Junkyard Druid: A New Adult Urban Fantasy Novel (The Colin McCool Paranormal Suspense Series Book 1)

by Massey,M. D.

  But the fachen was not going down without a fight. The blood of the Fomorians ran through its veins, and it too was a massive, primal thing made for the same purpose as me: to destroy. As I beat it around the head, neck, and torso, its single arm shifted from one side of its body to the other. In the giant’s hand was a flail, so big it looked to have been made from a telephone pole and wrecking ball. It swung the flail at me in a great arc, the spiked ball at the end of the chain colliding with my shoulder and knocking me off its back.

  I rolled and came to my feet, facing the monster as it contorted its single arm and leg to get back to its feet.

  “Abomination,” it rumbled. “Cú Chulainn’s curse is fully released upon you, foul man. Your kind were never meant to be.”

  The fachen spun the flail like a saw blade as it spoke, so fast it became a blur. “You’ll meet your end this night by my hand, as so many men have in years gone by, and the resting gods will thank me from their slumber for ridding the world of your blasphemous presence.”

  The creature’s words registered, but I cared little for their meaning. I popped my shoulder back into socket and growled my reply.

  “Less talk, more pain, Fomorian.”

  Heedless of the spinning metal ball at the end of that chain, I flung myself at the beast. I collided with it before it could attack and drove it through the smoldering remains of the barn. We continued out the other side and crashed into the silo, denting it severely. The structure tottered precariously a few seconds before tipping completely. It landed in an adjacent field amidst a chorus of screeching metal and shattered glass and wood.

  We staggered apart for a moment, recovering to circle each other in the gravel drive before clashing and trading blows once, twice, and a third time, with me getting the worst of those exchanges. Finally, due to our difference in height, I was forced to change tactics and grapple with it—an awkward proposition against a giant half-again my size with just one arm and one leg.

  I dodged a blow from the flail and climbed up on the creature’s back, wrapping my legs around its torso and holding on with one arm while beating it senseless. It staggered and fell into a decrepit tractor near the burning barn, with the force of our combined mass bending the tractor’s frame around us. I continued pummeling the beast with my fists until it shifted its arm to its upper back, swinging the flail overhead and smashing it into my skull. I staggered as it struck me over and over again, driving me to my knees.

  Shrugging the broken remains of the tractor off, it towered over me as I attempted to get back to my feet. The fachen spat blood, then bent that single mighty leg and leapt straight up, ten feet or more in the air, intending to smash me underfoot. I rolled from underneath, stumbling to a nearby fence where I snatched two posts from the ground with their concrete footings still intact.

  Now I’d have some fun.

  The fachen leapt at me with a speed that belied its size, swinging the flail at my body. I blocked the flail with one fence post, and it shattered with the impact. At the same time, I swung the other at the creature’s upper arm. The arm snapped with a loud crack, bending at an unnatural angle to hang uselessly at the giant’s side. It cried out in agony.

  “Balor should have given his children two arms and legs,” I growled as I struck it in the face with the fencepost. Without the use of its single arm it was helpless to defend itself, and realized it had been defeated. No longer interested in battle, the fachen fled with its broken arm flopping behind it.

  “Come back here!” I roared. “I’m not finished with you yet!” I threw the fencepost at it and missed, then looked about the area for something else to use as a projectile weapon. Near the wrecked tractor was a large metal grader blade, a tractor attachment used for leveling soil and gravel. I snagged it with both hands and pivoted like a decathlete throwing the discus, getting up to speed before letting it fly. The metal blade spun through the air like a Frisbee in a flat, straight trajectory that caught the fachen at the waist in mid-leap, severing it in two.

  I walked over to the creature, picking up the discarded fencepost on the way. Its pelvis and leg bled and twitched in the dirt just a few yards from the torso and head. It struggled for breath as I approached, wheezing and shuddering as its entrails spilled out on the ground.

  The fachen’s eye fixed on me as I lumbered up to it, and it cursed me with its final agonized breath. “May your ríastrad consume you, Irishman, and every person you hold dear.”

  “Too late for that, peg-leg,” I growled. “It already has.” I raised the fence post like a mace overhead, smashing it down on the giant’s skull over and over again, until the ground was stained red and nothing but pulp remained.

