The Iron Druid Chronicles 6-Book Bundle

by Kevin Hearne

Oberon asked. His tail wagged in excitement, thumping against the backseat.

  I hope so. We’ll get you camouflaged and you can squeeze in somewhere.

 

  You could use a bath, I told him.

 

  I can probably think of something, I replied. What sort of story are you in the mood for?

 

  That’s no fun. The ninjas are almost always invisible, and if they’re not then they’re wearing black pajamas and they don’t want to talk about anything. How about a story with samurai instead? I can tell you about one of them.

 

  Yep. I spent a couple years in feudal Japan until Aenghus Óg chased me out of there.

 

  Most definitely.

 

  You do? Report what?

 

  Ah, yes. Report, Snugglepumpkin.

 

  Oberon. What did you find out about the building site?

 

  Yes, they need to ship out their products somehow.

 

  No, the kind of transformers she’s talking about transmit electricity. They are, sadly, inanimate structures.

 

  Yes, you did very well. You’re at negative twelve now.

 

  Gravy, indeed. It was comforting to know that Coyote planned to follow through on his plan—or at least he was thorough enough in his trickery to make sure that Sophie and her crew believed they were going to build all that.

  Granuaile returned with a bag full of clothes and a neck brace for me. I put the latter on first, and it eased some of the strain immediately. That would allow the muscle to grow back a bit faster.

  “I didn’t know what kind of shirt would be best, but I figured we shouldn’t do anything like a regular T-shirt, which you’d have to squeeze over your head and put pressure on your neck. So I got this button-up one,” she said, holding up a chocolate-brown shirt with a light tan vertical pinstripe design, “and then I also got these tank tops, because I figured those would be easy to pull on.” She held a package of mixed black and gray undershirts. I considered both and then chose the undershirts, thinking the collar on the button-up would look a bit unwieldy and hang uncomfortably around the brace. I could stand to be cold for a while.

  “Thanks,” I said, taking the package and the rest of the clothes from her. “Turn around and stand guard, will you?”

  “You’re going to change right here in the parking lot?”

  I cast camouflage on myself. “Sure. Scandal-free public nudity.”

  “Damn.” She shook her head as I melted from view. “I can’t wait until I can do that too.”

  “Only eleven years and nine months to go,” I teased her as she turned around. I gladly shucked off my wet, muddy jeans and put on the new pair. I noticed she hadn’t bought me any underwear; Granuaile either didn’t think of it or she did think of it and decided that I should go commando.

  I tore open the package of undershirts and gingerly pulled a black one over my head before tucking it into my jeans. Though I was now dressed in a similar fashion to Coyote, I figured he could keep the cowboy hat and I’d rock the tattoos. Usually I don’t wear shirts that show them off, because they tend to draw attention and sometimes questions. “Where’d you get those done?” was an awkward one, because the truthful answer was, in Ireland around 50 B.C.E.

  I slipped my feet into the sandals, then turned in a slow circle to check my surroundings, since my neck was now immobilized. No one was looking, so I dispelled the camouflage and pronounced myself ready to go.

  Granuaile gave me a good once-over and her gaze felt less than innocent, but all she said was, “Much better,” before walking around to the driver’s side.

  The Blue Coffee Pot was bustling for a Monday morning; we had to wait for a table. I asked the hostess if it was always like this, and she shook her head. “Coal mine’s closed, so a lot of the workers are enjoying a day off.”

  “The mine’s closed?” I said, letting a bit of incredulity flavor my tone. “Why?”

  “It’s in the paper,” she said, nodding her head over to a rack filled with the Arizona Daily Sun, Flagstaff’s newspaper. I bought one and grinned over the headline. BLACK MESA COAL MINE SABOTAGED, it read. The article claimed the shutdown was only temporary, until new equipment could be brought in, a few days at the earliest and two weeks at the latest, and there would be a raft of new security measures put in place to prevent something like this from happening again. The security measures wouldn’t bother me; I’d simply have to make sure I went during full daylight and allowed myself plenty of time to get back out. And maybe I’d take my sword, just in case.

  It was interesting, I thought, that it had taken a couple of days to make it into the paper. That bespoke some serious suppression on their end at first, but now they were looking for someone to blame.

  On page seven there was an extended article about my mysterious death in Tuba City. That headline read: BIZARRE TUBA CITY MURDER BAFFLES POLICE. Before I could get too far into the article, a table opened up and we were ushered over to a small two-top by the window. Once I saw where it was, I said, “Be right there, I forgot something in the car,” then I went to get Oberon. I camouflaged him and explained that the space was going to be pretty tight.

