The Iron Druid Chronicles 6-Book Bundle

by Kevin Hearne

  He was a god of rock. He nearly solved all the world’s problems with nothing but power chords and anguished cries into a microphone.

  But his power to uplift the spirit did have a limit—a limit shared, I might add, by every other band—and that was the inability to ameliorate the soul-destroying visual discord of corporate fast-food franchises. Some acquaintance or another would periodically drag me into one of the horrors, and, under the malign influence of a décor scheme that assaulted my retinas with primary colors, Steve would be singing “woe” instead of “whoa” on my Walkman. His sound could not tame the visual fury of paper-wrapped cheeseburgers dressed in angry red ketchup and a lonesome pickle chip.

  I should have remembered that before I suggested the sub joint on the highway as a good place for Greta to meet us. It was decorated in lurid yellow and a shade of green that I felt was unnecessarily belligerent.

  “Ugh. This place hurts my eyes,” Granuaile said. “It’s offensive.”

  A camouflaged Oberon chimed in.

  What’ll you have?

 

  Nope, sorry. Sandwich with double meat.

 

  We had no sooner sat down with our sandwiches in a screaming-yellow booth than Greta entered and squinted at the glare.

  “Damn,” she said, pausing at the door and wincing. “It’s ugly in here.” She was dressed professionally and carried a brown leather courier bag slung over her left shoulder. Her hair had grown long since I’d last seen her, and she had it plaited into a thick braid. Seeing us, she lifted her chin in a terse greeting and came over to our booth, slipping the bag off her shoulder and into the seat we’d left her. She promptly put out her hand, palm up. “Boss said my early dinner’s on you.”

  Granuaile’s mouth gaped, but I’d half-expected this sort of behavior. Greta had never particularly liked me, and I expected she liked me even less since I’d taken a trip with her alpha, Gunnar Magnusson, and come back with his crushed body. I nodded and put a couple of twenties in her hand.

  “So generous,” she sneered, and went to stand in line without thanking me.

  Granuaile bent close and whispered urgently, “Atticus, what the hell—”

  “Patience,” I said, interrupting her. “You do know that wolves have fantastic hearing, don’t you?”

  “Oh,” she said in a tiny voice. “I’ll just eat my sandwich.” I smiled at her in thanks.

  Oberon hinted from under the table.

  Sorry, buddy, I said, properly chastised. I got a bit distracted. I unwrapped his sandwich for him and set it down on the floor on top of the paper. There was no one else in the shop to see me do this, besides Greta.

 

  Greta returned with two double-meat foot-longs and a drink. One of them was a double roast beast, and she pointedly unwrapped it and put it on the floor for Oberon. It was a snide way to let me know she knew he was there, despite the camouflage. No doubt she’d smelled what he was having and ordered another. Our booth was out of sight of the employees, so she didn’t have to hide what she was doing.

 

  “My hound thanks you,” I said. “As do I.”

  “He is very welcome,” Greta said. “I am sure he’s quite hungry, after all,” she added, a faint accusation in her tone. Granuaile narrowed her eyes at Greta but said nothing. I carefully kept my expression neutral.

 

  Greta quickly, efficiently demolished her turkey sub, glaring at us all the while with unconcealed hostility. She was here on the orders of her new alpha, and she would do whatever he asked of her, but he hadn’t asked her to be pleasant, so she wouldn’t be. Since I was outside the Tempe Pack, she could throw all the challenging stares she wanted at us. I could practically feel Granuaile seething next to me, and I hoped she wouldn’t rise to the bait Greta was dangling. I shot her a quelling look, pressed my hand down in the air to suggest she keep a lid on it, and she nodded, message received. I’d have to coach her later on how to handle werewolves.

  Finished sinking our subs, we crumpled the paper wrappings noisily and threw them away. Greta opened up her courier bag and began pulling out documents along with a pen. No friendly chitchat, just business.

  “Fill these out with your banking information and so on. Sign at the bottom,” she said.

  Seeing that she would volunteer nothing, I began to ask her questions as I filled in blanks. “How is Rebecca Dane doing with the bookstore?” I said. I’d given Hal instructions to sell it to her for the random sum of a buck seventy-two.

  “Perfectly well. The same regulars visit the store as before.”

  “How is Leif?”

  “He’s back.”

  I looked up from the documents I was signing. “No kidding? He looks the same?”

  “I wouldn’t say that. But he smells the same. Dead.”

  Something in her tone didn’t sound right. “What’s the matter with him?”

  Greta shrugged. “Can’t say. He’s not a happy vampire. Probably because he has a lot more company these days. He’s not the only vampire in town anymore.”

  “I’ve heard something along those lines. Why doesn’t he take them out like he did before?”

  “Says he can’t do that this time. The politics have changed.”

  “Vampire politics?”

  “He would hardly care about human politics, so yes. He wants to see you, but of course we didn’t know where you were until you called this morning. Shall we tell him where you are when he wakes up tonight?”

  “Um, no,” I said. If the vampire politics had changed, in practical terms that meant Leif was no longer in charge. If he wasn’t in charge, then Leif might have to share anything he knew with whoever was. “Definitely do not tell him where I am. Don’t even tell him my new name.”

