Druid Justice_The Colin McCool Paranormal Suspense Series

by M. D. Massey

  “Listen, and listen well, you pompous bunch of upstarts and amateurs. The meeting will be held on neutral ground, at the Toothshank clan’s fight pits, on the shores of Lady Bird Lake. The local races and factions will all be in attendance and equally represented, and if you don’t like it you can sod off. Midnight—be there if you want a say in how the factions choose to deal with your fuck up.”

  Finn whispered something in the bird’s ear, then he released it into the sky.

  “What did you whisper to the bird, there at the end?” I asked.

  “Sideshow barkers and con artists, every last one of them,” he ranted, shaking his fist at the raven as he watched it fly away. “Bah! I freed the raven from its service to those bastards, just as soon as it delivers my message. They have no right to indenture wild creatures like that. Bastards.”

  He spat on the ground, then he took the chair next to me, pulling out his tobacco pouch to roll one up. I waited until he had some nicotine in him before speaking.

  “So, what the hell is a conclave?”

  “It’s an archaic way to say you’re having a meeting. Only freemasons, Catholics, and those self-important pricks use it anymore, the morons.”

  I took a sip of my coffee, not at all interested in the pastry anymore. I suddenly wished I’d fed it all to the poor raven. “You know, I got the impression I was being called to sit trial.”

  Finnegas blew smoke from his nostrils. “They’d like you to think you were, but the truth is they don’t have the authority. Those jackasses would love to intimidate you and cover this all up, but that’s not going to happen. What we’re going to do instead is shake things up a bit.”

  “Okay, so I’m not in trouble, so to speak. But the Circle wants me to think I am, so they can keep me quiet while they pretend that Gunnarson wasn’t a murdering nutcase who killed a bunch of fae under orders from someone on their Council.”

  “Right.”

  “And we’re going to meet these clowns on neutral ground to take away any advantage they might have, and you’re going to invite Maeve, Samson, and Luther to stand witness to what goes on at this little powwow.”

  “Yup. They have a stake in what’s about to happen, believe me.”

  “And just what exactly is about to happen?” I asked.

  Finn puffed on his cigarette with a wild look in his eye. “Oh, never you mind. Just start calling your friends to tell them where to be, when, and why.”

  “Ahem… if you’ll recall, Maeve and I aren’t exactly chummy at the moment.”

  “Ah, don’t worry about her. I’ll make sure she gets the message.” He took a long drag, pinching the butt in his lips as he rubbed his hands together. “Oh yes, this is going to be fun.”

  When we showed up at the meeting, Chief Ookla and Guts were there at the Toothshank Tribe’s little campground in full regalia, with their warriors stationed all around the place. Whether they were there to be an honor guard or as security, I wasn’t really sure. Regardless, I was damned happy to see them there, because I knew who they’d stick up for if things got ugly. And let me tell you, the last thing you wanted was a couple dozen trolls coming at you with sharp pointy objects and bad intent.

  Finnegas had made me dress somewhat formally for the occasion. I was wearing a pair of black jeans, a white dress shirt, and a new black military trench. I’d even polished up my Doc Martens, although I’d kept the iron spikes I had braided into the laces intact.

  You think anybody wants a roundhouse kick to the face while I'm wearing these bad boys? Forget about it.

  I nodded to Chief Ookla and Guts as we entered their sacred party park. It seemed like just yesterday that I’d fought Guts here, in a bareknuckle brawl to settle a dispute between the tribe and Maeve. The troll and I had bonded over that brutal and bloody exchange, and since then we’d had our share of fun together. The nod and wink he gave me in response helped settle my nerves a bit.

  I followed Finnegas into the place, smiling at how he wore jeans, cowboy boots, a black western shirt, and a straw cowboy hat with aplomb. Somehow, he managed to look intimidating as all hell in that get up. And if I didn’t know better, I’d swear that the taxidermied rattlesnake head on his snakeskin hatband was alive and watching us all.

  We rounded a small copse of trees as we approached the designated meeting place. The trolls had placed a bunch of carved wooden chairs around a huge bonfire, twelve of them in all. Since the Toothshank Tribe’s little campsite was located on the outskirts of a public park, their shaman had cast a glamour over the whole thing to avoid prying eyes.

  The Pack was in attendance, and Samson stood behind their faction’s seat with Fallyn and Sledge backing him. It was likely that the rest of the wolves were close by, waiting in case trouble broke out. That also made me feel better about the situation. The sly old wolf gave me a nod and an almost imperceptible grin when he spotted me, then he went back to looking like a constipated Chuck Norris.

  Luther showed up next, coalescing in a puff of shadow and smoke fully seated in the spot prepared for him. Two vampires appeared behind him, one of them being Mateo and the other some blonde chick I’d never seen before. Mateo looked much more serious this night than he had when we’d met, and he scanned the area with an almost casual disinterest that I knew was faked. The female vamp did the same, and I could tell they were on high alert, no matter how relaxed Luther appeared to be.

