over how I’d failed the greatest druid ever known because of pride and spite. Once I’d taken a full swig of that poison, I locked every emotion away except for my anger and the implacable hate I felt for the Tuatha Dé Danann.

  Then I headed out to do battle with a god.

  19

  An hour later—or near enough, as time had a certain unpredictability in Underhill—I sat atop a horse, cantering across the plains with Oscar and five of his warriors. We’d ridden for miles without a word spoken between us, and until then I’d been quite happy with that arrangement. Then, he harshed my buzz by opening his big fat piehole.

  “He’ll kill you, you know,” Oscar said.

  I nibbled on a clover stem as I gave him the side eye. I’d seen the horses chowing down on it earlier, remembering how I used to chew it as a kid. The clover back home was tart, but these were sweet like honey and smelled faintly of freshly-mown grass. I didn’t like to eat before a battle, so I figured it�
�d help stave off my hunger and ease the butterflies in my gut. Or give me the shits—it was kind of a toss-up at the moment.

  “Maybe,” I replied. “But all I have to do is distract him long enough for Plúr to get Finnegas to your grandfather’s tomb. Then, she can heal him and portal the old man back to safety.”

  Oscar thought on that for the next quarter-mile or so, then he grunted. “I was wrong about you, druid.”

  “Oh? How so?”

  “We’ve met several of the Seer’s apprentices over the centuries, and none of them were worth the shite on this steed’s hooves. I told Plúr that as soon as you found out what you were up against, you’d abandon Finn Eces and run. Yet here you are, riding toward certain death. You’re no coward, I’ll say that.”

  “I’m no hero, either,” I replied. “And I doubt I’m the best pupil Finnegas ever had. If I’d been a better student of druidry, maybe he wouldn’t be in the state he’s in right now.”

  Oscar paused and stared into the distance before speaking. “He’s been dying for some time. Not just weakening of old age, but dying. He told us when last he visited, not but a few weeks before you arrived.”

  “But it’s been almost a year since—ah, the time differential. Which reminds me, we shouldn’t stay here longer than necessary, correct?”

  The brash warrior grunted again. “Else you’ll suffer the same fate as Athair.”

  “I’ve been meaning to ask—how is it that you and Plúr can go back and forth between this world and Earth and not suffer the same fate as Oisín?”

  “As children of Niamh, we are of both worlds. Athair was not of this world, not until after his death.”

  I whistled softly. “That’s why Maeve cursed him, so he’d be stuck here. Then he could never leave her.”

  “Hmm, yes. But Máthair underestimated Athair’s human emotions. Despite her glamours and charms, eventually he began to miss his loved ones back on Earth. When he discovered that we’d all passed on—me, grandfather, and the fianna—he grew distraught at her deception. To a human, a lie of omission is just as bad as an outright falsehood, after all.”