The Iron Druid Chronicles 6-Book Bundle

by Kevin Hearne

  “Delighted,” Granuaile said.

  “Brilliant. Don’t worry, Oberon,” Goibhniu said, “I have something proper to eat over there too.”

 

  We followed Goibhniu out of his smithy to his brewery and taproom next door, which was decorated in dark wood and brass. There were a few Fae hanging out inside, but they exited quickly after they saw me. I shared a condensed and edited version of our escape from the Olympians while Goibhniu pulled draughts for us and ladled out some bowls of lamb stew from the kitchen. We three ate at a booth, while Oberon ate his behind the bar. I finished with the uneasy truce struck with Zeus and Jupiter, as we sopped up the remainder of the stew with some bread.

  Goibhniu shook his head in wonder and raised his glass. “Sláinte, laddie. I love the way you make everybody dance.”

  We clinked glasses and then I said, “What do you know about Zealot Island?”

  The smith blinked. “I know it’s feckin’ tough to get anybody off it once they’re on.”

  “Why?”

  “Time moves so slowly there that when you swoop in to pluck them out you’re likely to break their bones. Some o’ them haven’t blinked in hundreds of years.”

  “So why put anyone there?”

  “We only put assholes there, until I could figure out a way to get ’em out safely.”

  “Oh, so you can get them out?”

  “Wait. Are you saying you killed a bunch of people to experiment?” Granuaile asked at the same time, a hint of outrage in her tone. Goibhniu answered her rather than me.

  “Well, yeah, but, like I said, they were assholes. Vikings, mostly, what were going around raping and pillaging the Irish coast back then. But, come to think of it, we’re still putting assholes there. Only now we can get ’em out without killing ’em. Mostly.”

  “What do you mean, mostly?” I asked.

  Goibhniu shrugged. “It’s a tricky business. Have you been out there and seen the rig I set up?”

  Thinking of the bizarre machinery erected over the island, I nodded.

  “Well, I can snatch ’em out with that. The time bubble has a low ceiling. We sweep what amounts to an ultrasoft mattress in behind ’em and then scoop ’em up. Thing is, you’re practically guaranteed to break their legs, because we hit them first to make ’em fall backward and usually they have their legs locked up. Sometimes we get additional breakage, but it’s hardly ever fatal anymore.”

  “Can you get someone out for me?”

  “Who?”

  I shot a glance at Granuaile, who was listening intently. “I’d rather not say,” I replied, “but he was left there by the Morrigan.”

  Goibhniu’s eyes rounded. “She said someone would come asking about that someday, but I never thought it would happen now. And I certainly didn’t think it would be you.”

  “Do you know the person I’m talking about?”

  “No, I don’t. She only told me that she left someone there and that far off in the future somebody—not her—would ask to get ’im out. She paid me in stupid huge pots of gold to get this guy off the island and make sure he healed up all right.”

  “But you don’t know who it is?”

  “Nope. She said whoever asked about it would identify him.”

  That gave me pause. Considering how long ago she must have put that man on the island, she had been flirting with the idea of her own death for a very long time. Or she had divined some purpose for him far beyond his own era.

  “All right, I need you to go around to the north side and look for an old man in winter clothes pointing at the shore in mid-shout. Can’t miss him. Epic eyebrows. That’s the guy.”

  “Done,” Goibhniu said. “Or it will be in a couple of weeks. Takes that long.”

  “Good enough,” I said. “What news from the yewmen?”

  “Ah! I’m thinkin’ we need another beer for that. This is good.” He collected our glasses and went back to the tap and checked on Oberon, who had fallen asleep behind the bar after wolfing down his lamb stew.