  When the bloody task was done, my thoughts cleared and I recalled there was another, more dangerous enemy present. A black rage welled up from within me as my eyes searched the night for the wizard.

  “You’re next, Crowley!” I roared. “You hear me? You’re next!”

  I didn’t have to search long to find the wizard; he found me first. He stumbled from the wreckage of the silo, and as soon as I spotted him he released the full fury of the Eye on me. The blast hit me squarely in the chest, burning what remained of my clothes from my torso and searing me with its heat. I flew back several feet, rolled head over heels, and came up to one knee.

  Crowley stalked toward me, only staggering slightly as he walked me down. He raised the Eye and struck again, but this time I held both hands up to shield my face and body, roaring in agony as the pain from the blast heated my hands. Thankfully, it appeared that each blast was limited in duration, so they only lasted a few seconds at a time. I somehow withstood that blast, but the heat and the force of it laid me flat. I groaned in pain and anger and came up on my elbows, panting with the exertion.

  The wizard stopped several feet from me, wisely out of range of a kick or a wild swing. He was covered in sheetrock dust and blood, and his clothes were as tattered and torn as mine. His eyes looked wild, and shadows whipped around him as he prepared to loose his magic along with that of Balor’s Eye.

  “Finally, McCool, the world will be free from your curse.” He raised the stone for what I knew would be the final blow. I was no longer able to protect myself; my chest was a smoking, charred wreck, and my hands were blackened and twisted from defending his most recent attack.

  I stared into the Eye, meeting its gaze with my own for the first time. As it glowed hotter and hotter, I prepared for my own end. I felt no remorse in my transformed state, only hate, and inside I vowed that I would take revenge from the grave if necessary. An empty oath, because I knew that ghosts had little power to affect the physical realm.

  But the part of me that was human—the thinking, rational part of me—that part sighed in relief. Soon, it would be over, and I’d be able to rejoin Jesse in the next life. I lifted my head and looked up at the wizard.

  “Do it. Do it, coward!”

  Then a voice rumbled all around us.

  NO.

  It took us both a moment to realize that the voice came from the stone. It flew out of Crowley’s grasp and floated in the air between us.

  FOR MILLENNIA I HAVE WAITED TO HAVE MY REVENGE ON LUGH AND HIS KIND. HIS MAGIC HELD MY WILL AT BAY. NOW I AM RELEASED, AND THIS ONE’S DESIRES DO NOT SUIT MY OWN.

  Crowley reached out for the Eye to grab it, and it flared brilliantly with heat and light. He snatched his hand back with a cry, and tucked it blistered and burned against his chest.

  The wizard screamed with impotent fury at the Eye.

  “But I released you! I did it, and no one else. It was my plan. Mine. How dare you defy my will?”

  I AM NOT A GOD. BUT I ONCE CHANNELED A GOD’S POWER. WHO ARE YOU TO DEFY MY WILL, HUMAN?

  The Eye flared again and blasted Crowley’s form, but this time he was ready for it. Shadow magic wrapped around him as he cringed away, absorbing some of the blast and cushioning his fall as the power of the Eye flung him meters away into a pile of gravel and dirt. He l
anded in a twisted and unconscious heap, a partially charred rag doll missing half the skin on his face.

  The Eye swiveled back to me. The rational part of me reflected upon how much I hated sentient magical objects. But the living hate within took great pleasure at seeing Crowley brought low. A laugh rumbled from my misshapen lips.

  YOU REVEL IN PAIN AND DESTRUCTION. I WISH TO DESTROY THE LAST REMNANT OF THE TUATHA DÉ DANANN. WHAT BETTER CREATURE TO WIELD ME?

  At that, the Eye floated toward me, rapidly increasing in speed until it struck me in the forehead. I felt a searing, unbearable pain, like a red hot poker was being forced through my skull. Then, I lapsed into unconsciousness.

  24

  Journal Entry—9 Months, 27 Days A.J.

  Well, it looks like Jesse is going to stick around for a while. I’ll write more about it later, after I’ve had a chance to process what went down last night.

