Hounded (with Bonus Content)

by Kevin Hearne

  “All right. Detective Fagles shot me for no good reason while I had my hands up and was making no threatening movements or statements. The brave and decisive action of Detective Carlos Jimenez prevented me from suffering further injury and possibly saved my life. I am going to sue Tempe for millions. How’s that?”

  “That was great. Thanks. Where are you off to in such a hurry?”

  “Maybe I’m going to a titty bar. It’s none of your business. Come on, Doctor, let’s go.” Snorri began to roll me forward, and as he did, Jimenez registered what was slung around the back of my wheelchair.

  “Hey, is that a scabbard? Or a sword, rather?”

  “Whoa. Déjà vu,” I said, gesturing for Snorri to keep on pushing. “That sounds eerily like the line of questioning Detective Fagles used today when he was supposed to be searching for the dog I don’t have.”

  “If that’s the sword Detective Fagles was talking about, then you removed it from a crime scene,” Jimenez replied, walking a pace or two behind us.

  “If it is the same sword, Detective—and that’s a big if, since nobody ever saw that imaginary sword but Fagles—then it’s just as legally in my possession here as it was in my shop. Good evening, sir.”

  “Wait a second,” Jimenez said. “Where can I find you if I need additional information?”

  “You already know where I live and where I work,” I said.

  “You’re going home, then?” He was a persistent bugger.

  “Tell you what. If you cannot find me at home or at work, you may contact me through Hal Hauk, my attorney.” My plan had been to be out of the chair and walking north up Civic Center at this point, but Jimenez was kind of putting a crimp in my plans. He noticed this as we ran out of the parking lot and arrived at the street, where Snorri stopped pushing my wheelchair.

  “What, no ride?” Jimenez asked.

  “Good night, Detective,” I said pointedly.

  He ignored me and addressed Snorri. “Has Mr. O’Sullivan been checked out of the hospital, then?”

  “Yes, on my authority.”

  “And you are?”

  “Dr. Snorri Jodursson.”

  “What can you tell me about his condition, Doctor?”

  “I can tell you nothing right now, as you know. But once I receive a proper medical records request, you may of course read his chart and my notes yourself. And the sooner you leave me alone, the sooner I can get the paperwork finished.”

  “Well, you’re quite a pair,” Jimenez said, folding his arms across his chest and locking his knees. He said nothing more, just stood there and stared at us. I kept my gaze focused on Scottsdale Stadium across the street, and I think Snorri was returning his gaze. I bet Jimenez would blink first—werewolves, you know—but Snorri didn’t have the patience to stare him down baldly. He employed a legal argument to save time.

  “If you will excuse us, Detective, I need to consult with my patient in private,” Snorri said, and then I could practically feel him turning on that werewolf vibe that says back the hell off.

  It took about two seconds for Jimenez to lower his eyes. He said, “Of course, Doctor. Good evening to you. And to you, Mr. O’Sullivan. I’ll be in touch.” We made no reply as he walked south along the sidewalk for about twenty-five yards. Then he stopped and pulled out a pack of cigarettes from his jacket and started slapping it against his palm. He looked back at us as he put one between his lips and lit up, clearly intending to wait around to see who gave me a ride. Annoying.

  “Snorri, start walking me north toward Civic Center park,” I whispered, confident that he could hear me, and he complied. “I’m going to cast camouflage on myself and the sword now that you’re concealing me from his sight,” I said, “and I’ll get up while you’re pushing me and walk along with you. I don’t think he’ll spot the movement, since it’s dark. When we get up to the corner of Second Street, we’ll lose him around the corner and you can walk back, saying I caught a ride in a waiting car.”

  “All right,” he whispered. “He’s following us. And he’s just pulled out his cell phone.”

  “Can you hear who he’s talking to?”

  “Hold on.” For a few moments there was nothing but the sound of the wheelchair thunking across cracks in the sidewalk. Then Snorri said, “He’s asking the Scottsdale police to get a car over here to tail you.”

  “Ha! Won’t get here in time.” I cast camouflage on myself and on Fragarach once more and felt my energy stores dwindle down to Death Valley levels—that was the price I paid for playing wedgie games. Then I rocked myself forward onto the footrests, and hopped off into the street, so that Snorri could keep pushing the wheelchair as if I were still in it. I tried to take my first deep breath since getting shot and immediately discovered what a bad idea it was.

