The Iron Druid Chronicles 6-Book Bundle

by Kevin Hearne

  “Jesus, it really is you!” I rose from my crouch and accepted the offered hug, and we pounded each other’s back in a properly masculine fashion. “This is excellent, man; you look good. Who came up with this look for you?”

  Jesus gave a small jerk of his head over his shoulder at Trippie Hippie and switched to English. “One of the patrons in this store gave it to me. Wanted to update my image,” he explained.

  “What’s not to like, right?” I asked, returning to English myself. “I imagine this is a far sight more comfortable than the half-naked crown-of-thorns routine.”

  “That’s an understatement. But I especially appreciate that he imagined something closer to my original skin color. It doesn’t get much better.”

  “No doubt. I was just on my way to grab some lunch. Fancy a bite?”

  “You buying?” Jesus grinned.

  “Sure, I’ll pick up the tab. How long have you been here?” The light turned green again and we walked north up Mill Avenue.

  “I arrived just before you showed up,” he said. “Heard from my mother you wanted to have a beer.”

  “That’s right, I told her that. She was very kind and blessed some arrows for me. And I’m flattered that you decided to accept my invitation.”

  “Are you kidding?” Jesus snorted. “I’m grateful to you. I tell you truly, nobody ever wants to just hang out with me. If they’re not asking for explanations or intercession, then they’re sharing too much information. ‘Why, Jesus? Help me, Jesus! Oh, Jesus, that feels good, don’t stop!’ That’s all I hear all the time. You’re the only guy who asks me to go have a beer anymore.”

  “There was someone else you used to drink beers with?”

  “Bertrand Russell.”

  “Oh. He of little faith? Well, I’m glad I could give you an excuse to come on down.”

  “I must tell you that I have an ulterior motive,” Jesus said. “I would not wish you to think later that I had told a half-truth by saying I have simply come down for a beer. But business can wait.”

  We passed an extraordinarily sunburned man in wraparound sunglasses busking with his guitar. He was strumming “They’re Red Hot”—an old blues tune about hot tamales—and singing the infectious lyrics in a gravelly voice. His open guitar case rested on a planter beside him, and Jesus wagged his head back and forth a little bit and got his shoulders into it too. “What a delightful riff,” he said. “Do you know who wrote this song?”

  “I believe it’s by Robert Johnson, a Mississippi Delta blues man.”

  “Truly?” The Christian god stopped dancing and looked at me. “The same one who went down to the crossroads?”

  “The very same.”

  He laughed and continued walking north, shaking his head. “My adversary is thumbing his nose at me, I think. It is enjoyable, though, to be surprised like that. These brains can’t handle omniscience, so I’m a little slow on the uptake.”

  Behind us, the guitar player suddenly stopped playing and said, “What the hell?” I looked back to see him staring openmouthed at his guitar case, which was inexplicably—miraculously—filled with dollar bills. He whooped and hurriedly closed his case.

  “I think you just made his day,” I said.

  “It was easy enough. Small green pieces of paper.”

  We arrived at Rúla Búla and I opened the door for my companion, waving him in. We sat at the bar directly opposite the door and ordered our beers. I asked for a Smithwick’s; Jesus thought it was a good day for a Guinness. We both ordered the famous fish and chips, and I asked to see the whiskey menu.

  “They have a menu specifically for whiskey?” Jesus said.

  “Oh, yeah, and it’s amazing stuff. They have some liquid courage back there that’s over sixty years old. Want to do a shot with me?”

  “No, I’d better not,” Jesus said, waving his palms crosswise in front of him.

  “Aw, come on, I’m buying.”

  He paused, then said, “Well, all right, I suppose it’ll be a new experience.”

  Awesome! I’d just bullied Jesus into doing a shot with me. Nobody would ever believe it, but I didn’t care. We ordered the insanely expensive stuff, seventy-five dollars for a 1.75-ounce pour of premium Irish whiskey, because if you’re doing a shot with Jesus, you don’t buy him scotch. We raised our glasses to Irish brewers everywhere, and the smoky liquid burned us smoothly as it fell down our throats.