  -McC

  Austin, Texas—Present Day

  I awoke just as the first tendrils of light were peeking out over the fields of corn nearby, and sat up to take stock in my situation. I was nearly naked, and only a few tattered shreds remained of the pants I was wearing the night previous. My hands were swollen, red, and tender, but thankfully not the blackened and charred slabs of meat they’d been a few hours before. All the hair had been singed off my chest, but other than a circular red mark that resembled a bad sunburn, I was fine.

  The barn was nothing but ash, and the silo was lying on its side halfway across a cornfield, with one side smashed in to bear evidence of the fight I’d had with the fachen earlier. The fachen’s corpse was gone, as was Crowley, and despite searching the property I found neither hide nor hair of him or his imp. However, my search did turn up my Craneskin Bag, and although the shoulder strap was torn, it was otherwise undamaged. After rummaging around inside for a spare set of clothes and some Chuck Taylors, I tied a knot in the strap and slung it over my shoulder.

  By the time I got dressed, Belladonna was running toward me from the direction of the front gate, along with a squad of Circle hunters and wizards. Bells ran up to me and looked me over, checking me for wounds or other signs of injury. After a brief head to toe assessment, she sighed in relief and stepped back, just as her back up approached with a tall gray-haired man in the lead. He was dressed in urban digicam fatigues, and looked a bit like Sam Elliott did in that Hulk movie, the crappy one with Eric Bana.

  “You must be McCool. I’m Field Commander Gunnarson, obviously of the Cold Iron Circle. Where in the hell is my rogue wizard, McCool? And what in the name of Freya’s gilded tits happened here?” Huh, he kind of talked like Elliott, too.

  I glanced over his shoulder at Belladonna, who was now standing at parade rest just behind him and to his left. She shook her head ever so slightly, warning me not to say anything about what had happened.

  “I really don’t know, sir. He was trying to complete some ritual and I attempted to stop him. The last thing I remember was being flung from the window of that silo over there.” I pointed at the wreckage and tried to look shell-shocked, which was pretty easy to do at the moment.

  The Circle commander tongued his cheek. “Uh-huh. And you expect me to believe that you survived an attack from a wizard in possession of an ancient magical artifact, as well as that wizard’s hired Fomorian giant—all without going to the dark side again? Just what kind of stupid do you think I am, son?”

  “The Cold Iron Circle kind, sir?”

  That didn’t go over well. A vein started to throb in the middle of Gunnarson’s forehead, and his lip curled up at the corner of his mouth. One of his eyebrows started twitching, and I knew I’d struck nerve. He got up in my face and started yelling, spitting flecks of chewing tobacco spit in my face as he spoke.

  “Oh, you want to play games with me, druid? Let me tell you, son, I got more games than Milton-fucking-Bradley and more time to play them than Father-fucking-Time! Now, you will tell me exactly what happened here, or I will personally ream your ass so hard and long, you’ll think you got raped by a gods-damned jotunn!”

  Belladonna chose that moment to try to take some of the heat—bad move on her part. Not that I didn’t appreciate it.

  “Um, sir, I believe I can explain—”

  Gunnarson turned his steely gaze on her and spoke in a deep, calm voice. “Becerra, as usual your verbal interjections are just like cancer. Slow, sure, and completely fucking unwanted. If I want your opinion, I will tell you what it is. Is that understood?”

  Her face turned beet red, and she nodded. “Completely, sir.”

  That really ticked me off. He could dress me down all he wanted, but there was no way I was letting him talk that way to my friend.

  “You know what, Field Commander Gunnarson? You’re an asshole. Now let’s get one thing clear. I don’t work for the Circle, and I don’t answer to the Circle. If you think I’ve done something wrong, then you’re going to have to apprehend me—good luck with that.

  “But even then, if you somehow manage to take me in without triggering one of my ‘episodes,’” I made quotes in the air with my fingers as I said it, “then you’re going to have to answer to Luther, and I don’t think you’re prepared to kick that particular hornet’s nest.”

  Gunnarson’s fists clenched and his eyes tightened. He gestured to the squad of a half-dozen wizards and hunters who’d accompanied him onto the property. “Restrain this man,” he stated coldly.