  “Don’t try to take a deep breath until you heal up fully,” Snorri advised me as I gasped and clutched at my throat. “That local is probably wearing off, and the tissue in your throat is scraped raw and extremely dry at this point.”

  “Thanks for the timely warning,” I whispered, over what felt like a windpipe made of molten gravel.

  “That’s why I get paid the big bucks,” he said lightly.

  “Speaking of which,” I wheezed, “you might want to have Hal take a look at your report before you hand it over to the cops, just to make sure it’s consistent with what actually happened.”

  “Will do.”

  I turned to look over my shoulder at Jimenez trailing us. He was picking up his pace as he saw us nearing the corner. I reached out to the wheelchair and snagged Fragarach from the back and slung it over my shoulder.

  “I’m going to jog up to the park now. Tell Hal I’ll meet him for lunch at Rúla Búla tomorrow at noon and to bring Oberon with him.”

  “Okay. Get well and try not to worry. We have your back.”

  “Thanks, Snorri. You’re worth every penny.” I veered off to the right, crossing the deserted street to a wide median populated with old olive trees that gave Civic Center its peculiar character. After drawing some energy from a tree to allow me to breathe more freely, if not without pain, I left Snorri and Jimenez behind to play Where’s the Druid? and jogged the last quarter mile to the Civic Center Plaza, an expansive grassy area dotted with some old oaks and the occasional bronze statue. It was a little too manicured for my taste, but it was a large enough source of natural power to take care of my healing needs.

  I walked a few paces into the grass and sank my fingers into the soil, reaching out with my consciousness to get to know this carefully kept landscape of modern serenity. Five minutes of meditation revealed to me a place near an oak tree that was rarely trod upon, so I made my way there and shucked myself out of my clothes, folding them neatly and hiding them up in a crook of the tree’s branches. I checked my cell phone for messages and had several texts—two from Hal and one from Perry—updating me that all was well for the moment, then turned it off to go completely incommunicado. Then, naked and camouflaged, I lay down on my right side so that my tattoos would have as much contact with the earth as possible and put Fragarach in front of me, nestled against my chest and belly. I placed some precautionary wards about myself, then instructed my body to heal and detoxify while I slept, drawing on the power of Civic Center’s abundant (if somewhat chemically assisted) life energy.

  I had escaped Aenghus Óg’s machinations on this day, but at the cost of Fagles’s life. If I continued to let Aenghus test my defenses and provide him with a stationary target, eventually he would find a way to break me—especially with a coven of witches backing him up. So it was time to change the game somehow, and I had two choices: run like hell or fight like hell.

  Running wasn’t attractive to me anymore, because I’d been there and done that for two millennia, and since I had basically pledged on my honor to Brighid that I would fight for her against Aenghus, it really wasn’t a viable option. On top of that, there was the betrayal of the Sisters of the Three Auroras. My ego didn’t want to
let a bunch of Polish witches less than half my age get away with bearding me in my own den.

  So it was going to be fight like hell, and about time too. I had managed to out-dither Hamlet, and the famous Dane’s words now haunted me: “I do not know why yet I live to say ‘This thing’s to do,’ sith I have cause and will and strength and means to do’t.” Hamlet promised himself he’d throw down afterward, but I think perhaps when he said, “From this time forth, my thoughts be bloody, or be nothing worth!” the limits of blank verse weakened his resolve somehow. If he’d been free to follow the dictates of his conscience rather than the pen of Shakespeare, perhaps he would have abandoned verse altogether, like me, and contented himself with this instead: “Bring it, muthafuckas. Bring it.”

  Chapter 18

  I awoke in the morning remarkably refreshed but with urgent pressure on my bladder. After relieving myself on the oak tree—out of sight of the few people strolling through the park—I took a deep breath, and it felt remarkably good. I twirled my arms experimentally and felt no tightness in my chest, and I smiled. The earth was so good to me, so giving and so kind.

  I retrieved my cell phone and powered it on, checking the time: It was ten a.m., plenty of time to make it to Rúla Búla. I pulled down my clothes, dressed, slung Fragarach across my back, and dispelled the camouflage, walking plainly in the world again. My bear charm was fully charged and I felt completely restored, albeit dreadfully thirsty and a bit esurient.

  I had messages from the Tempe Police Department, at first requesting and then demanding that I contact them immediately, as well as messages from Hal, Snorri, and Perry.

