Staked (Iron Druid Chronicles)

by Kevin Hearne

  He’d know, I suppose. I see a hole in Sam’s side, and if that was a silver bullet he’d be at death’s door himself instead of walking around. Someone would have to dig that out of him before his skin closed over it; accelerated healing can have that drawback against these modern weapons.

  “Doesn’t make sense to come in here with only one clip of silver rounds,” Ty says.

  “It does if you’re traveling in a hurry and expecting only one werewolf instead of fourteen,” I tell him. “I don’t think ye were the target. I think they were after me and knew that Greta would be here.”

  “Oh. You think this is that vampire war against Druidry?”

  “Aye, that’s what I figure. Siodhachan told me he was going to go around blowing shite up and something like this might happen. I have wards on the house, but they never got close enough to trip them. And I didn’t expect firearms. I’m sorry.”

  “Ffffuck,” Sam swears. “I have phone calls to make and a memorial service to arrange. And this isn’t over. Killing a well-loved pack leader like that is going to have consequences.”

  “Wait,” I says. “Let me help you with that bullet, at least. And anyone else who got shot. I can maybe pull it out of there without digging around too much.”

  The iron content makes it a challenge to bind those bullets to me palm, but not an insurmountable one, and it’s better and faster than going in with tweezers. Nobody was facing the window directly when the bullets started flying, so most of the wounds are in the sides, arms, and legs, and a few glanced off ribs.

  They’ll all be fine in a few days, but no one’s worried about that. We have to get dressed and look presentable before we bring the kids up out of the basement. And it falls to me and Ty to tell Meg and Tuya—through a translator—that Nergüi got killed. It’s really on me, but Ty feels some responsibility too. The pack, he says, should be represented and reassure them that they are still welcome and will be taken care of.

  I expect I’ll lose Tuya as an apprentice; even if she wants to continue, I’m not sure that’s something Meg would want. People understandably want to avoid pain, and I think this house—especially the basement—will always be a source of pain for them. They might decide to forgo the company of wolves and Druids from now on, and I would not blame them. And Greta, when she comes back, might not be too fond of Druids either. I’ve failed them all so miserably, I’m not sure I want to keep me own company anymore.

  CHAPTER 21

  I’m not even a quarter of the tracker that Flidais is, and I didn’t want to ask for her help finding Theophilus again but I saw no other choice. She flatly refused to help, however, for the very good reason that, shortly after helping me earlier, she heard that Fand had escaped her prison and Manannan Mac Lir was most likely responsible.

  “Oh,” I said. “That’s not good at all.”

  “No. Finding her is my priority now.” It would be Brighid’s priority too, no doubt, and most likely Owen’s, since he had a hand in imprisoning her. If I knew him at all, he was incandescently pissed at himself right now. He couldn’t go around calling other people cock-ups if he made such a huge one himself.

  Perhaps Fand’s escape and Manannan’s disappearance would wind up becoming a priority of mine soon enough, but for the moment I needed to end the vampire threat. Three Druids against tens of thousands of vampires was terrible odds, no matter our advantages. I was on my own again and out of options—except for a more personal one. Leif Helgarson had sent me into a death trap in Prague. It wasn’t the first time he’d played me and I doubted it would be the last, because I had a blind spot where he was concerned—or maybe a stubborn resistance to thinking he really cared nothing for me during all those years he was my attorney and friend. The cold, rational thing to do would be to track him down and unbind him, to eliminate his ability to mess up my life anymore, but instead I wanted to track him down and just beat the hell out of him. If there was, in fact, any hell at all to be beaten out.

  I was still not clear on the true nature of vampires but had serious doubts that they were the creatures of hell that the Hammers of God and popular culture thought they were. To my knowledge, they were not truly repelled by crosses or holy water. To inflict real damage you had to assault their centers of power, around the heart or head, or else burn them. Actual fire was best, but the sun would do. A nice, old-fashioned smackdown, though? Leif would shrug that off in a day and I’d feel a whole lot better.

