by Kevin Hearne
But he also knew my weakness: Body blows would drain me until I had to slow down, and then it would be over. I suffered a couple of cracked ribs from his hammer fists and lost my breath again to a knee in my gut.
A lucky uppercut surprised him and he lost his feet, landing heavily on his backside, shaking his head to clear it. I had almost nothing left in my tank, so I collapsed across from him and dispelled my bindings, ending it.
I breathed heavily and bled on the quay, and Leif sat still except for his face, which was noisily reconstructing itself. Since he had recently dined he had plenty of energy for it. He wiped at the blood underneath his nose, looked surprised at how much there was on his sleeve, and then folded his legs underneath him. He dropped his head and shook it slowly as he spoke: “I know you will not believe me, but I have to say it anyway: In regard to Theophilus, I did not betray you.”
“Bullshit.”
“Drasche had me under surveillance. I thought my phone was secure but obviously I was overconfident. Theophilus really was in Prague, but once Drasche heard you might be coming, he sent his lover to Berlin and set up an ambush for you at the Grand Bohemia.”
“How could you possibly know that?”
“Because I am not completely cut off from information. Nothing is volunteered to me anymore, but I do have several people under surveillance myself, and one of them happens to be working for Drasche. My people intercepted a call from Drasche to this individual, telling him to get his undead ass over to the hotel because you were on the way. Unfortunately, I was unable to warn you. Your old number did not work and I left a voice mail with Hal Hauk since he did not answer. Please confirm with him.”
I would do that, but his excuse at least had the whiff of plausibility. I had called Leif using Ty’s phone, so he didn’t have my new number.
“And now? Where is Theophilus now, Leif?”
“At this precise instant, I cannot tell you. But I know where he will be soon enough.”
“Where?”
“What is that expression? ‘All roads lead to Rome,’ I believe?”
“He’ll be in Rome, where I’ve practically eliminated all the other old vampires? Why should I believe you this time when you’ve lied to me so often?”
“I did not lie about Prague. I guessed that he was there—which I made clear to you and which also turned out to be a correct guess—and I am not lying about this. He must go and reclaim the city to have any legitimacy with the rest of the world’s vampires. He considers the planet his empire, you know. But your guerrilla tactics have scattered us from our strongholds, driven us to hiding like rats in sewers, and, as you saw, feeding on drunkards in alleys. I do not particularly mind, but he cannot countenance that.”
“I don’t know. He ran away pretty quickly in Berlin. What makes you think he wants another confrontation?”
Leif chuckled. “I am sure that running away stung him, and now he is working himself up to a real fight. He has had it too easy for too long, has he not? All vampires have. Remember Cymbeline? Plenty and peace breed cowards—”
“And hardness ever of hardiness is mother. Of course I remember it. But it doesn’t follow that he’ll go straight to Rome.”
“I think it does. I think he imagines all sorts of scenarios where he crushes you in Rome and finally frees the undead from the Druidic threat. He must be the hero of all vampires, you see. His ego requires it. And my sources say it has been a couple of days, has it not, since your yewmen have staked any vampires?”
“Yeah. Cash-flow issues. Drasche’s plan worked in that regard.”
“Then the proverbial coast is clear. He will retake Rome and he will be bringing a small army with him to do it. He will wait for you to come get him, and this time he will be ready for yewmen. He will have a plan.”
“All right, Leif,” I said. “Let’s make a deal.”
CHAPTER 22
I have slept the slumber of the peaceful victor. And while a portion of my guilt remains, I believe I’m in a happy place. Even if I did it wrong, at least I finally did something about Beau Thatcher. Now it’s in the past, and maybe I can leave it there and simply enjoy my cup of fulfillment; I’d like to think that I delivered some karma to my stepfather rather than earned any bad karma of my own. It might be worthwhile to discuss it with Laksha; she seems to have a heightened sensitivity to actions and their consequences now.