  Just then, a sleek black limousine rolled up the gravel drive and came along beside us. The Circle hunters and wizards paused, checking to see who it might be and whether or not they would be a threat. As the car pulled to a stop, the rear window rolled down, and Maeve’s voice echoed from the back of the car.

  “Commander, a word.” He scowled and walked over to the car’s window. There was a brief, hushed conversation between them, then the window rolled back up and the car pulled away. The commander watched it drive off into the distance, and when he turned around his face was etched with frustration.

  “Strike team, belay that order. McCool, you’re free to go.” He spared me one final glance, then he strode off in a huff, screaming orders and obscenities at his team and sending them to and fro to secure the scene. Belladonna gave me a look of regret, then followed close on his heels.

  I looked around once and decided I’d had enough of these Cold Iron Circle clowns for one day. Pointedly ignoring the Circle hunters and wizards, I shuffled down the gravel drive to retrieve Sal’s car, whistling The Cramps’ Goo Goo Muck the whole way.

  I knew I couldn’t put off my meeting with Maeve forever, but decided that it was no good to try explaining what had happened on just a few hours of sleep. So, after heading back to the junkyard and sleeping till noon, I got up, dressed, and headed for her house.

  When I arrived, there was a ruby red Porsche Panamera parked in the driveway. The license plates read “FAEDIVA”—I could only assume it belonged to Siobhán. For one, Maeve never drove anywhere, and second she’d never be so droll as to have customized license plates. If I’d only noticed the plates back at CIRCE, it would have saved me a hell of a lot of trouble. Hmpf.

  As I headed up the front walk, of course the troll was nowhere to be seen. In its place were two gargoyles, perched atop a pair of pillars that framed the entrance to a stone terrace that hadn’t been there on my last visit. The stonework didn’t look new at all, but instead had a convincingly weathered appearance. If I didn’t know any better, I would have thought it had been there for decades. The gargoyles, true to form, remained completely still, but their stone eyes followed me all the way to the entrance.

  When I rang the doorbell, it was answered by none other than Siobhán. She was dressed more elegantly this time, in a long, front slit skirt that hugged her figure from hips to ankles, and a clingy, open-backed top that revealed more skin than it covered. She opened the door and stretched one arm lazily up the doorframe, resting her cheek against her shoulder and gazing at me with heavy-lidded
eyes.

  “Colin, what a pleasant surprise—Maeve will be so pleased. Do come in.” She turned and sashayed into the house, bearing a tight-lipped smile like the cat who ate the bird and got away with it.

  I cleared my throat. “I ran into a friend of yours last night.”

  She looked over her shoulder. “Really? And who might that be? I wouldn’t think we’d move in the same circles.”

  I tilted my head. “Meh, I’m full of surprises. It was your buddy, Crowley—he said to say hi if I saw you.”

  She sniffed and turned away. “Can’t say the name rings a bell.”

  “C’mon, Siobhán,” I countered. “I know you’re involved. I saw your car pulling out of CIRCE the other day, and I saw you speeding off from the junkyard the night of the attack.”

  She barely raised an eyebrow, as if she couldn’t be bothered to exert herself. “Now, Colin, Maeve is far too invested in you at the moment for me to go against her wishes and send that dreary old harbinger after you. And as far as this ‘Circe’ person you speak of, I have no idea who you’re talking about.”

  I smiled, but my eyes were cold as ice.

  “I didn’t say anything about what attacked us, Siobhán—to anyone.” Her brow furrowed ever so slightly. Game point, bitch. But despite the fact that she’d been caught, she gave not the slightest indication she was vexed by my accusations.

  “Perhaps I assumed, then. Come along.” She turned on heel and strutted off, adopting a swaybacked gait that almost made it worth it to be in her presence. Almost.

  I snickered and followed her through a few more rooms into a study, where Maeve was sitting in front of a very old, very expensive antique desk. She was wearing a pair of reading glasses that I doubted she needed, and was studying a large, ancient tome. When I tried to decipher the writing on the page she was reading, the letters squiggled and blurred and simply made my head hurt. We waited for her to finish whatever she’d been looking at, and she closed the book. My headache immediately receded.