  But how to find him? He claimed to be in Normandy, which might or might not be true, but even if it was true, that didn’t exactly give me his address. I couldn’t find him via divination, but if he was in Normandy, perhaps I could find who would be his next meal: someone staggering alone at night, drunk on pinot noir. And maybe if I asked Mekera to help—she was far better at divination than I—she could track down Manannan and Fand in the bargain.

  I’d left Mekera, the world’s greatest tyromancer and infamous hermit, on Emhain Ablach, the Isle of Apples, just before shifting to Toronto. She’d been the one to help me find that vampire directory, in return for removing her to a safe place where she wouldn’t be bothered. I’d promised to tell Manannan she was there and ask him to take care of her, but I realized that I hadn’t ever gotten around to that and now he was missing. That gave me excuse enough to interrupt her solitude. She might actually need something. Or Manannan might be there.

  Shifting to Emhain Ablach meant that Oberon was reminded of his determination to make chicken apple sausage out of the rare apple varieties there and the legendary Vicious Chicken of Bristol. He was trying to pin me down on where to find the best fennel and other spices for The Book of Five Meats as I called out for Mekera. We had to circle halfway around the island before we got a response.

  “Hello, Siodhachan,” she said, coming out of the trees. “Back for another cheese?”

  “Yep. Did you see me coming in advance?”

  “No. Haven’t been able to make a cheese since I got here, so no divination. Haven’t seen this god you told me would be dropping by either.”

  “Oh. I was going to ask.”

  “What is it you want?”

  “I’d like to know where that god is, where a vampire will dine in Normandy tonight, and where to find an escaped goddess.”

  “Location, location, location. Three questions, three cheeses. All right. Go shopping for me, and that’ll be payment enough.”

  “What do you need?”

  “Only everything. I got out of Ethiopia with some vegetable rennet, but I lack dairy here and all my other supplies. I’ll make you a list.”

  “All right.”

  “I mean as soon as you bring me paper and pen. I’m really starved for resources here, except apples. Unless it’s safe for me to return to my home?”

  “Not yet. Just tell me what you need and I’ll remember.”

  It was a very long list. “That’s going to be a lot of shoplifting,” I muttered, but she heard me.

  “You don’t have any money?” Mekera said. “I find that hard to believe.”

  “If you go with me, I’ll pay you back.”

  She rolled her eyes. “You’re determined to get me back into the world.”

  “No, it’s not that. I want to help, but I don’t want to steal if I don’t have to.”

  “Let’s go, then. I’ll reintroduce myself to my bank.”

  It was hours of errands after that, but Mekera was efficient and knew what she wanted and where to get it. In addition to cheese-making paraphernalia, she picked up a few more outfits and plenty of food that wasn’t apples. When she finally got started on her tyromancy, most of the day had burned away.

  In the pattern of the curdling cheese she divined the future, the complex patterns revealing truth to her far more clearly than my wands ever could.

  She began with Fand: “She’s not on earth. A different plane. A castle surrounded by a fen. Lots of yew trees. Creepy.”

  She’d taken up residence in the Morrigan’s Fen? At fi
rst I was surprised that the Fae living there would permit it. Those loyal to the Morrigan tended to attack first and never question it later. Then I thought of a reason why they might and privately bet that Manannan was there with her. Mekera confirmed it with the next cheese.

  “He’s in the same place.” It made sense; now that the Morrigan was dead, Manannan had taken over her primary role as psychopomp, escorting the dead to whatever afterlife they had earned. The Fae there would accept him as the heir to the plane and protect him—and Fand as well, which I’m sure was her intention.

  The last cheese was a longer process, since we didn’t have a name to look for. We instead needed to find a place in Normandy where someone would fall victim to sudden blood loss via the neck. That could mean we’d get a false positive—someone getting their throat slashed—but I was hoping slasher crimes weren’t all that common in Normandy. Or that there weren’t a large number of vampires there.

  “It’ll happen in Le Havre,” Mekera said, after studying the curds. “I can get an address: Seven Rue de Bretagne. It’s not a house—some kind of business. But I don’t have a name for it.”