  Maeve ported in at the same time the Council members did. She looked radiant as always, and was flanked on one side by the healer who’d helped us at the brothel when we rescued the trafficked children, and on the other by Eliandres. The faery queen moved with an understated grace as she took her seat, followed by eight hooded, faceless figures in dark robes, each taking their seat in unison with Maeve.

  Finnegas walked up and took the final empty seat, and I stood behind him. Finn didn’t need another person backing him, and everyone knew it. Besides, we were the only druids left besides that prick the Fear Doirich. And fuck that guy. We didn’t want or need his help.

  One of the nameless, faceless figures across the circle stood and spoke. “We, the High Council of the Cold Iron Circle, call this conclave to order, the purpose of which is to discuss the disposition of one Colin McCool, druid apprentice to Finnegas the Seer, who stands accused of crimes against a ranking member of the Circle.”

  Finn groaned loudly. “Oh, sit down, Andrew, and take off that fucking hood—you look ridiculous. Everyone here knows who you are anyway.”

  The hooded figure drew himself up, and his voice took on a dangerous tone. “I will not be spoken of in that way in an official meeting of—”

  Finn raised a hand at Andrew. “Stop,” was all he said, and it was like a curtain of stillness fell across the meeting place. Everyone remained frozen except for the other factions, including Maeve, Luther, Samson, and their entourages. Even the flames in the fire grew still, an elemental power yielding to the will of a master druid.

  Finn stood up. “I’ll allow you to speak in a minute, Andrew, but be advised that Colin isn’t the one on trial here,” he gestured in a broad sweep at the eight Council members who sat frozen across from us. “You are.”

  “Agreed,” Maeve said. “One of you is guilty of conspiring to assassinate me, as well as murdering several of my people. Oh yes, I received the same message your operatives did, broadcast by your own research technicians from Commander Gunnarson’s front lawn. It’s well known by all present that the Circle was at fault all along. Now, all that’s left to determine is what to do with the lot of you.”

  “Queen Maeve hit the nail on the head,” Samson said in a low, quiet voice. “The Pack has tried to stay neutral all this time, but we can’t stand by while our allies,” he nodded in Maeve’s direction, “are slaughtered. The Pack demands justice, and we will have it before this night is through.”

  “As does the Coven,” Luther added. “We stand with the Pack, and our allies the Fae, in demanding that justice be served and executed
before dawn.”

  Maeve looked at Finnegas. “And what say the Druids?”

  “About that,” Finnegas replied. “I happen to have something in mind…”

  Epilogue

  The meeting lasted well into the night, with Maeve, Luther, Samson, and Finnegas discussing what to do about the corruption within the Circle’s ranks, all while the High Council sat around frozen stiff. I later found out that spell had been a joint collaboration between Finnegas and Maeve, a trick they’d worked out beforehand in case the High Council tried to play dirty… which, of course, they had.

  Two of the Council members had attempted to cast spells to influence Samson and Luther to speak against me. When Maeve caught wind of them she’d given Finn the signal, and the old man had dropped the hammer. Turns out that healer Maeve had brought along was also a high-level mage, head and shoulders above any of those Council jerks, so the combined might of the three of them had been sufficient to put the Circle leaders in their places.

  Finn’s proposal had been worked out long before the meeting as well, which was one of the reasons why Maeve had been trying so hard to keep me under her thumb. As it so happened, the four of them had been talking since the first few fae bodies had started turning up. At first, Maeve really had been concerned it was the Pack or the Coven making a move against her, but Finnegas had quickly put those fears to rest and got them all scheming together against the real threat—the Circle.

  That fit Finnegas had thrown at Maeve’s hadn’t just been for show, though. He had been well and truly pissed at the shit she was trying to pull, what with him working behind the scenes to help save her people. The old man said that the fae were like predators in the animal kingdom, which was why a display of strength was often necessary to solidify an alliance. And Maeve had fallen right in line, once she knew that the Seer still had some juice left in him.

  Man, but I had a lot to learn. And I’d need to learn it fast, too, because Finn’s proposal was a doozy. His idea was to make me something called a Druid Justiciar, a sort of independent investigator and enforcer whose job it was to keep peace between the supernatural races and humans. Apparently, it was a position originally created by The Dagda—part of his grand plan to even the scales between humans and the major powers in the world beneath.

  So basically, I’d be doing what I’d been doing all along, but in an official capacity and without all the meddling and string-pulling bullshit from Maeve. Being a justiciar meant I had authority to deal with members of all races—humans, fae, vampires, ’thropes, and other. And by “deal,” that meant doing whatever was necessary to make sure another Gunnarson situation never happened again.

  Sure, I’ll step on some necks to keep the peace. Hell, count me in for overtime.

  As for Belladonna and the geek squad, once word got out about what had happened, the Circle couldn’t punish them or slap them with a gag order. Instead, they decided to turn them into heroes so they could trot them out whenever someone brought up Gunnarson’s crimes. The nerd herd took increases in pay in lieu of promotions—Kien got his six-figure salary, by the way—and Belladonna told the High Council to go fuck themselves. She pretty much gave them a two-fisted resignation letter, written in sign language and delivered straight to their faces.