Still, I cannot deny that I feel good. I’ve crossed off the biggest item on my life’s to-do list, and now I feel like sharing it with someone. But I haven’t heard from Atticus in a while. I text both him and Hal Hauk but receive no answer. If Atticus got into any sort of trouble over the past couple of weeks—and he almost certainly did—he’s probably switched to a new phone and I’ll need to wait for him to text me. And he won’t unless he’s truly worried; he’s sweet about giving me my space. But now that I can be with him without worrying that I’m showing Loki precisely where to find him and Oberon, I’d love to hook up again. The thing is that if I can’t reach him via cell phone and also have no ability to divine him, thanks to cold iron, he can be pretty difficult to find. Perhaps the Sisters of the Three Auroras might have ideas. If I ask them where the crazy magical stuff is happening in the world, they might be able to pin that down, and wherever that is, I’ll probably find Atticus. And if not, maybe it will turn out to be something that requires a Druid’s attention anyway.
There’s another reason to visit Warsaw: I’ve read a few of those poems by Wisława Szymborska now. “Nothing Twice” is fabulous, and so is “Theatre Impressions.” She’s definitely my kind of poet, and I think it’s time to learn Polish. Delivering that news will be welcome to the sisters, I’m sure, and make the trip worthwhile even if they’re not able to help otherwise. I will most likely spend quite a bit of time with the sisters in the near future, if they’re comfortable with it.
I discover, once we’re in Tír na nÓg and searching for spots, that there are no bound trees closer to Malina Sokołowska’s house than the black poplar in Pole Mokotowskie. I might need to fix that if I’m going to visit them more frequently. They have stands of pine trees nearby that would work just fine.
The jog to Radość is pleasant, though. It’s early afternoon in Warsaw when we arrive, and the streets are not terribly crowded between lunch and the rush hour home. The gate to Malina’s property is open, and Ewelina is sitting cross-legged on the ground outside the gate, smoking a cigarette. She flicks it into the hard-packed gravel of the street and rises, grinning, when she sees me. “Hello, Granuaile.” Devil horns. “Rock on.” She pushes the gate open wider and invites Orlaith and me to enter. Dominika immediately bounds out of the house and almost slips on the mossy steps as Ewelina closes the gate behind us.
“Whoops! Granuaile! You’re here! Come with me and talk to Miłosz!” She grabs my arm and yanks me around the side of the house.
“Oh … Okay. What’s the hurry? Is something wrong?”
“I think he’s sad. Will you talk to him for me?”
“Sure.” I smile faintly behind Dominika’s back. While I hope it’s nothing serious, I also doubt it’s anything but her imagination; it’s wonderful to see that Miłosz has someone to worry about him, though. He will be pampered instead of neglected now. He has his nose in a bag of oats when we clear the corner of the house.
Switching over my vision and binding my mind to his, I greet him and ask if he is well. He lifts his head out of the bag and nickers at me in recognition. He answers that he is mostly content.
Is anything wrong?
His reply is that he’d like to go for walks instead of being in this same area all the time—a request that sounds simple enough and certainly understandable but somewhat fraught with risk since Loki wants him back. The mark on his hide hasn’t been burned away, and I don’t think I could bear to hurt him to get rid of it with the Rune of Ashes. Besides, I think the sisters are almost hoping Loki makes a move to get him—but I think they want him to make that move here, wh
ere they have all their wards in place.
I tell Miłosz I’ll see what I can do about that and then relay his wishes to Dominika. “He just wants to go for walks.”
“Oh!” She bites her lip. “We won’t be able to protect him as well.”
“What if all of you accompanied him? The entire coven as opposed to simply you? Change up the times and routes so they’re not predictable, but be aware that an attack could come at any time?”
“Yeah. Tell him we’ll figure something out.”
Dominika’s and Miłosz’s worries temporarily relieved, I accept the invitation to baked goods this time and enter Malina’s house. There’s no old-world kitsch inside; it’s spare, modern, and minimalist, with a focus on large oil canvases and small bronze sculptures celebrating femininity.