  “When?”

  “Very soon. Within the hour.”

  “Anything about the victim? Male or female?”

  “Male. Middle-aged.”

  “Thanks! You’re amazing, Mekera. But I gotta go. I’ll be in touch. I hope.”

  “What?”

  “You’ll be fine. And I’ll pay you back!”

  It was an abrupt leave-taking, but I didn’t want to miss Leif. I’d have to shift to someplace outside the city and jog in, no doubt, and when I checked the bound trees nearby, sure enough the closest one was miles out of town to the north.

  “We have to move fast, Oberon,” I said once we arrived. “Stick with me and watch for cars when we cross streets.”

  he asked.

  “I honestly don’t know,” I answered. “Maybe. It’ll be a reckoning.”

  It took twenty minutes to get there, with a couple of quick stops to ask directions. The address turned out to belong to a restaurant that didn’t cater to tourists; one either spoke French there or pointed at the menu.

  I walked right in with Oberon, shocking the sophisticants dabbing at their lips with linen napkins. “Mon Dieu!” one man said, so startled by my hound’s appearance that he dropped his fork into some delicate sauce, which splashed onto his lap. “Qu’est-ce que ce foutu gros chien fait ici?”

  Oberon asked.

  Yes, but that means big in French, as it does in German.

  Leif wasn’t in the restaurant—a fairly decent affair, with twenty tables—though there were several middle-aged men enjoying wine. I pushed past a waiter and ignored the exclamations of the staff as I entered the kitchen. No vampire at the sous station; not hiding in the freezer either. The saucier got saucy with me and demanded that I leave, and I told him I was leaving so that he didn’t try to escalate any further. I made for the back door, shouty chefs with kitchen implements trailing after me, and burst through into a dank alley with a foul trash bin and a couple of scooters parked nearby. A thud on the cobbled stones drew my eyes to the right, where I spotted the blond-haired Leif Helgarson, who launched into a cover story in French upon being discovered: “Oh, thank God you’re here, this man needs help! He just—” He stopped and switched to English. “Oh. Hello, Atticus.”

  “Is he still alive?”

  “For the moment.”

  I flicked my eyes to the trash bin. Behind a restaurant like this, they got emptied often and people expected a terrible smell. Great place to dump a body.

  “A little fast food, easily disposable?”

  He ignored the question and asked, “How did you find me?”

  I ignored his question right back. “Let’s talk about why I went to the trouble.”

  We were interrupted by the saucier coming outside to make sure I was gone. I shoved him back into the kitchen and slammed the door closed. “But let’s talk elsewhere. I’ve drawn attention to myself, and that’s not good for either of us.”

  “Agreed. There is a quay along the Bassin du Commerce. We should find privacy there.”

  “All right.” Switching to my mental link, I said, Keep me between you and Leif, Oberon. I don’t want him deciding to take a swipe at you.

 

  I don’t know. Let’s be cautious.

  We walked in silence out of the area and to Quai Lamblardie, where pedestrian traffic was light as long as we stayed away from the bridge spanning the basin. Sirens announced that Leif’s victim had been discovered—most likely by the kitchen staff. And since they hadn’t seen Leif, they would probably pin it on me, unless the wine-soaked man could tell them anything about Leif. I doubted he would; Leif had probably charmed him.

  The skies above Le Havre were clear as we walked along the quay, and in truth it was a beautiful night there. The Bassin du Commerce was a long and rectangular stretch of water designed to provide attractive reflections during the night and add value to the real estate ringing it, and perhaps to inspire romance between couples walking along it. Leif and I were not that kind of couple. I was inspired to punch him in the mouth, and he sensed it.

  “Your heart rate is elevated and you are giving off many other signals of aggression, Atticus. Should I be worried?”

  “Not terribly. I don’t mean to unbind you, anyway. Don’t give me a reason.”

  “Never fear. Continuing this existence is my primary goal.”

  “And what are your other goals? Do you wish to see me dead?”