  Greta looked surprised. “You don’t want to see him?”

  “I didn’t say that. I’d simply like to meet on neutral ground. Tell him to meet me at Granny’s Closet tomorrow night, around eight-thirtyish. That’s in Flagstaff.”

  “Sure, I know Granny’s Closet,” Greta said. “Great wings there. Cold beer.”

  “Indeed. What can you tell me about how my death is being handled?”

  “By whom?”

  “I want everything you know.”

  She rolled her eyes and sighed. We carefully did not take offense. “Hal has been busy dealing with the FBI. They’ve taken quite an interest in you now that you’re dead. They’re especially keen to know about your life before you showed up in Arizona as Atticus O’Sullivan, since you don’t have a credit history or any other records before that time.”

  “Oh, if only they knew the size of that particular iceberg.”

  This earned me a brief flicker of a smirk. “Naturally, Hal knows nothing about your life before you became a client of the firm and wouldn’t share it if he did. Detective Geffert, however, has been eager to share everything he possibly can.”

  “What a helpful lad he is.”

  “Yes. The theory he’s pawning to anyone who will listen is that you were responsible for the Satyrn Massacre and this business in Tuba City was a revenge killing, and the reason you have no early records is that you’re a sleeper agent from somewhere.”

  I shed my American accent and spoke like a lad from Tipperary. “A sleeper agent from Ireland? Hurting America by slaughtering affluent twentysomethings? For what purpose?”

  “Yeah, he’s a bit fuzzy there.”

  “That’s the biggest load
of bollocks I’ve ever heard.” I resumed my standard American English accent. “What evidence is he offering?”

  “He regrets that you died before he could build a decent case and arrest you properly.”

  “Ha! Excellent! What else?”

  “I have something for you.” Greta pulled out of her bag a lavender envelope with a wax seal and my name scrawled beautifully on the front in dark purple ink. I hadn’t seen calligraphy of this sort since the nineteenth century. “It’s from Malina Sokolowski.”

  “Ah. And where is she these days?” I examined the envelope in the magical spectrum, because—you know. Witches. As I suspected, there was a magical seal on it as well as the mundane wax one. Malina would know when the seal was broken.

  “Don’t know, except that she and her coven are out of town. I expect that might tell you something,” she said, nodding at the envelope. “They kind of have the same arrangement with the firm that you have. They’ll let us know when they settle down somewhere, but we can’t tell you anything about it when they do. Hal wanted me to thank you for sending their business to the firm.”

  “He’s very welcome. May I ask a question regarding the Pack?”

  Greta’s jaw tightened, but she said, “Ask.”

  “Have you ever run afoul of skinwalkers?”

  She hadn’t expected the question. She looked bemused and shook her head.

  “Ah, well, kind of a long shot anyway.”

  Greta didn’t pursue the matter with a polite inquiry. She looked down at the paperwork in a clear signal that we should hurry up and finish. It was a good idea, since we had to make it back to the hogan before sundown.

  “I’ll need Hal to transfer about forty thousand to each of our accounts,” I said, finishing the documents and handing the stack over to Granuaile to sign. “He’ll need to draw smaller sums from multiple accounts to avoid attracting the attention of the IRS. And I need it there tomorrow.”

  “Done.”

  “Please give my regards to Hal, Snorri, and the rest of the Pack.”

  “I will.”

  She said nothing more as she placed the paperwork back in her bag. With a curt nod to us that was supposed to serve as a farewell, she slid out of the booth and stalked out to the parking lot. I put my finger to my lips to tell Granuaile it wasn’t safe to talk yet. While we waited for Greta to drive away, I opened the letter from Malina. There was a single sheet inside, written in the same impeccable hand as the address on the envelope.

  Dear Mr. O’Sullivan,

  We have taken your advice and have decided to move the coven elsewhere. If you ever need to contact us in the future, please do so through Mr. Hauk.

  During our last divination ritual, we learned that the vampire situation will become extremely fluid and dangerous in the near future. There were hints that someone powerful—perhaps you—might be drawn into it somehow, and we urge you to avoid this, if at all possible, for your own safety.

  Kind regards,

  Malina Sokolowski

  I showed the letter to Granuaile. “You know what this means?”

  She scanned it quickly. “It means you shouldn’t meet Leif tomorrow.”

  “That’s right. But I owe him the courtesy of a meeting after all we’ve been through. And I’m curious to see what sort of shape he’s in. You should have seen him. You know that comedian, Gallagher, who smashes watermelons with a sledgehammer? Leif’s head was the watermelon.”

  Granuaile frowned. “I don’t know that comedian, sorry.”

 

  Augh! Oberon, that was dreadful!

 

  “Why not just ask Hal to send you a picture from his camera phone or something?” Granuaile said. “You don’t need to risk it. Wait until things stabilize.”

  “Well, you’re coming to Flagstaff with me tomorrow anyway.”

  “I am?”

  “Yep. It’s time for you to die.”