  That’s my girl.

  Click never did show up to finish “paying” me for solving the case and killing those responsible. I didn’t bother discussing our deal with Finnegas either, seeing as how the mere mention of Click’s name set his teeth on edge. But if the fae ever did come around, I intended to ask him how Gunnarson’s cloak worked, because I still hadn’t discovered how to control its powers.

  I thought it a strange coincidence that he’d referred to me as a “justiciar” back when this whole thing had started. That was yet another thing I intended to ask him about.

  Ed’s funeral was a sad affair, but it was also a testament to all the lives he’d touched. The church was standing room only, and the funeral procession was a half-mile long. I served as one of the pall-bearers, along with the senior employees from the junkyard. Finnegas said a few words, and Maureen sang a Celtic dirge that ran chills down my spine. Mom cried and cried—again, that was the hardest part of all.

  As for the junkyard, Maureen showed up with Borovitz the day after our big meeting with the High Council. Apparently, Ed left his entire estate to me, including the junkyard and everything in it. Unsurprisingly, the junkyard was just barely making a profit, because Ed had overpaid his people and was constantly giving away money to help others out.

  Borovitz said all Ed’s assets were tied up in the place. He also said I could liquidate the junkyard and everything in it, and that I’d easily walk away with enough money to set me up for life. I declined, saying I’d rather be broke and making people happy than rich and putting people out of work.

  And all that gold? Carver didn’t have any heirs, at least none that Borovitz could find. The hunter had planned to leave it all to his crew, if you can believe that. As for me, I didn’t want Carver’s dirty money. Long story short, I had Borovitz pay for funeral arrangements for the murder victims who couldn’t afford it, and I had him set up a foundation for the sex trafficking survivors with the rest.

  Today was my last day alone in the junkyard. I planned to open it back up for business tomorrow.

  I’d been putting things back in order with Maureen’s help, and generally just saying my last goodbyes to Ed. His memories would always be there, of course, but I needed a few days to make those memories behave themselves… if you know what I mean.

  Now, there was just one last order of business—Elmo. I’d asked Finnegas what his last gesture had meant, and the old man said he’d been making the sign for “friend.”

  Some friend I was, for letting him get killed. Damn it.

  Anyway, I wanted to give him some sort of monument, something to remind those who’d known him of his final resting place. He deserved so much more than an unmarked grave in the junkyard, but it’d look weird if I placed a gravestone right there among the stacks.

  So, I’d just been sitting here at his gravesite, me and Elmo’s furry plush toy, trying to figure out how to best honor the one person in this sordid affair who’d gotten the rawest end of the deal.

  I felt something move beside me.

  Did I put batteries in that stupid doll?

  Nope. I looked down, and there was my Craneskin Bag on its side, flap wide open. I reached over to close it, but before I could something rolled out. It was dark, round, and shiny, with a light brown cap and stem on one end.

  The Dagda’s acorn.

  “Bag, are you trying to tell me something?” The Bag flipped itself closed and clammed up tight as a nun’s knees. “Okay… I’ll take that as a yes.”

  I held the acorn up to my eye, examining it and rubbing it between my fingers. As I did, the tree seed warmed to my touch, almost as if it had life inside of it that was trying to get out… or maybe that wanted to get out.

  “Alright, little acorn. I can’t think of a better monument to the life of such a gentle giant as Elmo. Let’s put you in the ground, and give you the shot at life that he no longer has.”

  I knelt down, using my hunting knife to scoop dirt away—just a small divot of earth in the center of the aisle where we’d laid the ogre’s body to rest. I went to place the acorn in the ground, then paused—was I missing something? On instinct, I held the acorn in my palm and spat on it. It was a strange and impulsive gesture, but it seemed proper in the moment.

  I set the acorn in the ground and pushed the dirt back over the hole. I patted the dirt gently, not wanting to pack it so tight that the little acorn wouldn’t grow. Then I stood, taking a step back to admire my handiwork.

  “Ah, shit. How am I going to keep people from trampling it, once it starts to grow?” I racked my brains for ideas for several seconds, then the ground beneath my feet began to rumble and quake.

  “What the f—?”

  This conclud
es Book 5 in the Colin McCool Paranormal Suspense series, Druid Justice. But, the story continues in Book 6, Druid Enforcer!

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  About the Author

  I write dark fantasy, paranormal suspense, and urban fantasy novels.

  My first series, THEM, is a jaunt through a post-apocalyptic central Texas where the dead walk, and vampires, werewolves and other unsavory creatures roam the night. It has elements of the zompoc genre, dark fantasy, and military survival fiction.

  On the other hand, my Colin McCool series falls squarely between urban fantasy and paranormal suspense. Colin's world is full of magic, mystery, and folklore come to life.

  I currently live in the Hill Country near Austin, Texas, which is where much of my fiction is set. Most days you can find me in a local coffee shop or in my office working on my next book, or in my garage pummeling inanimate objects. If you'd like to find out more about my work and get a FREE book, visit my website at MDMassey.com.