  “Wooo!” he said, slamming his shot glass down and coughing a bit. “That’s good stuff.”

  I agreed heartily. “Shall we do another one?” I asked.

  “Oh, no,” Jesus said quietly, his eyes growing round. “This is one of those situations where I have to stop and ask myself, what would I do?”

  I laughed and clapped him on the shoulder, and after adding considerable varnish to the idea of seeking out new experiences, we set aside the idea of shooting more whiskey and settled instead on pounding a couple of Irish Car Bombs, because he had never pounded one before.

  We were pleasantly pickled by the time our fish and chips arrived, and we tucked in right away to try to absorb a little bit of the alcohol.

  Jesus made yummy noises after a couple of bites and said, “Now, this right here is food for the gods.”

  “Really? Did you mean to use the plural?”

  Jesus winced. “Am I that transparent? I used to whip out these awesome parables on the spot, tied ministers up in knots for centuries trying to explain them to their flocks, but put a couple of drinks in me and I lose all subtlety.”

  “So you want to talk to me about the gods.”

  “One in particular, actually, but, yes,” he said, dipping a chip into a pool of ketchup. He noshed on it for a moment before continuing. “These are just too good. I think everyone should give them a try, don’t you?”

  “The world would be a happier place, I cannot deny it.”

  “Done,” Jesus said.

  “Beg your pardon? What’s done?”

  “Hey!” a man sitting two seats down to my left exclaimed. “Where’d these fish and chips come from? I didn’t order these.”

  “Me neither,” a young woman said, sitting behind us in the dining room with a male friend. “But it looks like we both got some.”

  Other patrons were all discovering that they had fish and chips on their tables that they had not ordered and could not remember their waiter delivering. The wait-staff gradually became aware that customers had food on their tables that hadn’t been added to the bill. They asked one another who delivered them, then disappeared into the kitchen to ask the cook to explain, and shortly came back out looking for the manager. It was all very odd. I turned back to Jesus and he had a small smile on his face.

  “You’re looking a bit smug there,” I observed with a grin.

  “Miracles are so much more fun when people aren’t expecting them of you.”

  “Yes, I’ve often amused myself with some mischievous bindings for the same reason.”

  The Prince of Peace chuckled and said, “I know. Now, where was I? Oh, yes! The god I wish to speak to you about is Thor. You and some confederates are planning to kill him, yes?”

  “Well, um,” I said, caught off guard. “Yeah,” I finished lamely. It’s not the sort of thing I would normally admit, but you can’t lie to Jesus. “Though I’m hoping to confine my participation to serving as a sort of extraplanar taxi service. I’m the get-there-and-getaway car. I’m not really interested in killing him.”

  “I tell you truly, it is an unwise course of action, and it were best for you to set it aside.”

  “You are concerned about my personal welfare?”

  “Yes, that is part of it. In most of the futures I see, you do not survive.”

  That statement nearly sobered me up all by itself. I put a brave face on it and said, “Well, I’ve had a pretty good run at surviving. I think I’ll be okay.”

  “Ah.” Jesus nodded, pausing to chew his fish before dabbing at his mouth with a napkin and continui
ng, “You are thinking of your deal with the Morrigan.”

  “Heard about that, did you?”

  “Aenghus Óg’s howling in hell can be heard all the way to heaven. And how do you think the Morrigan’s aegis will help you in Asgard? She can travel there, but she cannot usurp the role of the Valkyries. If you fall, they will hardly let you dwell in Valhalla. Nor will Freyja take you to Fólkvangr. They will let Hel take you to her realm, and there you will stay. There will be no journey to Tír na nÓg.”

  “Well, that gives me something to think about for sure, but more in terms of strategy and tactics than in terms of giving up.”

  “You are not persuaded by self-preservation. Hmm. All right, then, consider this: Killing Thor will invite retribution from his pantheon not only against you but also against all your friends and family. And the gods of other pantheons will feel compelled to strike against you in solidarity with the Norse.”

