by Kevin Hearne
Gadzooks! Brighid just said she owed me. That was a huge admission, and not what I had expected at all. “I beg your pardon? I do not understand.”
Brighid removed her helmet, and her red hair spilled out across her pauldrons like one of those self-inflating life rafts. It wasn’t sweaty or tangled from being confined in a helmet across miles of desert. It was glorious, shining, Age of Aquarius hair that would make Malina Sokolowski envious, a full-blown movie star ’do that a team of stylists would spend three hours teasing before the cameras rolled. It smelled of lavender and holly. I remembered to breathe only with some effort.
“I will explain,” Brighid said. “But might you have any tea? It has been a long journey from Tír na nÓg.”
I leapt to my feet and hurried behind the counter where Oberon waited patiently. “Oh, certainly,” I gushed. Making tea for the goddess of fire was so much better than being summarily incinerated by the goddess of fire.
Let me check, I told him. “My wolfhound would like to greet you, Brighid. Would that be acceptable to you as I brew your tea?”
“You have a hound here? Where is he?”
I dispelled Oberon’s camouflage and told him to mind his manners. He trotted into view and padded up to Brighid with his tail wagging like a metronome set to something allegro. She had seated herself at one of my tables, and she smiled at his enthusiasm.
“My, you are impressive. Can you speak?” She was binding her consciousness to his so that she’d be able to hear his answer.
“And it’s nice to meet you, Oberon, Shakespeare’s King of the Fae.” She smiled, scratching him behind the ears with a gauntleted hand. “Who is Atticus?”
“That would be me,” I admitted.
“Oh? Nobody told me you were using a new name. They always use your proper name when they speak of you in Tír na nÓg. I suppose you must make interesting choices, living amongst the mortals as you do. But you,” she said to Oberon, cupping her hand underneath his jaw, “I hear you killed a man. Is that true?”
I had been measuring loose-leaf tea into sachets as the water boiled, but at this I looked up sharply. Oberon’s tail stopped wagging and dropped between his legs. He sat down and whined.
“Yes, I know. I don’t blame you, Oberon. In a way, it was my fault. I sent Flidais to see your master.”
Gods Below! If she kept dropping bombs like that, I’d have to be very careful when handling the boiling water.
“Things didn’t go the way I planned at all,” she added. She began removing her steel gauntlets to pet him better. They clanked noisily on the table, and the magic in them was palpable. The armor of a forge goddess would be sans pareil—I wondered what it would take to even scratch it. Like, Fragarach, maybe? “And now things have gotten to the point where I need to get directly involved.”
“I might be able to in normal circumstances. Unfortunately, someone is trying very hard to make sure that they don’t forget about you.”
“Wait, please, don’t say anything else,” I said. “Let me just pour this water and sit down, then we can talk.”
“Very well. Would you like a belly rub while we wait, Oberon?”
Trivia: Brighid takes milk and honey in her tea. Just like me.
“Thank you,” she said, before taking a sip and sighing appreciatively.
“Most welcome,” I replied, and sat down and took a moment to savor the surrealism. I was having tea with Brighid, a goddess I’d worshipped since childhood, in a city that didn’t exist when I was a child. And my wolfhound was joining us—I had made him a cup and cooled it down with ice, and he was now lapping it up from a dish on the floor.
Brighid appreciated it too, for she smiled and said, “This is very strange.”
“I like strange things,” I said. “At least the non-threatening kind of strange.”
“Yes. Unfortunately, there has been plenty of the threatening kind of strange going on lately. You deserve an explanation, I think.”
“That would be lovely,” I allowed.
“Here, then, is the short version: My brother Aenghus Óg is moving against me. He seeks to supplant me as supreme amongst the Tuatha Dé Danann, but I suspect this is only a stepping-stone to something larger. To that end, whatever it may be, he has been collecting all the enchanted weapons and armor he can. He even got my fool of a husband to ask me to make a set of armor that would stop the blade of Fragarach. Not asking him why, I made some ridiculous-looking stuff and told him it would make him invincible. He promptly put it on and got himself killed, so well done, Druid.”
“Um …” I didn’t know what to say.
“I would have had to kill him myself if things had gone much farther. As it is, I would still like to avoid direct conflict with Aenghus Óg if I can. Descending to the level of battle is … distasteful, especially with one’s own brother.”
Descending to the level of death is also distasteful, and that’s a distinct possibility once one is in a battle. I kept that thought to myself, however, and nodded sympathetically.
“Aenghus wants Fragarach because he believes it will penetrate my armor,” she said, tapping her helmet.
“Won’t it?”
“I don’t know for sure,” Brighid said. “This armor is an honest attempt to forge something immune to Fragarach, unlike what I gave to Bres. I’d rather not test it.”
“I would never wield Fragarach against you.”
Brighid laughed. It was like listening to a symphony that makes you shiver and cry for the joy of it.
“I know that, Atticus. And I would rather Aenghus not wield it against me either.”
“I’d have to be dead first.”
“Precisely. I think you are fit to wield it, and I would rather it remain in your possession. But Aenghus definitely wants it and he is manipulating events to make sure it falls to him. You may have noticed some of this already.”