  “You heard what they did the first night, right?” the god of brewing said as he deposited the old glasses in the sink and fetched some fresh ones. “Took out every vampire in Rome. It was a sort of cooperative enterprise from several different pods. They split up from there and took a day to find new targets. Meantime, the rest of the world’s vampires wake up at night and some of them realize that they’re hearing nothing from their leaders. A few go to find out what’s happened, and then it’s chaos. Lots of different reactions. Some are battening down the hatches and increasing security until they know more. Some are sending minions to Rome to seize the city for them and take control. Others are claiming that fighting over Rome is a moot point, as it’s no longer the center of vampiric power—which is a fair point—and then they claim that their city should be the new capital, or whatever you want to call it.”

  “Huh. Which cities?”

  “Istanbul, Las Vegas, and Paris are the names I’ve heard.” I’d half expected to hear Thessalonika in there, which would mean Theophilus was making a play, but then it made sense that he would let others step forward. He was the sort of leader who moved in the shadows, safely out of reach. In that he was very similar to his mysterious counterpart amongst the Tuatha Dé Danann.

  Goibhniu brought over our draughts, and I noticed it was a different beer than the first. “This is my Ballyshannon Blond Ale,” he said.

  We clinked glasses and took an appreciative sip. “Did the yewmen get any more after Rome?” I asked.

  “Oh, aye,” Goibhniu said, nodding. “They’ve been making hits just about every other day, spreading throughout Italy. It’s driving the bloodsuckers crazy. They’re upgrading their daytime security and hissing at one another, and I’m over here eatin’ popcorn and laughin’ me ass off.”

  “So what’s the count?”

  “They’re able to hit around twenty to thirty a night, but that’s only every other day. So right now we’re at a hundred sixty-two vampires who are finally dead for real.”

  That was a fraction of the world’s vampires, but, so far as I knew, they hadn’t ever suffered a loss like this in my lifetime. And it came in territory they’d long considered safe, to vampires who were amongst the most powerful of their kind.

  “That’s quite a bit of bounty to be paid. Can I bring you that money plus an estimate for more when I pick up my man from Zealot Island?”

  “Sure, that would be grand. Want to see the heads or shall I destroy them?”

  “Destroy them. There’s really only one I’m interested in getting at the moment, but I doubt he’ll be in Italy. He’ll be one of the lads sending in minions.”

  Goibhniu frowned. “Who’s this?”

  “The name’s Theophilus. He’s the one who all but wiped out the Druids back in the old days. It was his idea to use the Roman legions. His organization.”

  A spark of genuine anger flashed in the eyes of a god whose good nature was rarely disturbed. “I didn’t know that. When did you discover this?”

  “Not long ago. While I was binding her,” I said, nodding my head toward Granuaile. “He’s after us again. That’s why I wanted to push back against the vampires now. Keep him busy. But it would be even better if we could take him out. I think he’s more powerful than he lets on.”

  “Hmm.” Goibhniu tapped his glass in contemplation and peered through slitted eyes at me. “You know, there’s a hundred more yewmen at the Morrigan’s Fen with nothing to do.”

  Granuaile saw what he meant immediately. “You think we could recruit them to join in?”

  “Quite possibly. Say that I can. Where should I send them?”

  “Break them up into four pods,” I said. “Send one each to those three cities you mentioned and one to Thessalonika. Free range after that.”

  “Hell yeah,” Granuaile said.

  Her keenness for the idea surprised me. “Aren�
�t you concerned about the collateral damage to their thralls? I thought this was the kind of thing you found distasteful. Immoral.”

  “Normally it would be. But I’ve had time to consider. Time to be hunted, I should say. I suppose my view grew darker after you died, Atticus—”

  “Hold on,” Goibhniu interjected. “You died?”

  “Long story,” I waved a hand to dismiss it and let Granuaile finish.

  “When the decision is either your life or theirs, it ceases to be complicated. There are issues of dignity and justice to consider, but when it comes to vampires and their thralls, I think I can put that aside. Any one of them would kill me without hesitation, and it’s naïve to think that they’ll change their minds and wish me well someday if I just leave them alone. Those thralls not only are in the business of defending monsters but wish to become monsters themselves. I want to protect life, and they want to eat it. It’s not as if we have a difference of opinion on politics or religion, where violence would be an unacceptable solution. Vampires want to end me. Since abandoning the planet isn’t an option, my only choice is to end them first.”