 

  Nah. People find small dogs approachable, and I don’t necessarily want to be approached. When they see you coming, they’re more likely to cross the street. It’s like I have Sasquatch on a leash.

 

  You’re welcome. That would be a great band name, actually.

 

  I opened the door for Oberon and let him walk in. Watch out for people. Table’s to the right, next to the window.

 

  Granuaile startled a bit when she felt Oberon brushing past her legs to wrap himself around the center of the table but otherwise gave no sign that she had a huge Irish wolf
hound lying on her toes. I carefully sat down, tucked my legs underneath the chair, and then scooched forward.

  We ordered coffee, eggs, and a whole lot of meat sides. While we waited for our food, I returned to the paper and read aloud the article about my death.

  TUBA CITY—Authorities are flummoxed by a strange murder scene in a small patch of desert in Tuba City, where the remnants of a man were found on Thursday.

  The body of Atticus O’Sullivan, age 31—

  “Thirty-one?” Granuaile interrupted.

  “Well, that has to be based on the driver’s license they found. I was twenty-one, according to the license, when it was feloniously issued to me.”

  “Ah, okay,” Granuaile said, nodding in understanding. “Continue.”

  The body of Atticus O’Sullivan, age 31, was found mutilated and dismembered near a water tower. Examination of the area suggests that eight to ten different people were at the scene and possibly involved in the killing—one of them barefoot.

  Friends identified the body based on hair and tattoos.

  “Huh.” I paused and looked up from the paper. “I wonder who identified me.”

  “It doesn’t say?”

  “No. It goes on, though. Check this out.”

  The FBI has jurisdiction over murders committed on reservation land. Though agents could not be reached for comment, authorities in Tempe noted O’Sullivan’s recent troubles with the law.

  Detective Kyle Geffert of the Tempe Police Department said, “Mr. O’Sullivan was shot by Tempe police a couple of months ago and was on the scene at the Satyrn Massacre in Scottsdale. Also, one of his employees died rather suddenly last November.”

  “Gods Below, can you believe that guy? He makes it sound like I killed Perry and deserved to be shot.”

  “Well, you didn’t exactly endear yourself to him during that investigation,” Granuaile pointed out.

  “I know, but there’s no call to go around smearing me now that I’m dead,” I said.

  “You might want to keep your voice down,” Granuaile said in low tones, her eyes darting significantly to the tables nearby.

  “Good point.” Seeking validation for my own point that Geffert was out of line, I said in a hushed whisper, “Oberon, don’t you have anything to add?”

 

  “We haven’t even gotten the first orders yet.”

  No validation for me, then.

  “What else does it say?” Granuaile said over the rim of her coffee mug. The sun streaming through the window left golden highlights in her red hair and lit up her green eyes. The light dusting of freckles high on her cheeks was unspeakably charming and …

  “Atticus?”

  “Hmm?”

  “The article.”

  “Oh, yes.” I raised the paper to hide my embarrassment.

 

  Shh. I have to read this.

  O’Sullivan was the owner of Third Eye Books and Herbs in Tempe. The current manager, Rebecca Dane, was shocked to hear that her employer had passed.

  “The last time I saw him, he said he was going on vacation to the Antipodes,” she said. “I have no idea why he’d be in Tuba City.”

  Regular customer Joshua Goldfried noticed a change in Mr. O’Sullivan’s behavior in the past few months. “Ever since the middle of October, it always seemed he was nervous about one thing or another. He was always so good about being here, but he started to disappear for days at a time.”

  Mr. O’Sullivan was shot by a Tempe police detective in late October in his store and subsequently sued the city for $5 million. Hal Hauk, attorney for Mr. O’Sullivan, confirmed that the City of Tempe had just agreed to settle Mr. O’Sullivan’s lawsuit against them for a seven-figure sum.

  “Whoa. Does that mean you’re rich?”

  “I’m already rich. But, regardless, I instructed Hal to give my share of the settlement to the family of Detective Fagles. Wait, it gets good here.”

  Mr. O’Sullivan’s murder was among the bloodiest and most brutal of any in Arizona history. While the murder itself may have been committed by a single person, the dismemberment and mutilation of his body afterward was undoubtedly performed by a group of people wielding different bladed and blunt weapons.

  Mr. O’Sullivan was seen wearing a sword in Tempe by multiple witnesses before his death. Authorities from Tempe and Tuba City refused to speculate on a motive for the killing and denied that there was anything like a sword-based Fight Club organization.

  Granuaile laughed at that.

  Oberon said.

  Our food arrived as we shared a chuckle over the article. As plate after plate was set down, I kept scanning the newspaper.

  “Anything else?”