“You mean the Fir Bolgs who attacked me last night? I noticed that, yeah.”
“I was speaking of other matters. For example, the mortal police pursuing your wolfhound.”
“But that came about because of Flidais, and you said you sent her.”
“I sent her to warn you, yes. But that park ranger was the work of my husband, doing Aenghus’s bidding. The police are now tools of the love god.”
“They’re definitely tools,” I agreed.
“They will try to find a way to take the sword from you, even if you resist. Aenghus hopes you will, because the police will pull their weapons and take the sword from you at the first sign of resistance. He will have no trouble taking it from them after that.”
“I see. They will probably get that search warrant, then. I should warn my lawyer.”
“There is more. Aenghus has recruited a coven of witches against you.”
“What?” I said. “Which coven?”
“They call themselves the Sisters of the Three Auroras.”
I felt the spike in my blood pressure immediately. “But they claim to want nothing to do with Aenghus Óg! One of them is bedding him, and she asked me to brew a tea to make him impotent!”
“Aenghus Óg arranged the entire thing with them. It is both a way to give him just cause to kill you and a way to get the witches close to you.”
“But I have Radomila’s blood!” I spluttered. My outrage was sloshing over and turning to spittle. “Her coven is pledged to do me a favor in return for my services!”
“They are counting on you not being around much longer to collect,” Brighid said. “If you ask them to do anything that conflicts with Aenghus Óg’s interests, this Radomila will
be conveniently unavailable.”
“What do the witches get out of the deal? Aenghus must have promised them something huge.”
“I do not know for sure. My guess is that he has promised them free traveling privileges through Tír na nÓg.”
I gave a low whistle. “That would allow them to become a very powerful coven.”
“Yes. But they are not the only group he is making promises to. He has enlisted the help of the Fomorians, he has stirred up a large number of the Fae against me, and I suspect he has made some bargains with hell.”
That could be a fairly huge problem. There were way more of them than me, and they wouldn’t listen to my lawyer. “What about the rest of the Tuatha Dé Danann? Where do they stand?”
“Most of them are with me. The idea of Fomorians and demons in Tír na nÓg does not make a convincing sales pitch.”
“What about the Morrigan?”
“No one knows, because no one has spoken to her.” Brighid grinned wryly. “I think Aenghus was worried she would end his plotting prematurely. For my part, I would rather not be in her debt. She does not work well with others.”
“She has spoken to me,” I said. “She is already suspicious that something is going on and is incensed at being left out.”
“She will get herself involved as she chooses. Are you willing to get involved, Druid?”
“I already am involved, it seems.”
“I am asking you to choose sides. My side, specifically.”
“Done,” I said instantly. What moral dilemma was there? She wanted me to keep the sword; Aenghus wanted to take it. She liked me alive; Aenghus didn’t. She was hot; Aenghus was not.
“My thanks.” She smiled so warmly, I felt as if my kidneys had melted. “Kill Aenghus Óg for me and I shall reward you.” I have to admit that some of the warm fuzzies flew away right there. It made me feel like a mercenary. “And should you run into some demons, I have a gift for you. Give me your right hand.”
I placed my right hand in her left. Her palm was cool to the touch, calloused from the forge; her fingers were long and strong. She placed her right index finger onto the loop of my tattoo and tried to do … something. Uh-oh.
“I do not understand.” She frowned. “Something is preventing me from giving you the power of Cold Fire.”
I kept my face carefully neutral, while part of me was screaming inside and another part was thinking, Cooooooool. My amulet had just prevented her from performing magic on me. It might have even protected me from summary incineration, had the meeting gone differently—it was not the sort of thing I wanted to test. But now she would become aware of its existence, and things could get awkward.
“Your aura is strange, Druid,” she said, sitting back in her chair, noticing it for the first time. “What have you done to it?”
“I have bound it with cold iron,” I said, pulling my necklace out from underneath my shirt. “It protects me from most magic.”
Brighid said nothing at first, just sat and stared at my necklace. Then she said, “It is also protecting you from my aid. I cannot give you Cold Fire. If you face any demons, you will be left to your own devices, and I cannot see how that will avail you if you cannot use magic.”
“Oh, I can use magic.”
“Does not the iron prevent it?”
“I have discovered a solution to the old problem.”
“Remarkable that you have found one where I have not,” said the goddess of the forge.
“Have you truly tried?”
“No,” she admitted. “I thought it was impossible.”
“Turns out it’s only next to impossible.”
“Have you tested it against demons?”
“It prevents succubi from casting their charms on me.”
“But you have not had to deal with hellfire or any other hellish attacks?”
“Not yet.”
“You will need to test it soon. You need a way to deal with demons. Lots of them, if I am right about who Aenghus has been talking to.”
“What does this Cold Fire do?”
“It allows you to burn them from within, but it burns like ice burns. It takes a lot of energy and it drains you—even if you draw power from the earth, it will drain you—but it will save you from being overwhelmed in a fight. Alas, I cannot give it to you.”
