by Massey,M. D.
He hacked snot from the back of his throat and spat at my feet. “No high and mighty faery queen tells the Fear Dearg what to do. We call our own shots, don’t we boys?” He looked back to his crew. Two of them nodded and mumbled in agreement. The third was eyeing me with suspicion.
That last one leaned forward to give me a closer look. “Um, Rocko? This guy here kinda looks familiar.” He rubbed his chin and narrowed his eyes at me. “You a hunter from the Circle or sumthin’, punk?”
I let out a long, slow sigh and met him stare for stare. “Keep guessing.”
The others, in typical fae fashion, were more than eager to rise to the challenge of a riddle, even one that was more like a Trivial Pursuit question than a true hero stumper. They began blurting out guesses, one after another.
“He’s a were!”
“No, a vamp!”
“An exorcist!”
“Naw, he looks like a Circle wizard to me!”
I pursed my lips and nodded. “You’re getting warmer…”
After a short pause, the smallest of the four shouted from the back. “A ninja!” he exclaimed.
The others eyed him with scrutiny, and the leader scowled. “A ninja? Sal, you stupid chooch—who in the hell believes in ninjas these days?”
Sal looked hurt as he replied. “I just like ninjas, is all.”
Rocko pulled off his trilby and gestured as if to backhand Sal with it, and Sal cringed away. The lead dwarf tsked as he returned his hat to his head, and sighed. “Kids ’dese days, I tell you.”
He turned to me and raised his hands questioningly. “What the hell are you, kid? I really want to know before we break a few more of this guy’s bones, and crack a few of yours for interrupting us.”
I sniffed in through my nose and cleared my throat in my fist, then stretched and cracked my neck as I rolled out my shoulders. “Me? Oh, I’m just the last apprentice the guy you’re beating on trained.”
Rocko laughed. “Apprentice? This punk?” He kicked Finn again, who softly moaned in response. “He’s just a washed up old druid, with nuthin’ left in the tank.”
Sal’s eyes went wide, then he snapped his fingers and tapped Rocko on the shoulder.
“Waddya want, Sal?” Rocko roared in response.
“Um, Rocko—that there is the Junkyard Druid.”
I rolled my eyes and growled in frustration. “How many times do I have to tell you fae, I’m not a druid? I’m a rígfénnid, damn it.”
Rocko cocked an eyebrow and laughed. “You, a warrior chieftain? For one, I don’t see no warrior band behind you, and second, you don’t look like no fighter to me.”
I shrugged. “Could be. But my ancestor Fionn MacCumhaill was said to be a fair-haired youth once, as well.”
Rocko took a step back. “You the one that the witch Fúamnach cursed?”
I nodded. “The one and only.”
At that revelation, Rocko and his crew began bowing and scraping away from me, and Rocko apologized profusely. “Kind druid, I had no idea we was interloping on your territory. Forgive us ’dis transgression, and please allow my boys and I to be on our way so we bother youse no more.”
My voice got higher and tighter as I strangled out a reply. “For the love of Pete, stop calling me a druid!”
Rocko cringed and cocked his head. “We do not mean to offend, but from what me and my boys have heard, you bear all the standard marks of druid kind.”
“How so?” I growled.
“Do you cast spells?”
I nodded. “Yeah, but—”
“Are you a friend to animals, large and small?”
I shrugged. “Sure, but that doesn’t—”
“Do you prefer natural garments to manmade materials?”
“This hemp shirt is merely a fashion choice,” I huffed.
“And do you always pick up litter wherever you go, even when it’s not yours?”
“Yes, but that’s just being a good citizen!”
Rocko, Sal and his other two goons gave each other knowing looks. Sal nodded with conviction. “Yep, he’s a druid.”
I was starting to lose my cool, which I absolutely could not allow to happen. I counted to ten and took a few deep breaths until I found my inner zen.
“Whatever you want to call me is fine. But it still doesn’t change the fact that you’re beating up my mentor, and in front of my junkyard.”