  I nodded and did my best to keep my expression neutral, though privately I was saddened. Granuaile’s generosity had once been unconditional; now it was tempered with a soupçon of bloodthirstiness. But battle hardens you and leaves little room for ethical niceties, and since becoming a full Druid she had seen far more conflict in a month than I saw in my first few years. I’d always known that such scarring would occur eventually, but I’d hoped she could experience the wonder of her new powers unsullied by violence for a while longer, during which she could revel in her connection to Gaia and perhaps let that smooth away some of the anger she had always felt for her stepfather.

  I think his fundamental selfishness had shaped her in a manner simultaneously beautiful and dangerous. Her determination to defend the earth was a direct result of what she perceived as his criminal trespasses against the planet—and it behooved her to punish that behavior. I had felt that outrage too, in my youth, and so had many other Druids, and there was no denying that Gaia needed her champions. But during the Industrial Revolution I realized that such outrage was poisoning my spirit. There was nothing I could do to stop the world from changing, so I had to change with it and seek a balance. I didn’t think Granuaile was completely unbalanced yet, but I could see which way the seesaw was tipping, and I wished it would go the other way.

  Skipping over her words without comment, I said, “What’s going to happen to the Fen now?”

  “Not sure,” Goibhniu said. “It’s not exactly prime real estate. Right gloomy swamp, it is, so no one’s leaping after it. You remember the old hag Scáthach? Trained Cu Chúlainn?”

  “Sure.”

  “My bet is she’ll pop in there.”

  “Huh. Didn’t know she was still around. What about the Morrigan’s duties?”

  Goibhniu took in a deep breath and sighed heavily through puffed cheeks before answering. “Manannan will take care of those who die—he was already doing half of it anyway. But I don’t expect anyone will take over choosin’ the slain or fuckin’ people till they bleed. People will still pray to her, of course, and she’ll probably act from time to time from beyond the veil, just like Lugh Lhámhfhada does, but we’ll never see her like again.”

  Perhaps it was the high alcohol content of Goibhniu’s beer, but his words hit me palpably and I suddenly missed her. She’d made life more poignant for the Irish. The terror she inspired gave peace its serenity; the pain she caused gave health its lustre; her failure to love made me grateful for my ability to do so, and I realized, far too late, that though I never did or could have loved her as she might have wished, I should have loved her more.

  “To the Morrigan,” I said, throat tight with emotion as I raised my glass.

  “Aye, the Morrigan,” Goibhniu said, lifting his glass and clearly as overcome as I was. Granuaile joined in with a bit of puzzlement but politely declined to notice out loud that Goibhniu and I were tearing up. We knew it was the end of an era; the sun cannot shine as bright without a proper darkness to counter it. The world had gone a bit gray.

  Epilogue

  We had two weeks before Goibhniu’s apparatus over Zealot Island would produce any results, so we took the opportunity to fulfill a long-overdue promise. Without telling my hound what we intended, the three of us shifted to a certain Irish Wolfhound Rescue in Massachusetts. It was the same place where I’d originally found Oberon, and we were hoping that they’d have another suitable hound to adopt. Oberon had been alone far too long, and we had a promise to keep.

  Tall chain-link fences stretched away on either side of the main house, with expanses of green grass behind them—acres of turf that served as a massive dog run for a pack of wolfhounds. Seven of them barked and gamboled back and forth as we approached. Oberon’s tail wagged and he woofed a greeting to them.

 

  I hope so. We need to let Granuaile go first and see if one of them is a suitable match for the two of you. As we paused outside, Granuaile smiled at me and gave me a quick kiss.

  “Fingers crossed,” she said, and left us to go inside.

 

  We need to find a wolfhound bitch who will get along with both you and Granuaile, and there’s a chance we won’t find one here.

  Oberon leapt and twisted in the air in extreme excitement. He kept spinning around as he spoke.