I’m given tea and cake and chitchat from the witches in attendance. Only half the coven is here. The news that I’d like to tackle Szymborska and the Polish language is well received, and after that I judge it would be a good time to ask for a wee favor couched as an effort to help the coven. I address the leader.
“Listen, Malina, I’d like to find Atticus and ask him about the vampire situation, among other things. But he’s been out of touch and I’m not sure how to locate him at the moment. Might you have any idea how to do that?”
She blinks at me and says, “His cold iron aura shields him from our sight. He’s cloaked every bit as much as you are.”
“Oh, I know. But I thought we could be clever about it and search for where the ruckus is.”
“What do you…? Are you talking about something specific? If so, maybe we could find it. Could you describe the ruckus?”
“No, it’s not specific. I simply think that whatever you find will be vampire-related.”
“We have trouble divining the undead as well.”
“Yes, but I thought that by now they would have recruited a few magical allies. Atticus has been paying some Fae to assassinate them, and they’ve been quite effective. I think the vampires might start paying magic users of their own for protection. So I suppose what I’m saying is, wherever you detect that a large magical signature has flared up recently, that’s where Atticus will be. And if he’s not, well, maybe a large magical signature deserves my attention anyway.”
“Hmm.” Malina taps her index finger on the granite kitchen countertop a few times, considering. Her eyes travel around the room, taking in the witches present. There are six in all, and she nods. “Okay, it’s worth a try if it gets us closer to a vampire-free Poland. There are some here in Warsaw and a few others preying on students in Poznań that we particularly do not enjoy. Anna, will you remain here and give Granuaile her first Polish lesson? The rest of us will try to find the equivalent of a magical ruckus.”
As the other sisters file out to the back acreage, Anna does a little Muppet flail in her excitement to teach me her language. She grabs a pad and pen and starts with the alphabet and sounds. I’ve always liked the letter z, so discovering that Polish has three versions—z, ź, and ż—confirms that I have made the right choice. Time slips by in language acquisition over tea until Malina and the others return. I notice they have little moonshine yarrow blossoms in their hair.
“Rome,” Malina says without preamble. “You need to go to Rome.”
“Why? What’s happening there?”
“Something very strange is going on in the Piazza di Spagna. I’d say it’s almost Rosicrucian, except it feels a bit off.”
“I don’t know what you mean by that.”
“The short version is that there are powerful wards around some of the buildings there, but they’re unusually constructed. They’re probably traps. I wouldn’t simply walk in there to see what happens.”
“And these are recent?”
“Yes. We haven’t sensed anything like this before.”
“Okay,” I say, getting up. Orlaith rises with me and wags her tail. “I’m on it.”
“Be extremely careful, Granuaile. Call us if you want to talk about it once you take a closer look.”
“All right, will do.” I thank Anna for the language lesson and take my leave, jogging back to Pole Mokotowskie with Orlaith. I teach her the names for Italian charcuterie on the way, with the result that she can’t wait to try prosciutto and culatello and salama da sugo ferrarese.
“We’ll see what we find first once we get to Rome: a deli or Atticus and Oberon.”
CHAPTER 23
Funerals are a bit fancy now, I notice, since everyone dresses in the best black clothing they have. In me own day ye had one set of clothes, two if ye were doing well, and ye washed them when ye got tired of the dirt and the bugs on your balls, not because somebody died. But Greta gets me some proper mourning clothes, because that’s a sign of respect, she says, so I go along because Hal fecking deserves all the respect I can give—Nergüi too, of course, who entrusted his family to me.
It’s really a hastily arranged memorial service instead of a funeral. Hal left instructions to be buried in Iceland, and Nergüi is to be returned to Mongolia. But the idea is the same: Ye remember the fallen and share why they were important to ye and give what comfort ye can to the family, even if it’s fecking useless and your words can’t possibly mend the hole torn open in their world and the yawning abyss of the future without their loved one. People still need to know that ye would fix everything if ye could.