The red caps all took a knee, and Sal actually prostrated himself on the ground. Rocko looked up at me as he removed his hat and placed it over his black little heart. “As I said previously, we have no excuse for our actions, and ’derefore we are forced to beg your mercy.”
Sal whispered behind his hand to another of Rocko’s crew. “Yeah, cuz’ I don’t want to get ripped limb from limb by no cursed druid—I mean, how am I going to feed Sal junior if I got no arms and legs?”
The other dwarf gasped in exasperation and elbowed Sal hard in the ribs. “Ixnay on the uid-dray, you mook!” he whispered in reply.
I chose to ignore the exchange, and decided they needed to leave before something bad happened. “Fine, you can go. But first you have to pay to replace the tooth.”
Rocko looked confused. “What tewt?”
“The tooth you knocked out.” I pointed at Finn on the ground, who was now struggling to get up. “He’s going to need dental work, and I’m not paying for it.”
Sal looked panicked as he stood up and rummaged through his pockets. “Here, take this, it’s all I got!” He threw two wads of bills on the sidewalk, where Finn began snatching at them drunkenly.
Rocko glared at the other two red caps, who nodded and mumbled their acquiescence as they likewise dropped wads of cash on the ground. Rocko turned back to me, head bowed. “Now, may we leave wit-out fear of violence or retribution?”
I paused and took a deep breath. “I suppose. But if I catch you back here—”
Rocko cut me off. “You don’t gotta worry ’bout that. We won’t be bothering youse again. Right boys?” His crew mumbled their agreement.
I squatted to snag the bulk of the cash they’d dropped, before Finn could get his grubby hands on it and spend it on smack; dental work was expensive. As they backed away, I spared them a final glance. “Fine, get out of here before I change my mind.”
The dwarves beat feet and disappeared into a 70s model Cadillac parked halfway down the block. After I felt certain they had gone, I got Finn to his feet and helped him to the gate. He smelled of piss, booze, and stale sweat, as well as fresh blood. Once through the gate, I propped him against the fence while I shut and locked it. The dogs sniffed at Finn and licked his hands. Animals loved that guy, especially dogs, who didn’t hold grudges and didn’t care how screwed up a human was. They’d ignore your faults and love you just the same.
Me? I didn’t share that trait.
“You didn’t have to do that, you know. I can look after myself just fine,” the old man said as I slung his arm over my shoulder and walked him toward the warehouse.
“You’re welcome,” I replied archly. I noted that he barely weighed as much as my mom, who had always been bird thin. He hardly had any meat on his arm, and I could feel his ribs through his bloody shirt.
“You need to eat more, old man. You can’t live off skag and booze forever, you know.”
He snorted. “Hell if I can’t.” Finn stabbed a thumb in his chest. “That’s my curse, boy—to live another thousand years with the consequences of all my sins.”
I rolled my eyes. “You’re a pagan, you don’t believe in sin.”
“Hah!” he countered. “Who do you think invented the concept, long before the first missionaries set foot on my fair isle? Just because we didn’t worship the Christian deity, it doesn’t mean we didn’t have morals.”
“I realize that, Finn—just forget I said anything.” As we entered the restroom, I kicked the toilet lid down and helped him take a seat so I could wash him up. Most of his bruises and cuts would be healed by this evening,
and any broken bones would heal up within a day or two. The old man was tough, and centuries of magic use had granted him a hardiness and limited immortality that many humans would envy.
But he was right; it was more a curse than a blessing. No one should have to live as long as he had, and bear the weight of seeing so many people you loved die—whether to disease, old age, or violence. Still, after thousands of years, you’d think he’d have developed better coping mechanisms.
I grabbed an old hand towel, wetted it in the sink, and gently wiped the blood from his face and hands. “I loved her too, you know. And if anyone should feel guilt or remorse for what happened to Jesse, it’s me. I’m the one who killed her.”
He slammed a fist against the wall so hard, I heard a bone crack. “Damn it, boy, how many times do I have to tell you that it wasn’t you who killed her, but the ríastrad? If I hadn’t crossed that evil old crone so many years ago, she might never have cursed you in the first place.”