  “They will? But everybody hates Thor—at least, all the people who truly know him. Isn’t it just as likely they’ll send me brownies or gift baskets of ambrosia?”

  Jesus looked thoughtful. “You may have a point there. If you will forgive my coarse language, I believe the politest term I have heard him called by another god is a giant douche.”

  “I hear ya,” I said, nodding. “He is a douche canoe. But he gets great PR with the mortals. They think he’s their protector, some kind of hero, but he really should be sent out to sea and set on fire in a proper Viking burial.”

  Jesus sighed and pressed his fingers to his temples. “The gods will not stand for it, Siodhachan, even though they despise him. You have to consider that this action will make them all aware of how vulnerable they are. They will react poorly.”

  “Does that include you?”

  “I will remain above the fray,” he said. He paused, seeming to reconsider, then decided with a small shake of his head that he’d spoken correctly. “There is none who can assail me. But there are friends of mine who might get hurt.” He raised his eyebrows significantly and tilted his head in my direction. “You are one of them.”

  “Really, you’re my friend? My buddy Jesus?”

  He chuckled. “Certainly a drinking buddy, if nothing else. And you are also a respected elder.”

  “Ugh, an elder? You’re making me feel creaky here.”

  “Will you not accept my advice? Forgo this business with Thor. It is unsavory and beneath your character.”

  “I wish I could,” I said. “But I cannot forswear my oath to a friend. That would also be beneath me. At great personal risk to his existence, he helped me dispatch a coven of witches who trafficked with hell. I cannot break faith with him now.”

  Silence fell as Jesus paused to consider. He sipped his Guinness and wiped off the foam mustache with a napkin, then said, “That is indeed a weighty consideration. I cannot advise you to break your word. I was hoping you might exert yourself to be released from your obligation.”

  “I suppose I could try. But I know already that Leif will insist I follow through. There is nothing he wants more than this.”

  “You are resolved, then, to seek out this violence and set in motion waves that will ripple across the planes?”

  “I wish you wouldn’t put it in those terms. It’s not like I make a habit out of picking fights. The fights just seem to be picking me recently. There are several looming on the horizon that I’d truly like to avoid. I really don’t want to mess with Bacchus or any of the Romans. Or the Greeks, for that matter. They’re true immortals, and they scare the pants off me. Oh, and these other guys who seem to have painted a target on my back—maybe you know something about them. Have you ever heard about an organization calling themselves the Hammers of God?”

  A thoughtful crease appeared between Jesus’s eyes. “Are you speaking of the old Swedish witch hunters?”

  “No, they’re contemporary witch hunters, based in Russia.”

  The crease deepened. “Hold on a moment. They sound like assholes.”

  I blinked, uncertain I’d heard him correctly. “I beg your pardon?”

  Jesus grimaced and pointed at his head. “It’s this tiny human brain—I have to have a filing system for all this information or I can’t keep track of it all. It sounds like these guys would be filed under Assholes Who Do Evil Shit in My Name.”

  “Jesus. I mean, wow. That’s the name of one of your files?”

  “One of my largest, unfortunately. But I have it broken down into subfolders. Here we are. Assholes Who Think They’re Entitled to Judge and Kill People in My Name.” He closed his eyes briefly and then opened them again. “Yes, now I know who you’re talking about. The Hammers of God is an organization of mixed faiths who use Kabbalistic sorcerers as their shock troops. What about them?”

  “Well, I think you’ve already answered my question. I wondered if they enjoyed your official sanction.”

  “No. They definitely do not.”

  “Interesting. They occasionally slay a demon or two, don’t they?”

  “Yes, but even a stopped clock is right twice a day. Look, it’s difficult to find fault in them when they eliminate beings that don’t belong on this plane. But they have defined evil so broadly that they often attack those who do more good than harm. There is no charity or patience within them, and they have made no allowances for the possibility of redemption.”

  “I see. I don’t suppose you’d pay them a visit for me and tell them to lay off, would you?”

