by M. D. Massey
Oblivious to my impatience, Click smiled and nodded at me, leaning in to light his cigarette with the fireball as if he did that sort of thing every day. He puffed on it leisurely, mumbling his way through several conversations with himself until he’d smoked it down to a nub. When he finally found the memory he’d been searching for, his face lit up like a carnival midway.
“I’ve got it! The physician went ta’ Iceland.”
“Iceland? Why?”
He tilted his head, first one way then another. “Meh, who knows? Fewer people? Generous social welfare programs? The clap? All I know is, I were chattin’ with Loki a few decades back—”
“Hold on, back up. You’re friends with Loki? The Loki? Not the actor from the Marvel movies?”
“Oh, I’m tight with Tom too. But aye, Loki an’ I go way back. Any who, I was chattin’ with Loki after a night o’ cheatin’ at cards on the Vegas strip. We’d been kicked out o’ another casino—they got Honos on retainer as security, ya’ know. Prick can sniff out a cheat from a mile away. Why, one time—”
“Ahem.” I made a spooling motion with my finger. “Get to the point, Click.”
“Right, right. So, me and Loki are chattin’ and he mentions how Dian Cecht healed his corns.”
I arched an eyebrow, squinting at him quizzically. “That’s it?”
“Well, sure.”
“Then how do you know Dian Cecht is in Iceland?” I growled.
“Simple. Loki’s not welcome on the mainland anymore, on count that he’s a right pain in the rectum ta’ the rest o’ his pantheon. So, he mostly stays at his place in Reykjavik. He’s got one o’ those glass houses done in the contemporary style. It’s quite posh, really. A bit sterile fer me own tastes, but—”
I guess he saw the look on my face, because he cut himself off mid-babble.
“And if Dian Cecht were really in Iceland, how would I find him?” I asked, letting some of my Fomorian side creep into my voice.
Click laid a hand on his chest as he took a step back. “Oh, yer gettin’ good at that, lad. Betwixt the gruff voice, those crazy eyes, an’ actually bein’ able ta’ rip a bloke ta’ shreds—ever think o’ takin’ yer act on the road?”
“Actually, that’s exactly what I’m doing,” I replied. “And you’re coming with me.”
He rubbed his hands together impishly. “Ooh, are we goin’ ta’ Vegas? Atlantic City? Toronto? Branson?”
“Iceland,” I said, crossing my arms.
Click’s face fell. “Not many venues there, I s’pose. But wit’ yer brawn we could do a brisk business shakin’ down the local toughs an’ drug dealers. Plus, the nightlife’s a gas.” He looked at me, realization registering in his eyes. “Oh, I see. Ya’ mean ta’ go after Dian Cecht. Then what do ya’ need me fer?”
I clapped a hand on his shoulder. “While I locate the physician, you’re going to teach me everything you know about time magic.”
The quasi-god clapped his hands together like a small child who’d just heard he was having cake for dinner. “About time ya’ got serious about yer studies! When do we leave?”
“Roughly thirty seconds ago,” I said, glancing at an imaginary watch on my wrist.
Click nodded his approval. “See? Yer learnin’ already.”
This ends Druid Mystic—but never fear, the story will continue in Book 11, Druid Arcane…
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