Since Greta came back, she hasn’t said very much beyond “We’ll talk later” and a few grunts. I don’t have to cast wands to guess that it won’t be a pleasant talk, and I admit me guts are in a twist about it. Since I got pulled back into this time, the only thing that’s kept me from throwing shite at people is Greta. I know that when ye think o’ love you’re supposed to think o’ kissy faces and scented soap and hummin’ happy songs together, but there’s another vital part to it that people rarely admit to themselves: We want somebody to rescue us from other people. From talking to them, I mean, or from the burden of giving a damn about what they say. We don’t want to be polite and stifle our farts, now, do we? We want to let ’em rip and we want to be with someone who won’t care if we do, who will love us regardless and fart right back besides. I’m thinkin’ that maybe Greta could be that person for me. Or she could have been, until the fecking vampires showed up.
The entire Tempe Pack has driven up for the memorial on Greta’s land, and I think the plan is they’re going to do a run in the mountains later tonight for Hal, with most if not all the Flagstaff Pack joining them for Nergüi, and the next full moon will be dedicated to them as well. I hear dark mutterings that the vampires will be paying for this.
Meg and Tuya are going to stay, which surprises me. Nergüi and Meg both wanted their daughter to be a Druid, and Meg hasn’t changed her mind about it. They’re going to take care of things in Mongolia for a while and then they’ll be back.
I keep me face shut during the memorial; I didn’t know Hal or Nergüi half so well as the rest, and this is a pack thing if anything is. There are some interesting noises made at werewolf memorials: half barks and yips and growls, plus faces sliding around as they fight to keep hold of their emotions and their human forms. Nobody completely loses it, though. Afterward, Greta crooks a finger at me and we walk off some distance into the trees before she speaks. She has a black veil over her eyes, but the cold blue of them still seizes me when she looks up. Her voice is tight and controlled and distant. She’s wearing a man’s suit and tie in silver, which has some kind of symbolism to the pack. Out of the inside jacket pocket she withdraws the plastic bag that Hal brought with Siodhachan’s new documents in it. She tosses it to me and then spits to the side.
“I want you to find him and tell him he’s not welcome here anymore. He’s not welcome among any members of the Tempe or Flagstaff packs, and, yes, I speak for Sam and Ty in this.”
She waits for me to say something, but if she’s expecting an argument she’s going to be disappointed. “Okay,” I says.
“I
wouldn’t ask you to never speak to him again. But I cannot stress how much we are tired of his shit. No, no—tired isn’t the word. Furious, enraged, ready to destroy him—that’s closer. We do not want our pack to be collateral damage in his endless series of crises. So henceforth we will have no association with him whatsoever.”
I don’t know what collateral damage is, so I just nod and look it up later. Greta takes that as her cue to continue. “If you wish to meet with him, do so far away from here. How he gets in touch with you must be mundane as well. No Fae messengers. He needs to use either mail or social media. I will help you with that if you need it.”
“All right.” I’m so relieved that she’s not sending me packing over this that I can’t manage anything else.
“No favors. No more IDs. His legal relationship with Magnusson and Hauk is terminated, and they will serve papers to that effect. No watching his hound or his sword—which Sam and Ty brought to the service, by the way, and you’re to take with you. It’s waiting in the house, on the dining room table. So nothing from now on. He may live in peace outside our territory, but if he is stupid enough to enter it again, we will do whatever we can to end his very long life. Is that clear?”
“Absolutely.”
Tension drains out of her shoulders, and she exhales slowly and closes her eyes. She’d said what she wanted to say.
“Good. Do you have any questions?”
“I don’t suppose maybe the law firm has any idea where he is? Maybe I can get this over with quickly.”
She shakes her head. “My guess would be Rome, but I don’t know. Can’t the Fae find him?”