I calmly continued wiping down his badly battered face. “I’ve told you before, I know what I’m doing when I’m under the curse. And the part of me that takes over? It likes the killing and the destruction. I’m the only one to blame, and that’s a sin I’ll carry to my grave.”
“Aye, boy, but your sins are not your own. That blood is on my hands, and I’ll atone for it as I see fit.”
I tossed the rag in the sink. It dripped watered-down blood that traced pinkish tracks into the rust-stained porcelain. “Fine, keep punishing yourself by numbing the pain with a needle. See if I care.”
I turned to leave, but his bony fingers latched onto my hand to stop me. The old man’s eyes filled with tears as he looked up at me. “Will you ever forgive me?”
“There’s nothing to forgive,” I lied. “Now go get some sleep.”
I reflected on the current nature of our relationship as I trudged back to my room. Finn was my mentor, and I loved him, but I could never forgive him for putting Jesse and I in that old witch’s crosshairs. And while he had to live with the consequences of his actions, I was the one who truly had Jesse’s blood on my hands.
That was my cross to bear, damn it. And no amount of Finn’s self-loathing behavior would change that fact.
4
Journal Entry—Eight Months, Twelve Days A.J.
So, Fúamnach. Ugh. Alright, let’s talk evil bitches.
After centuries of being foiled by Finnegas’ magic, which basically cancelled hers out, Fúamnach decided that the best way to get at Finn this time around was to curse his top student, that being yours truly. And she hit me with a whammy, that’s for sure. That witch saddled me with the curse of Cú Chulainn, which if you know anything about Irish mythology is a real bitch of a curse. Cú Chulainn was probably the greatest hero of Irish legend, but he was also one screwed up dude. When he got really mad, he’d go into a berserker rage and killed everyone and everything around him, friend or foe. To be honest Cú Chulainn was a bit of a sociopath, and he was known to be the type to stab first and talk later. The guy was more or less a mass murderer, even without going into a berserker rage.
Character flaws of Cú Chulainn aside, that’s the curse that Fúamnach laid on me, unbeknownst to any of us. And when we ended up facing the dragon Caoránach, the mother of all demons (another enemy that was passed down to me from my ancestor Fionn MacCumhaill), in the heat of battle the curse was triggered and I laid waste to everything and everyone around me.
Did I kill the dragon? Sure, with my bare hands, apparently. But I also killed a bunch of innocent people, including my best friend and love of my life, Jesse.
Damn it, I can’t do this right now. I’ll come back to it later.
-McC
Austin, Texas—Present Day
The next morning, I got up early to do some work around the junkyard. I mostly worked in trade for room and board, and part of that involved letting the boss know which vehicles were good candidates to flip, and which were better off as inventory. It was really supposed to be Finn’s job, but lately he’d been too messed up to bother, which meant I had to cover for him. I slipped on my coveralls, pulled on a pair of work boots, and headed out into the yard with Rufus and Roscoe on my heels.
Most small animals were afraid of me, but not the dogs. Finn said it was because predators recognized an alpha when they saw one. Apparently, the dogs sensed that “other” side of me, and respected its presence. The flip side of that was everything in the animal kingdom that might be considered prey fled from me on sight. Frightening squirrels, moles, and pigeons hadn’t exactly been on my list of career goals when I signed up to be druid-trained, but at least it kept the mice and rats out of the warehouse.
The yard smelled like brake fluid, freshly mown grass, and motor oil, which meant we’d just gotten a delivery of wrecked vehicles in from the auction house. Most were cars and trucks that had been totaled by the last owner’s insurance company, who sold them to body shops, used car lots, and junkyards to be salvaged or restored and sold at a profit. Other cars had no apparent damage, but had mechanical or electrical problems that were deemed too difficult or expensive to repair. That’s where I came in, because lost causes were my specialty.
We avoided trying to salvage totaled cars, because no matter how much work you did to them they’d never drive the same again, and we weren’t in the business of ripping people off. But the lost cause cars were often only lacking someone who could diagnose the problem and make the repairs. Cars could be tricky to figure out sometimes, and newer cars even trickier, due to all their electronics. But many times it was something as simple as a frayed wire causing a short, or a bad part missed by the mechanic. Other times it could be something expensive like a bad engine control unit or burned out clutch. My job was to lay hands on the vehicles that came in and use my magic to figure out what was wrong… and how to fix it.
