Druid Master
Page 23
“What about the unreasonable parties?” I asked as I arched an eyebrow. “Any chance you’d help me deal with them?”
“Oh, I should think it would be best to leave those negotiations to you. Being unreasonable does seem to be one of your chief strengths. After all, war is in your nature.”
“Yeah, yeah, and if my grandma had wheels, she’d be a bicycle.”
Maeve frowned, staring off into the distance. “You shouldn’t speak of your grandmother in that way.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I replied as I stood to go. “As always, your hospitality is appreciated.”
“Colin?” she said, causing me to pause and glance over my shoulder as I descended the steps. Maeve sat stock still, with proper, bolt-upright posture, and her face was as inscrutable as her tone.
“Yes, Maeve?”
“If you wish to visit in the future, all you need do is call my people.”
On a whim, I quick-stepped over and gave her a peck on the cheek. “I’ll do exactly that. Count on it.”
We held the old man’s funeral at the junkyard, setting up rows of chairs in the parking lot out front, shaded by awnings and facing a short stage that I rented with the rest of the stuff. I’d scooped some dirt from his grave into a nice urn and set it atop a table that Maureen had decorated with a green silk cloth and flowers, so people could pay their respects. None of the dirt held any of his remains, of course, but it was the thought that counted.
We held the service after sundown so all could attend. As for the attendees, they included everyone who’d ever worked at the junkyard, along with a virtual who’s who of The World Beneath. Maeve was there, of course, with a small retinue, as were The Dagda, Lugh, Dian Cécht, Click, Samson, and Luther. Oscar and Plúr even showed up, sending their father’s condolences.
The Red Caps sent Rocko and Sal, both dressed smartly in black suits with red ties and matching fedoras. Guts and his chieftain were there—glamoured—as were Crowley and Bells, along with some pudgy black kid I’d never met. Hideie was also in attendance, more for my sake than the old man’s as they’d barely known each other. Even Kenny and Derp showed up, although how they heard about it, I couldn’t say.
I invited Brother Carroll to preside over the service. Although Finnegas had not been Christian, Tuan mac Cairill was the only other Irishman as ancient as the old man had been, so I thought he’d do Finn’s memory justice. Respectfully, Tuan said a few kind words and read some short Scripture passages, then he turned things over to me.
After that, we let everyone come up and share a personal story or anecdote. Fallyn serenaded the old man with The Soft Goodbye, and Lord John The Mountain King sang Highwayman, absolutely nailing Johnny Cash’s voice. I invited Hemi and Maki up to do a haka, and that damned near brought down the house. Finally, I closed it out by reading Robert Louis Stevenson’s Consolation.
After that, everyone who cared to do so retired to The Bloody Fedora for one hell of a wake. I did shots of Jameson with the Red Caps, Hemi danced on the bar, I’m pretty sure Crowley and Bells made out, and Fallyn nearly punched out Cinnamon for hitting on me. All in all, it was a night to remember, although I don’t remember much of it. And, thanks to the benefits of having a magic, teleporting Oak tree, we didn’t even have to drive home.
The next morning a knock at the door woke me up, which confused the shit out of me because my Keebler cottage didn’t really have a door per se. Plus, there was no one there to knock. I sat up, and after I shook off the room spin, I realized I was in my old room at the junkyard with Fallyn snoring up a storm next to me in bed.
“Fuck.”
Whoever it was knocked louder, causing Fallyn to ask me to politely tell that person to fuck off before she committed murder. She went back to sleep while I slipped on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, so I could answer the door.
“Oh, yer’ awake!” It was Click, wearing an innocent smile that said he knew he woke me up and why should he care.
“Unless you brought aspirin and coffee, I’m going back to bed.”
Click handed me a convenience store packet of BC Powder, a bottle of neon yellow sports drink, and a mocha in a to-go cup from La Crème. I slammed the BC Powder with the sports drink, then I brushed past Click so I could take a leak in the bathroom down the hall. While I was in there brushing my teeth, I hollered through the door.
“I’m still mad at you,” I said.
“Don’t worry, I’m gettin’ used to it,” he replied.
I washed the toothpaste residue from my mouth, regretting the fact that the aftertaste was still going to make my coffee taste like shit. Still, I took a sip of coffee—lukewarm—and splashed some water on my face.
“What the hell do you want?” I asked the quasi-god on the other side of the door.
“Well, seein’ as how my expert tutelage and keen insights helped ya’ defeat one o’ the Morrígna—”
“I can already tell I’m going to regret this,” I muttered.
“—I thought you might be so kind as ta’ allow me ta’ request yer’ assistance in a small matter o’ personal consequence.”
“Yep, I’m going to hate it. Go on.”
“Well, all I’m askin’—that is ta’ say, all I request o’ you—is that you come an’ meet a few friends o’ mine.”
My hair was a wreck, so I doused it by craning my head under the sink. Then, I grabbed a nearby towel that smelled as greasy as it looked and used it to tousle my hair dry as I exited the bathroom.
“Look Click, now isn’t the time—”
I stopped mid-sentence because I felt a draft I hadn’t noticed when I walked into the bathroom a minute or so earlier. Pulling a section of the towel off my head, I pushed a thick curtain of wet hair out of my face, wiping the water from my eyes.
“What in the actual fuck—?”
We stood in the center of a large, circular indoor amphitheater, of the kind you might expect to see in turn of the century London. Row upon row of people sat at tables that were situated on concentric, terraced circles around the room. Nope, not people—deities. Lots and lots of deities.
“Click, where in the hell are we?”
The quasi-god and trickster once known as Gwydion wrung his hands together in front of him. “Well, ya’ see, Colin, it’s like this—”
Just then, a five-foot-nothing cross between a man and a monkey jumped from his front row seat, landing directly in front of me. Except for his classic white Air Jordan mids, he was dressed like Donnie Yen’s Ip Man in a long, black changshan and loose, cuffed pants. The monkey man got in close talker range, turning his head this way and that as he scrutinized my face.
“This is the guy you told us about?” he said in only slightly accented English. “He doesn’t look like much. Plus, his breath stinks.”
I ignored the monkey man’s antics. “Click, where are we?”
“Um, ya’ see,” Click stammered. “Ye’ve been makin’ quite a stir, and I sort o’ brought it up ta’ the lads—”
“And gals!” some blonde chick in the third row shouted.
“—an’ lasses,” he added, “that maybe ya’d make a good addition ta’ our club.”
“Do I even want to know?” I asked, running a hand across my face.
“Colin, ol’ boy,” Click said. “Allow me ta’ introduce ya’ ta’ the Trickster Council.”
“That’s it, I’m out of here,” I said as I mentally searched for a connection to my Druid Oak. “And I swear if you try to stop me, I’ll turn your underwear into poison ivy.”
“I take back what I said,” Sun Wukong shouted, slamming the butt of an iron staff on the floor. “He’s perfect!”
This concludes Book 12 of the first Colin McCool urban fantasy series. But never fear, Colin’s story will continue in his next series, The Trickster Cycle, coming soon!
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M.D. Massey, Druid Master