The Iron Druid Chronicles 6-Book Bundle

by Kevin Hearne

  “I see. And how did you come to take care of such a collection?”

  “Inherited it from my family,” I said. “If there’s a certain title you’re looking for, I can see if I have it, or maybe I can get it for you.”

  The priest looked at the rabbi and the rabbi shook his head briefly. I could see they were getting ready to make excuses and leave, but I wanted to know a little more about them. I slipped in between them and the cabinet, uncomfortably close. They took a step back and I crossed my arms in front of my chest.

  “Why did you come here today, gentlemen?” I said, a challenge in my tone. I let the vapid college kid slough away just a wee bit, and they noticed.

  Father Gregory looked flustered and began to stammer. The rabbi was not so easily rattled. He glared at me and said coolly in English with a telltale Russian accent, “You can hardly expect us to be candid with you when you have not been candid with us.”

  “You haven’t earned it. You’re strangers and you refuse to answer my questions.”

  “You answer ours with lies,” the rabbi hissed. Such an affable fellow.

  “Perhaps I’d tell you what you want to hear if I knew you didn’t mean me any harm.”

  Father Gregory tried to be avuncular again. “My dear boy, we are both men of the cloth—”

  “Who have wandered into a New Age bookstore asking strange personal questions,” I interrupted. “And look, you could’ve gotten those costumes anywhere right after Halloween.”

  Both of them registered shock at the suggestion they were not truly clergymen—so that was one question answered. I should be able to find them on the Internet somewhere if they were legit.

  Father Gregory clasped his hands together in a prayerful attitude. “I do apologize, Mr. O’Sullivan. It appears we have started off on the wrong foot. My colleague and I represent certain interests who believe you may be able to advance their agenda.”

  I crinkled my brow in confusion. “Advance their agenda? Well, I have a website. I could put up a banner or something, if they’re looking for publicity.”

  “No, no, you misunderstand—”

  “Purposely misunderstand, you mean,” the rabbi spat. “Come on, Gregory, this is a waste of time.” He pulled at the priest’s arm and stalked off toward the exit. Father Gregory shot me an apologetic look and followed the rabbi, looking defeated. I let them go, because I had research to do. They clearly knew more about me than I knew about them, and that’s an extremely uncomfortable feeling for an old Druid.

  “What was that all about?” Granuaile asked as I rejoined her behind the apothecary counter.

  “Don’t know.” I shook my head. “But I’m going to find out soon.”

  I brooded and busied myself with preparing tea blends until it was time for interviews. The first two candidates were semi-sentient boys who stared at me with their mouths open whenever I was talking. Their eyes were dead and never lit up until I asked them if they liked video games. They’d probably have difficulty alphabetizing.

  Rebecca Dane, the third candidate, was refreshing. She had a strong chin and large eyes that she had seen fit to accentuate with Betty Boop eyelashes. Her blond hair fell to her shoulders, was pulled back and clipped with silver butterflies, and her bangs stopped just above her eyebrows. Her wardrobe was a black pantsuit with a shimmery blue scarf that she let fall straight down her torso, and an impressive tinkling of silver jewelry about her neck proclaimed her to be a member of practically every known world religion. Alongside the cross I saw so often in America, there was the Star of David, Islam’s crescent moon, the Zuni bear fetish, and an ankh. When I asked her about them, she fingered the ankh sheepishly and grinned.

  “Oh, I tend to vacillate between belief systems,” she said with a touch of Wisconsin in her voice. “Right now I’m kind of checking out the whole buffet, you know, and maybe in a little while I’ll decide on what I want to put on my plate and chow down on.”

  I smiled reassuringly at her. “Belly up to the religion smorgasbord, eh? That’s good, may harmony find you. But how do you feel about people who are looking for a specific book, maybe about a religion you disagree with?”

  “Oh, I have kind of a laissez-faire attitude—you know, live and let live. Doesn’t bother me if someone wants to worship the Goddess or Allah or the Flying Spaghetti Monster; they’re all seeking the divine within and without.”