  “Of course not. As the famous Vulcan said on more than one occasion, I wish for you to enjoy extreme old age and economic bounty.”

  “What? That’s not even close to how he said it.”

  “Oh, I may have paraphrased. Does it matter?”

  “Gods below, yes. You can’t go around messing up Spock like that.”

  “A pity. I thought I had finally caught on to something ‘cool’ there, in the sense that beans are cool in the phrase ‘cool beans.’”

  “Gah, just shut up.”

  “But the sentiment is true. I wish you only happiness.”

  “I sincerely doubt it. That’s just a phrase you stole out of the Machiavellian playbook.”

  “I do beg your pardon, old friend, but I do not think you can judge me. Do you not have your own agenda? Do you not manipulate others to further your own ends?”

  “I’m not even close to you in that regard. I don’t betray people like you did me.”

  “I am surprised you still harbor a grudge over a necessary step. Removing Zdenik was the only way to get where I am now, and you were the only way to remove him.”

  “What? Where are you now? Feasting on winos in Le Havre—that’s a step up for you?”

  “I was not referring to my dining preferences. I meant I am in a position to remove Theophilus from power.”

  “Oh, so that’s what it was all about? You can frame it like you’re doing the world a favor, but cut the shit: This is all about you.”

  “Fair enough, but again, I must ask: How are you different? Are you not even now acting in your own self-interest? You can claim to be fighting the scourge of vampires on Gaia’s behalf, but let us be honest: This is all about you. Gaia cares not whether we graze on the humans. We are no threat to her existence. So what you are doing is pursuing a personal vendetta against Theophilus. And I thought you would have learned a thing or two about revenge when we visited Asgard together.”

  Aaaaaand that’s when I punched him. Knocked him right off the Quai Lamblardie and into the water, not caring whether anybody saw and reported a public brawl or attempted drowning. When Leif fought his way to the surface and climbed the brick walls of the man-made basin, I lost control and shouted at him.

  “You arrogant fuck! I was only there because of you! The mountains of shit I’m dealing with
regarding the Norse are all due to that trip, and I only made it because I was trying to be loyal to you! Gods below, I put you back together after Thor pounded your head to gelatin! And then you betrayed me and got me involved in this vampire business!”

  “You cannot pretend you had no hand in escalating it,” Leif said, scaling the wall.

  “What does that have to do with your betrayal? When someone hits me, I hit back.”

  “So do I.” He coiled and sprang vertically over my head, tumbling once in the air and landing within striking distance. I hadn’t enhanced my strength or speed, so I wasn’t able to dodge or block his blow to my midsection. The air whuffed out of me and I staggered back, gasping for oxygen. He didn’t follow up but rather stripped off his jacket with disgust and whipped the sodden mess to the ground.

  “You have ruined this suit. Salt water contaminated with motor oil and the remains of many unlucky fish. Disgusting. Not that you care.”

  “No, I don’t,” I managed to say between gulps for air. With my breath returning, I said the words to increase my strength and speed. Enhanced by those bindings, I would be his physical equal—at least while the energy in my bear charm lasted. Leif knew from experience what I was doing and smiled faintly, setting himself in a defensive position.

  “Theophilus was in Berlin, not Prague,” I said, settling into a kung fu opening stance.

  “Yes, I heard.”

  “Did I get him?”

  “No. He yet lives. But you got some very old ones there, some older than me. Well done.” He gave a few polite golf claps and smirked.

  And then we had us a fight. Fast and brutal and skilled, like our old sparring sessions back in Arizona, except that now I was genuinely angry and had limited resources available. I could neither afford to take my time or make costly sacrifices that I might make with the knowledge that I could heal it quickly.

  One thing I had learned from my old sessions with Leif was that it was useless to deliver body blows to a creature that did not depend on oxygen for energy. He never ran out of breath or stamina in the human sense, so those were a waste of time. Blows to the head could disorient him, however, and opening cuts above the eyes could blind him and make him more vulnerable. Though most of my blows got blocked or redirected, I did manage to plant a fist into his nose, and my elbow shattered a cheek.