  “Nah, it just continues to imply that I must have done something naughty to deserve this. What’s really interesting is that it doesn’t mention the bodies of Týr or Vidar. Or any evidence of the Morrigan’s orgy.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Granuaile’s fork froze halfway to her mouth, and those green eyes, though still lit by the sun, carried a cool steel warning in them. I took heed.

  “As I was leaving,” I explained, “the Morrigan mentioned her desire for an orgy in the mud. I don’t know if she actually had one or not, but she certainly seemed intent on it.”

  “An orgy with whom?”

  “She was hoping to attract the locals,” I said, leaving out the part where she originally hoped to attract me. “But now I’m wondering if she went through with it. She probably ate Týr and Vidar instead. She does that, you know, when she’s in crow form. She eats dead bodies.”

  Granuaile blanched. “Ew. Gross.” She looked down at all the sausage and bacon sides waiting on the table. “Kind of puts me off my appetite a bit.”

 

  Ah, right you are. Sorry, Oberon.

  I camouflaged a plate of meat and then pretended I was picking something up off the floor when I was really putting something down for Oberon. He’d find it by smell, no problem.

  “How could she put away two fully grown men, though?” Granuaile asked, in spite of herself.

  I shrugged. “I never stick around to watch, and I never asked. It’s a mystery.”

  After breakfast, it was errand time. We each rented a post-office box and then spent a tedious hour setting up bank accounts under our new identities, using what remaining cash we had. Armed with addresses and bank accounts, we each got new cell phones. Then I put in a call to the offices of Magnusson and Hauk, my attorneys. To get past the receptionist and actually talk to Hal, I had to identify myself as a “close friend of Atticus O’Sullivan” and stress that I was a new client who wished to put Mr. Hauk on retainer.

  “This is Hal Hauk,” he said, his voice distant and bored.

  “Mr. Hauk. My name is Reilly Collins.” Hal knew very well who I was. He was the one who’d given me my new driver’s license, birth certificate, and Social Security number. He knew I’d be calling at some point to set up a “new” relationship once I got settled. This entire charade was for the benefit of anyone who might be listening in. “I’d like to put you on retainer and meet with you for a consultation, if that’s possible.”

  “Where are you, Mr. Collins?”

  “Kayenta. I’d like to see you today.”

  “Impossible for me, unfortunately. However, I can send an associate to see you this afternoon with all the necessary paperwork to get started.”

  “Can we see this associate here well before sundown?”

  “Hmm. It’s something of a drive, so we could probably make mid-afternoon if we hurry.”

  “Please hurry, then, Mr. Hauk. I have an important engagement at sundown.”

  “All right. I’ll send Greta.” Gr
eta was a member of Hal’s pack who seemed to get stuck with all of Hal’s odd jobs. She wasn’t a lawyer, but she was utterly trustworthy and utterly unimpressed with me. “Where shall she meet you?”

  “The sub place on the main highway. We’ll buy her a sandwich with extra meat and everything.”

  “That’s extremely kind of you,” Hal said drily. “She will be thrilled.”

  We made good-bye noises, I gave him my new number to pass on to Greta, and I snapped the phone closed with satisfaction. “That’s good. Once we give him power of attorney, he can start moving funds from my other accounts.”

  “How many accounts do you have?”

  “Hundreds, scattered around the world under various names. I got into the practice thanks to Aenghus Óg. The constant need to flee meant that I needed safe places to run, which often meant cities, and surviving there meant I needed funds. Hal knows about twenty of them.”

  “Do you really need so many now that Aenghus Óg is dead?”

  “Eh. They’re not doing me any harm. They’re just sitting there earning interest. Might need them down the road.”

  Granuaile conceded the wisdom of this. “What are we doing next, sensei?”

  “We have most of the day to wait until Greta can get here. Let’s do some training for you and some play for Oberon.”

  We drove to a small undeveloped area in the township boundaries that supported a few rabbits and some extremely skittish ground squirrels. Oberon had a blast terrorizing them while I walked Granuaile through some martial arts forms that required a straight back and neck.

  Kayenta was a dry place and a simple one. Austere, even. But I could see myself being happy there, if only the world would let me.

  Chapter 13

  There was a span of years in the 1980s during which I marveled at the almost supernatural powers of Steve Perry. While he sang for Journey, he made people believe in themselves, weep over long distance relationships, and inquire at transit stations about midnight trains. Together with his bandmates, he fully explored the hidden depths and nuances of the word whoa—teasing out shades of meaning and connotations that I would have been hard pressed to discover, even with two thousand years of attention to the problem—and I’m willing to bet that the pathos with which he imbued the syllable na shall never be equalled in the history of the human race.