  I would have hired her based solely on her healthy attitude and self-awareness, but she proved to be something of an amateur herbalist—enough to be dangerous, to be sure, but also enough to train properly. I had visions of letting her and Perry run the store for days at a time while Granuaile and I tried to restore the land around Tony Cabin.

  “You’re hired,” I told her, and her wide mouth split into a huge smile. “You’ll start out three dollars above minimum wage, but learn the apothecary side of the business in a month and I’ll double it.”

  She was quite excited, and that made filling out the government paperwork less of a chore. She didn’t know what to think of Perry at first, but he put her at ease once he smiled and proved not to be the stone-cold Goth he looked like.

  I enticed Granuaile to hang out with me for a while after work by telling her she could ask me anything she wanted about history and I’d answer to the best of my ability. I gave her full disclosure that I’d make her drive me to the airport to pick up Laksha if and when she called, and we also had the onerous chore of sipping Irish whiskey with the widow ahead of us.

  “What’s onerous about that?” Granuaile asked.

  “Nothing at all. I was being facetious. You’ll love the widow.”

  Granuaile had seen the widow before and vice versa, but they’d never been formally introduced. Granuaile had been sharing her skull with Laksha at the time, and the widow had been preoccupied watching werewolves landscape her front yard. The prospect of introducing them actually made me nervous—what if they didn’t like each other? But I should have known I had nothing to worry about. Mrs. MacDonagh is the soul of hospitality to anyone who isn’t British and doubly welcoming to redheaded freckled gals with Irish names like Granuaile. I made sure to introduce her as my employee so the widow wouldn’t assume, as older citizens frequently do, that the young man and woman must be having loud, acrobatic sex every chance they got.

  “Does Granuaile know all yer secrets, then, Atticus?” The widow winked as we settled down with clinking glasses of the Irish. It was a clever way of asking if she could talk freely.

  “Yes, Granuaile knows how old I really am. She’s going to become a Druid herself, so you can talk about whatever you like.”

  “She’s becomin’ a Druid?” the widow cast a surprised look at Granuaile. “Weren’t ye raised a proper Catholic girl?”

  “I’m not a proper anything, I suppose,” Granuaile replied. “Majoring in philosophy kind of turns positive assertions into maybes.” That was the sort of observation I had already come to admire in my apprentice. Her philosophy degree compensated somewhat for starting her training so late. Her mind had not lost any of its flexibility, and she was very quick to pick up on the difficulties she’d face in the modern world as a magic user and a pagan to boot.

  We chatted pleasantly until the sun went down, when I suggested I should be getting home to Oberon. I rode my bike and Granuaile trailed behind in her blue Chevy Aveo. I let Granuaile keep Oberon happy on the front porch with a belly rub while I put in a call to Leif.

  He didn’t spend time on niceties like saying hello. He answered the phone with, “Have you changed your mind about Thor?”

  “Um … no,” I said, and he promptly hung up on me. My disappointment must have shown on my face, because Granuaile asked me what was wrong.

  “It seems my lawyer’s feeling unusually bloodsucky,” I replied. “Our cordial relationship may be over.”

  “No way to patch it up, huh?”

  “Well, no, it’s not like I can send him a box of chocolates. I have scruples about sending him p
eople for dinner. And I can’t possibly do what he wants me to do.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Kill a thunder god.” Before Granuaile could reply, my phone started ringing in my hand. It was an unknown number.

  “I’m back in town, Atticus,” Laksha Kulasekaran said on the other end of the line. “Pick me up on the north side of Terminal Four.”

  She and I were going to hunt some Bacchants. I slung Fragarach across my back before Granuaile and I jumped back into her car, because while it would do me no good against them unsheathed, I could simply brain them with the scabbard if necessary—and I can’t count how many times I’ve wished I had it with me when I left it at home.

  Chapter 11

  The tendency of modern American women to exclaim “Hiiiiiiiiiiiii!” in soprano octaves and hug each other upon sight can be disconcerting to those unfamiliar with it. Laksha was definitely unfamiliar with it, judging by the widening of her eyes and the stiffness of her limbs when Granuaile assaulted her with effusive greetings.