  Chapter 14

  Granuaile’s face deflated. “I think my mother’s going to be upset about that. Dad might shed a tear too. My stepdad will laugh, unless my mother’s watching.”

  I reminded her that it didn’t have to be that way. She could always go back to being a barmaid with a philosophy degree and hang around with normal people.

  “No, that’s not an option. The fact that I’m expressing my dismay over a necessary course of action doesn’t mean I’m not willing to go through with it. But let’s not talk about that right now; let’s talk instead, if we’re finally allowed, about what just happened. That woman was astoundingly rude to us. To you.”

  “Yes, she was.” We exited the sub shop as an act of mercy on our optic nerves. As we drove back to the hogan, I explained to Granuaile the finer points of dealing with werewolves when one is a shape-shifter but still not part of the pack. Challenge with the voice, not the eyes, and you can get away with quite a bit.

  Oberon insisted.

  To the werewolf, snacks are something to be taken, not given, I reminded him.

  The hogan, once we reached it, was in considerably better shape. The walls and the roof had been coated with a thick layer of insulating mud, and in the magical spectrum the walls were covered completely by the ward of the Blessing Way. The only way the skinwalkers could hope to break through tonight without burning themselves was through the roof. They knew it, and they knew we knew it and would be waiting for them to try it. And, in all likelihood, they were still in no shape to try such shenanigans.

  The ceremony was in progress when we entered. Frank Chischilly looked tired but determined. Ben Keonie and his crew were in there, and so was Sophie Betsuie. Surprisingly, Coyote was present in his role as Mr. Benally and lending his own mojo to the final night of the ceremony. He was wearing a gray hoodie sweatshirt but still had on his black cowboy hat. He smirked when he saw my neck brace and black undershirt. We received tight nods as greetings, and we gave them tiny smiles in return and tried to keep out of everyone’s way.

  The skinwalkers came but did not attack the hogan. They were still nursing injuries, as I suspected. We heard them out there in the night, both of them. They circled the hogan for about a half hour, snarling and hissing and issuing threats, and then the noises stopped. No one believed they had truly gone; they were simply waiting to see if anyone was stupid enough to go outside and check. No one was.

  I wondered if their appearance meant that the Famine curse was still in effect despite Garm’s meal or if they were here purely for revenge and to protect their territory. They did not renew their demands to feast on my flesh, so that was a hopeful sign.

  The downside to being so well protected was that I couldn’t see the skinwalkers anymore unless I used magic to create my own wee peephole. I would have liked to see if they were just as fast as before or if they had slowed a bit due to their injuries. The fact that they were out there at all was testament to healing powers that rivaled my own, but how bad off were they?

  There was very little for us to do, yet we couldn’t go to sleep with all the chanting, singing, and praying going on. I wouldn’t want to take a nap around Coyote anyway—the only way to sleep comfortably near him is to make sure he’s sleeping too. To pass the time, Granuaile asked me to talk about when I first came to North America.

  Oberon said.

  “All right,” I said, speaking in hushed tones. “We might as well.”

  Long, long ago, when every collection of humanity smelled of shit and there was simply no helping it, I longed for a new, fragrant land. My longing was based on more practical matters than simply my sense of smell: My tattoos made me a target wherever I went in Europe, and I was running out of places to hide. The Romans had wiped out the Druids on the continent and burned all the gro
ves that allowed us to shift planes, and on the islands, missionaries like Saint Patrick destroyed us through proselytizing and patience. I spent years traveling constantly, living off the land or eking out a meal from this farm or that, and slowly adjusting to the new reality: Druids were no longer the powers they once had been, and if I wanted to survive in the villages, I would need to pretend to be illiterate, know nothing of herbalism, and laugh at everyone’s lame jokes.

  I needed those villages; I decided that they were the lesser of many other evils. If I spent my time in nature, Aenghus Óg’s blasted spawn would find me. After Rome fell and Europe began its long night in the Dark Ages, I wondered aloud in the Morrigan’s presence if there might not be a nicer place to live for a while—somewhere I wouldn’t have to dodge both Aenghus Óg and mobs of people looking for someone to burn at the stake. She said she would think about it, and the next time I saw her, she took me to meet the Old Man of the Sea, Manannan Mac Lir.

  I was terribly nervous. Fragarach was his sword, you know, and he had much more right to feel affronted that I had stolen it than Aenghus Óg ever did. It turned out I didn’t need to be afraid at all.

  When the Morrigan introduced us, Manannan pointed at the hilt peeking over my shoulder and said in a slow, sonorous voice, “Heard you’re keeping that away from Aenghus Óg. Good on you, lad.”

  “You’re not angry?”

  “Angry? Wave and tide, me boy, why would I be angry? Aenghus is a whiny tit, and everybody with a lick of sense in their head knows it. Ye have me blessing and then some.” And then he grinned at me. He was taller than me, blue-eyed, with black hair and a full beard and a kind face suggested by laugh lines around his eyes. He wore a watery blue cloak swirled with patterns of lighter blue, fastened at his right shoulder with a silver brooch. “Come on, then, let’s have some ale.”