  He abruptly looked behind him at the door leading out to Mill Avenue, cocking his head as if he’d heard a noise on the street. Then he turned back to me with a grin on his face and said cryptically, “I don’t think that will be necessary,” before downing the rest of his Guinness in a few long swallows.

  Understanding dawned on my face as Rabbi Yosef Bialik entered the restaurant aggressively, followed by nine more Hasidic Jews who all had bushy beards and impressive peyos curling down from their hats. People stopped eating and stared. Hasidic Jews were an unusual sight in Tempe, and these particular fellows had black, grim expressions to match their black, grim clothing. They didn’t look like they had come in search of kosher Irish food. In fact, they ignored the host, who asked, “How many today?” and spread themselves out in the entry area to stand in three columns: four in the center column and three on either side.

  “Christ, that’s a battle formation.”

  “I know,” Jesus said. “It’s the Kabbalistic Tree of Life. This will be fun.”

  Before I could ask him how it possibly could be fun, the man at the very back, nearest the door, drew his breath to speak. His placement in the formation represented Malkhut, the branches of the tree, the sphere of earth, and he shouted, “Yahweh, higen aleinu mimar’eh ha’aretz.” My Hebrew was a little spotty, but it sounded like he was asking God to shield him from the earth. All ten Kabbalists clapped their hands together with arms held straight out in front of their chests. The sound echoed strangely, as if there had been a pressure change in the air; I felt that clap. Apparently many others did too, because suddenly everyone wanted their checks.

  I turned on my faerie specs to scout the Kabbalists’ wards and saw … nothing. They had no bindings around them whatsoever, no threads for me to see, no auras. They and the space surrounding them were a void in the world.

  “They just shut you down before saying hello,” Jesus said in low tones.

  “Yes, I can see that.”

  Rabbi Yosef pointed at me and said to his brethren in Russian, “There he is. The pale one.”

  Jesus didn’t miss a beat with the language change. He said in Russian, “Who, me? You’re calling me pale?”

  “Stay out of this, sir. We have come for him,” the rabbi growled, pointing once again at me.

  “Howdy, Rabbi.” I said this in English, because the rabbi still didn’t know I spoke Russian. I smiled and waved, trying to affect an air of unconcern. “You’ll never believe who I’m having lunch with. I’d love for you guys to t
alk.” Without giving him a chance to answer, I called to the bartender, an older chap with thinning hair and a properly red nose. “Flanagan, ten draughts of Guinness here for these ambassadors of peace.”

  “Coming right up!” he said.

  “Stop!” Yosef sternly held up a hand, condescending to use English for the first time. “We have not come for drinks,” he said, rolling the r richly in his Russian accent. “Nor are we here for peace. We are here to serve a judgment; we are here for retribution. For HaShem, and for all people.”

  At this point, the host spoke up. “Look, if you’re not here to eat or drink, you’re going to have to leave,” he said. The Kabbalists ignored him.

  “I don’t get to say a few words in my defense?” I asked. “I missed the trial?”

  “Nothing you say can deny your actions,” the rabbi snarled.

  “I don’t want to deny them; I want you to appreciate them properly. I’m not in league with demons—I’ve been killing them. I even killed a fallen angel. Ask Jesus here; he wouldn’t lie to you.”

  “Enough mockery.” He turned his head a bit to one side, addressing his companions behind him. “Begin.”

  “But you don’t understand,” I said, gesturing to the handsome man on my left. “I’ve truly found Jesus.”

  The host ducked away to call over a bouncer and maybe the police. Customers in the restaurant were dropping money on their tables and exiting out the back, where they could leave through the patio and access the parking lot. The manager emerged through the kitchen door and stood behind the bar, finally aware that something untoward was happening.

  “Now what’s going on?” he said in exasperation. He was still trying to solve the mystery of the multiplying fish and chips. He looked like the sort who’d start a revolution against the bloody Brits, but he ruined all possible menace (and dignity) he would have otherwise possessed by wearing a loud Hawaiian shirt.