Sure, living in a junkyard sucked, but I wasn’t complaining. Money was hard to come by these days, as I had zero job skills and no work history to speak of, and my one source of income—hunting monsters—was no longer an option. I suppose it was fortunate that my druid training came in handy for things other than killing monsters, since I couldn’t really put “apprentice level sorcerer and medieval weapons expert” on a resume. So, in a weird way, the years I’d spent learning druid magic hadn’t been wasted after all.
I walked up to the first vehicle and put my hands on the hood, shifting my senses to the magical spectrum and reaching out with my magic to “talk” to the car. Cars didn’t have a spirit, per se, but they did have a sort of psychometric energy that could be read if you knew what to look for and how to look. And while a car’s onboard computer could spit out a trouble code that let you know which system was malfunctioning, a mechanic might still spend hours tracking down the problem and trying to fix it.
My way was a hell of a lot faster, and cheaper in labor costs too, because all I had to do was let my magic tell me what was broken. The first three cars were a bust, which was a drag, but we’d still make our money back on them eventually in parts sales. But the last one, a 2005 Honda minivan that looked to have been well cared for, turned out to be a winner. The van’s only issues were a malfunctioning fuel pump and a short in the wiring harness—two easy, cheap fixes. It’d make a good, reliable vehicle for a family in need. I marked it for repairs and left a note regarding what to fix in grease pen on the windshield.
After I finished with the van, my phone started vibrating to let me know I had a text. Only a few people had my number, so it was either Mom asking when I was coming home to visit, Sabine texting me to see what I was doing later, or Belladonna sexting with me for the umpteenth time. I wasn’t eager to deal with Mom or Belladonna at the moment, but if it was Sabine I didn’t want her to think I was ignoring her. She was really sensitive about stuff like that, so I took great care to make sure I didn’t hurt her feelings.
Sabine was a half-glaistig I’d met one day while leaving Dr. Jansen’s office. The day we’d met she�
��d been wearing a long-sleeve shirt in the middle of summer in Austin, and I could smell fresh blood on her that carried just the slightest tang of fae. I recognized the signs and knew immediately that she was a cutter, and one of Dr. Jansen’s patients.
There’s a weird sort of unspoken agreement between therapy patients that you don’t make eye contact or chat when you run into another patient on the way in or out of your therapy session. Even so, it was easy for me to recognize another person in pain, so I smiled at her as we passed. In response, she barely lifted her hand in a shy little wave, right before she scurried off into Dr. Jansen’s waiting room.
I ran into her a few times after that, and it was always the same. I’d smile and hold the door, and she’d wave shyly before scampering off like a scared mouse. Which I thought was kind of amusing, since she was just about the most stunning female I’d ever laid eyes on since I lost Jesse. It made sense, though; Sabine was wearing a permanent glamour to make her not look attractive or noticeable… at all.
In fact, her glamour made her look like a mousy, painfully thin, extremely frumped out college aged girl. She wore birth control glasses, baggy clothes, and sported a wild, frizzy blonde hairdo that did a great job of hiding her face when she stared at the ground—which she did most of the time. Combine that with the see-me-not spell she’d cast on herself, and she was practically invisible.
Of course, I could see right through her glamour, because druid skilz and what-not. And what she looked like under all that magic very nearly took my breath away the first time I saw her. Not only that, but it was readily apparent why she was hiding from the world, and what made her hate herself so much.
As it so happened, Sabine had been born with all the right equipment. A bit too much of it, in fact. To put it bluntly, Sabine had rather large breasts. And knowing what I knew about middle school and high school boys, I was certain that she had been harassed mercilessly from the time she began to develop as a woman. Having been cruelly teased throughout the latter part of grade school and all through middle school for having moobs, I could relate to her pain (I could still hear the kids in the locker room chanting “Colin McBoobs.” Not cool).