  At least, I assumed it was Laksha: Granuaile was hugging a young olive-skinned woman in a black salwar kameez with a gold brocade border at the neckline and sleeves. I recognized the magnificent necklace of rubies set in gold that circled her throat; it was a magical focus she claimed was demon-crafted. There was a black chiffon dupatta, also with brocade on the borders, that Laksha had wrapped around herself intricately and in which Granuaile managed to tangle her arms. I have seen more-awkward hugs in my life, but few so amusing and so clearly perplexing to the person being hugged.

  Granuaile finally realized that Laksha probably didn’t know what the hell she was doing, and she switched from ecstasy to embarrassment at about Mach Five.

  “Oh, I am so sorry,” she apologized, trying and failing to return Laksha’s dupatta to its former graceful sweep. “I keep forgetting you’re not used to American customs yet. Women here always get excited when they haven’t seen each other for a while.”

  “But I saw you just last week,” Laksha said.

  “Well, yes, but you’ve been so far away,” Granuaile explained.

  “So distance must be taken into account when deciding whether to greet someone like this?”

  “Um, well, I never thought about it quite that way before, but I guess that must be true, yes,” Granuaile said uncertainly.

  I popped the trunk of Granuaile’s car and grinned at Laksha as I picked up her bags. “Welcome back, Laksha. You look fabulous.”

  “Thank you, Mr. O’Sullivan.” She smiled primly at me. Her lips were the color of wine in a heart-shaped face, which was framed with a cascade of glossy black hair. She had a dimple on the left side of her mouth, a diamond stud glinting on the right side of her nose, and her eyebrows were expertly tweezed or waxed or whatever the proper beauty exercise is called. Her dark eyes shone with amusement, and one didn’t get the sense at all that she was used to making deals with rakshasas and transferring her soul from body to body. “I am rather fond of this particular form.” She held up her left hand, adorned with golden bangles on the wrist, and admired it with proprietary pride. “I am thinking I would like to keep it for a while, especially since the previous owner of it yielded it to me so willingly. I have not possessed a body free of karmic debt since the one I was born in, and I confess it holds much attraction for me.”

  “There are no problems with it, no scars from the auto accident the young lady was in?”

  Laksha gave a small shake of her head. “Nothing on the surface. She suffered some broken bones, but they are all healed. She lost her spleen. The head trauma that put her in a coma is something I can work around for now and perhaps mend with time. Of course, the muscles are atrophied and I still tire easily, but they will strengthen with a little work.”

  “Fascinating,” I said. “Let’s continue talking in the car. We’d better go before the TSA guys get impatient with us.”

  As Granuaile got us on the eastbound Loop 202, Laksha announced she was hungry for Mexican food.

  “I know just the place,” I said, and gave Granuaile directions to Los Olivos, a Scottsdale landmark since the 1950s. It was on our way to Satyrn, and it would give us a chance to talk.

  Laksha was fondly anticipating a divorce from Mr. Chamkanni. “Taking off like this without his precious masculine permission will drive him to irrational behavior,” she said, smiling. “He will think he’s lost all control—not that he ever had any—and his friends will egg him on to put me in my place. He will make demands of me when I return. That’s when I will serve him with divorce papers.”

  “You already have them after a week?”

  “Granuaile suggested a background check on him before I took Selai’s body. He’s been keeping a mistress, as one might expect of a man with a wife in a coma. We have photographic proof and a divorce lawyer already on retainer. I will be keeping the house, I think,” she finished smugly.

  Once at Los Olivos—in a room of blue glass and gray stone, with an indoor fountain splashing in the background—we chatted amiably over chips and salsa about the myriad charms of North Carolina. Over plates of green chile burros, enchilada style, the conversation turned as serious as the food.

  “All right, Mr. O’Sullivan. Tell me what you wish of me,” Laksha said.

  “I want the Bacchants out of town.”

  The witch cackled at me, making a belated attempt to cover her mouth politely. “I see. We begin with the humanitarian option. You imagine I have such powers of persuasion?”