“Sure you can,” I said, and I took the necklace off. It changed my aura immediately, and I became nervous. She could hurt me as easily as help me now if she liked.
“That is truly wondrous craft, Siodhachan,” she said admiringly, noticing how my aura changed. She’d forgotten my chosen name already and used the one I was born with. “I would have you teach it to me.”
I was afraid of this. “My apologies, Brighid, but I have sworn to keep it a secret.” I left out the rest of the sentence, which said, “except from the Morrigan,” and hurried on before she thought to ask to whom I had sworn. “But now that you know such a thing is possible, I have no doubt that you can figure it out on your own. I counsel patience. This craft took me seven hundred and fifty years.”
She did not appear offended, thankfully. Disappointed, yes. But as she continued to stare at the necklace on the table next to her gauntlets, her expression slowly changed. She looked delighted.
“You have given me a new challenge, Druid, and a most worthy one,” she said. “I will try to fashion my own in a shorter period of time. I know you cannot tell me how it was made without breaking your oath, but will you allow me to inspect it from time to time?”
“Of course,” I said.
“Am I right in thinking this necklace will work for no one but you?”
“Yes. It is bound specifically to me. For anyone else it would simply be jewelry.”
“I see now why you have survived so long.”
I blushed at her compliment and she put out her left hand again, smiling. I placed my right hand in hers, and she held it as she touched her finger to the loop of my tattoo. This time I felt something, a rush of heat and ice through my veins and a spell of dizziness.
“Now you have the power of Cold Fire,” Brighid said. “It works only on hellspawn, and both you and your targets must be touching the earth. Point at your targets with your right hand, collect your will, and say ‘Dóigh,’ and they will be destroyed—though I warn you again, it takes a tremendous amount of your energy, so use it sparingly, and remember it will also take a few moments for them to die.”
“Thank you, Brighid.”
“Don’t thank me yet,” she said, giving Oberon a last scratch before donning her gauntlets again. “Despite the advantages you have, you are all that is keeping Aenghus Óg and his allies from moving openly against me. They are legion and you are one man, and I am glad you are so willing to stand in front of them. But I half-expect you to be dead by the dawn.”
On that cheery note, she leaned across the table and kissed me. She tasted of milk and honey and berries, and it was simply blissful.
Chapter 15
I thought Sundays were supposed to be relaxing. As a male citizen of America, I’m entitled on Sundays to watch athletic men in tight uniforms ritualistically invade one another’s territory, and while they’re resting I get to be bombarded with commercials about trucks, pizza, beer, and financial services. That’s how it’s supposed to be; that’s the American dream.
I suppose I cannot complain, because I’m not really a citizen of America. Mr. Semerdjian called the INS on me once, in fact. I waved my hand in front of the agents’ faces and said, “I’m not the Druid you’re looking for.” They were not amused. I waved my hand again and said, “Move along,” and they got out their handcuffs. That’s when I got out my slightly scuffed yet soigné illegal documents, prepared for me by Leif Helgarson, Bloodsucking Attorney-at-Law. And after the INS agents went away, t
hat’s when I sent Oberon over to poop on Mr. Semerdjian’s lawn for the first time.
We have not been on good terms since then. We never were, of course, but at least for the first few years he cheerfully ignored me. When he began to harass me, I suspected him of being either abysmally stupid or a pawn of the Fae. Turned out he was just mean, and dog shit on his lawn turned him into Flibbertigibbet, a regular Lebanese Tom o’ Bedlam.
Now I suspected I was a pawn of the Fae. I didn’t know whose pawn I was, precisely. I felt somewhat like Korea, with the United States and China fighting a proxy war through me.
I didn’t want to be a pawn. Or Korea. It would be better to be a knight. Or Denmark. The Danes used to kick everyone’s ass—until their victims figured out where they came from.
And that was precisely my problem. People knew where to find me. Especially, it seemed, on this particular Sunday.
I was calling a contractor to do an emergency replacement of my melted shop door when I saw, through the window, a familiar Crown Victoria pull up. Detective Carlos Jimenez climbed out, and shortly afterward a couple more cars screeched into parking spaces, and cops with sunglasses lumbered out of them to adjust their waistbands and check that their shirts were still tucked in. Detective Darren Fagles, the one who fancied himself a Reservoir Dog, had an official-looking piece of paper flapping in his hand, the legal-size sort with lots of fine print.
I hung up the phone as the contractor was in mid-sentence and told Oberon to leap up on top of the far table by the wall. “Curl yourself on top and don’t move a muscle. Not an ear twitch, not a tail wag, nothing until these guys leave.”
“Those cops are coming. If any of them manages to see you somehow, I want you to run out of here and go straight to the widow’s backyard and hide there, okay? Don’t wait for me to tell you.”
“They might be able to. They’ve certainly had help getting this far.” Oberon jumped gingerly onto the table, dwarfing it but just able to coil himself on its top. As soon as he settled down, all hints of his presence disappeared. I shot a quick glance at Fragarach, still resting on the shelf underneath my counter, and cast camouflage on it for insurance.