  Maybe, Oberon, maybe. And I’m not adopting her. Granuaile is, if she can find a smart one that you both like. And, by the way, she has to like you too. You need to be a gentlehound and win her affection by yourself. We’re not going to adopt one unless she genuinely gets along with both of you.

  Oberon’s enthusiasm wasn’t dampened in the least by my cautions and disclaimers. He spun around so fast he was making me dizzy, and the independent enthusiasm of his tail eventually overbalanced him and he wiped out. Undeterred, he leapt back up and tried to execute something gymnastic, for which wolfhounds are decidedly not renowned. He wiped out again. Realizing he felt too awesome to stand right then, he wriggled around in the grass of the front yard, every inch of him in motion.

 

  Well, to be fair, Oberon, sausage wasn’t really my idea. It was just my idea to feed it to you.

 

  Are you saying you’d give up sausage for a companion?

 

  That admission made me feel more than a little ashamed. I’m sorry we waited so long, buddy. And, remember, we might not find the perfect bitch here today, but if not we’ll keep looking. It’s a quest now.

  Oberon rolled over to get his feet underneath him and then he leapt at me, tackling me to the ground.

  “Auggh!” I cried aloud, half in alarm and half in amusement. “Shit! Oberon, get off me!”

  I tried to twist away, but the bulk of his weight pressed down on my chest and I had no leverage. Still, I managed to turn my hips around in time for Oberon to start humping the side of my leg.

  “Gah! Ha! Oberon, stop!” It was simultaneously horrifying and hilarious, and I couldn’t keep from laughing. “Someone’s going to see!”

  The wolfhounds behind the fence seemed to be barking encouragement now, and that, combined with the joy in Oberon’s voice and the picture we must have made for any witnesses, was all it took for me to lose it. I laughed uncontrollably as he humped my leg, helpless to defend myself from his enthusiasm. The hounds barked, I laughed, and Oberon h
umped until Granuaile appeared behind the fence with an older woman and saved me.

  “What in the world? Oberon! That’s enough!” She sounded mortified. It was not the first impression she wished to make on the owner of the ranch. I’m sure she must have reinforced her verbal command with a telepathic one, because Oberon finally ceased and apologized—to her, not me.

  He stepped off and spent maybe two seconds in contrition before he started spinning around again. I rolled away and tried to get my laughter under control but couldn’t, because now I was embarrassed and so was Granuaile and that was funny too. Luckily, the owner of the ranch wasn’t offended or shocked. When Granuaile explained that Oberon was unusually excited and didn’t normally behave that way, the woman nodded in sympathy. She knew very well what wolfhounds were like.

  With the show over, the hounds inside the fence turned their attention to Granuaile and the owner of the ranch. They crowded around Granuaile and jockeyed for a position underneath her hands, since she was doing her best to pet all seven with only two limbs. Eventually she isolated one from the others, a cream-coated hound with kind brown eyes.

  “Could I spend a bit of time with this one?” Granuaile asked, to which the owner nodded. As Granuaile and the owner walked back toward the house, all the hounds followed, not just the one Granuaile had asked about.

  Oberon stopped spinning and pricked up his ears as they passed out of sight.

  They’re going to chat for a little while. She’ll make a decision soon enough. Flop down and I’ll give you a belly rub while we wait.

  Oberon dove and skidded across the lawn as he twisted to present his belly. I began to scratch him and tried to avoid getting swatted by his tail, which wouldn’t stop wagging.

  Now, remember, buddy, regardless of which hound we adopt, she’s not going to know how to speak at first. We have to teach her.

  Oberon said, and that’s all I had to say to keep him occupied, because he began to catalog all his favorite movies and rank them according to their potential for language acquisition. He was going to start with Pulp Fiction but dismissed it for fear that she would keep asking him what Marsellus Wallace looked like. Somehow, from there, he wound up choosing to begin with Pride & Prejudice starring Keira Knightley, because there was an Irish wolfhound running around in it. Eventually Granuaile and the owner of the ranch emerged from the house with the cream-colored hound on a leash.