  “I hoped you would at least consider it seriously instead of laughing at it.”

  “Mr. Chamkanni said much the same thing in bed the first night home from the hospital!”

  Granuaile nearly spat out what she was chewing and slapped the table repeatedly as she struggled to control her mirth. I steepled my fingers over my plate, elbows on the table, and waited patiently for the women to wind down.

  Laksha finally said with an expression reserved for small children or idiots, “Mr. O’Sullivan, you know I am not the sort of witch who changes minds. I’m the sort that ends lives. That is why I am here, yes?”

  “It is.”

  Granuaile abruptly ceased to find our conversation amusing. “Wait.” She looked at Laksha and then at me. “Are you suggesting that Laksha should kill the Bacchants somehow?”

  “You know precisely how she operates,” I said.

  “Atticus, how can you?” asked Granuaile, scandalized. “That would be murder.”

  “Not to mention very bad karma,” Laksha added airily. This was a fight I’d seen coming, and I wanted not only to win it but also to teach Granuaile that she could and should question me, especially on questions of morality. Just as the Tuatha Dé Danann look at the world from a Bronze Age perspective, I look at it from the Iron Age, and though it’s tempered by a whole lot of modern scruples and centuries of experience, my original Celtic cultural values don’t always square with American laws and mores.

  “Look, they’re not fully human anymore,” I explained. “They’re more like walking disease vectors, spreading madness amongst the hoi polloi. They have absolutely zero chance of becoming the persons they used to be, now that they’re thralls to Bacchus.”

  “But that doesn’t mean they’re monsters, does it? It sounds to me like they’re victims of Bacchus or his magic, and they shouldn’t be punished for that.”

  “They may have been victims at one time, but what you have to focus on is what they are now, and what they are is a dozen superhuman women immune to iron weapons and fire. They can turn a dozen more women into creatures just like them tonight and ruin whatever human potential they possess. And the madness will spread exponentially if someone doesn’t stop them.” I thought of a modern analogy and laid it on her: “It’s kind of like those zombie movies. The humans in those movies don’t look at a brain-eating zombie and let him go because he’s a victim.”

  “Okay, fine, but these aren’t zombies, right? There has to be a better way to stop them
than killing them,” Granuaile persisted.

  “Like what? Put them in prison? Can’t happen. Police either get swept up in the frenzy themselves or they die trying to resist.”

  “Well, can’t you work some of your own magic on them?” Granuaile asked.

  “Yes, Mr. O’Sullivan, what about your own magic?” Laksha said with great interest.

  “My magic is earth-based.” I shrugged, eyeing a succulent bite of burro. “They will be in a completely artificial environment, and I doubt my ability to resist catching their madness. I would be as susceptible to it as any other human. And, besides, even if that weren’t the case, I don’t have a spell up my sleeve to turn a Bacchant back into a normal woman.”

  “Well, then, can’t you talk to Bacchus or go over his head to Jupiter? You talk to the Morrigan and Flidais, why not these other gods?”

  I took a bite of the burro and shook my head sadly at her as the beef, green chiles, and tortilla melted in my mouth. “Bacchus is the Roman god of the vine, and the Romans hated Druids like no one else. They and the Christians killed us all, actually, yours truly excepted, and they would have gotten me too if it weren’t for the Morrigan.” I put my fork down and leaned back in my chair, dabbing at my mouth with a napkin. “So I think Bacchus would roast me on a spit before he’d have three words’ conference with me. And if he thought I even existed, much less got myself involved in killing his Bacchants tonight, he might decide to show up personally.”

  “Won’t he show up anyway?” Laksha asked.

  “I doubt it very much,” I said. “His worshippers fluctuate like no other’s. Their numbers swell like viruses until they madden someone with a large army—or, more likely, magic users protecting a territory like this one—and then they’re ruthlessly snuffed. He binges on a glut of worship and then deals with the hangover, just like his worshippers have to deal with the aftereffects of their debauchery.”

  “So, if we are going to do this thing,” Laksha said, “we must discuss payment.”