  Hal just wanted me to know that Oberon was a bottomless pit, and while my dog had been very careful with his car’s upholstery and he appreciated it, the blasted canine had destroyed his citrus air freshener for some unknown reason and left it in shreds all over his interior. All business matters he would tell me at Rúla Búla.

  Snorri told me Hal had approved his medical report and thanked me in advance for paying his very large bill.

  In a message time-stamped at nine-thirty, Perry called to tell me that the shop door had been successfully replaced. More important, a “totally hawt” blond woman named Malina had shown up at the shop to say Emily would not require her tea or my services further; the contract was considered fulfilled. Whoa. Did that mean the adorable couple of Aenghus and Emily had broken up? Or did it mean something else? And he also said she asked about a letter from a friend of hers; she wanted it back really badly but Perry couldn’t find it anywhere in the shop, though he looked.

  Ah, Malina had tried to get Radomila’s blood back. I bet she used that hair charm on Perry and he turned the store upside down trying to find it for her. And now I wondered if Fagles and the gang had gone through the books in my study when they searched my house. If they had, they might have found the scrap of paper with Radomila’s blood on it … and that associate lawyer of Hal’s easily could have missed it or not known its significance.

  Better to save such questions for Hal at Rúla Búla, I thought. I assumed my house and the shop would be watched, so I took a taxi instead to the widow MacDonagh’s house.

  “Ah, Atticus, me lad!” The widow smiled a cheery greeting and raised her morning glass of whiskey at me from the porch. “What happened to yer bicycle that yer drivin’ up to me door in a taxi?”

  “Well, Mrs. MacDonagh, I had myself one of the most hectic Sundays you could possibly imagine,” I said, seating myself in a rocking chair next to hers and sighing in satisfaction. That’s always a good thing to do with the widow: She likes to think that her front porch is the most welcoming and relaxing spot in the city. She might be right.

  “Did y’now? Do tell, me boy.” She clinked the ice in her glass and eyed the level of liquid speculatively. “But first I’ll be gettin’ meself a refill, if y’wouldn’t mind sittin’ fer a spell.” She pushed herself up out of the chair with a couple of creaks and said, “Ye’ll be takin’ a glass with me, won’t ye? ’Tisn’t Sunday anymore, and I can’t imagine ye objectin’ to a cold handful of Tullamore Dew.”

  “Ah, you’re right, Mrs. MacDonagh, I have no need to refuse, nor would I want to. A cold glass would be lovely.”

  The widow’s face shone and her eyes began to fill as she looked down at me gratefully, tousling my hair as she made her way to the door. “Yer a fine lad, Atticus, drinkin’ whiskey with a widow on a Monday.”

  “Not at all, Mrs. MacDonagh, not at all.” I really did enjoy her company. And I knew too well the loneliness that clamps around one’s heart when loved ones have passed on before. To have that companionship, the comfort of someone being at home for you for years, and then suddenly not to have it anymore—well, every day can seem darker after that, and the vise clutches tighter in your chest every night you spend in a lonely bed. Unless you find someone to spend some time with (and that time is sunlight, golden minutes when you forget you’re alone), that vise will eventually crush your heart. My deal with the Morrigan aside, it’s other people who have kept me alive so long—and I include Oberon in that. Other people in my life right now, who help me forget all the other people I have buried or lost: They are truly magic for me.

  The widow returned with two glasses of whiskey on the rocks, humming an old Irish tune as she jiggled the ice around. She was happy.

  “Now tell me, lad,” she said as she sank back into her chair, “what made yer Sunday so dreadful.”

  I took a sip of the whiskey and enjoyed the burn of the alcohol and the chill of the ice. “At this point, Mrs. MacDonagh, I’m thinking I should have taken you up on your offer and gone to get baptized. Was the service properly mellow yesterday?”

  The widow cackled and grinned at me. “So mellow I can’t even remember enough to tell ye what the father said. Right boring it was. But you,” she said, pronouncing the word carefully like an American and grinning, “had an exciting day?”

  “Oh, aye. Got myself shot.”

  “Shot?”

  “Just a flesh wound.”

  “Attaboy. Who shot ye?”

  “A Tempe police detective.”

  “Lord ha’ mercy, I saw something about that in the paper this mornin’! TEMPE DETECTIVE SHOT DEAD BY POLICE, it said, and a subhead said, Detective shot civilian without cause. But I didn’t read the whole thing.”

  “Yep, that was me.”

  “Well, I’ll be! Why did the daft fool shoot ye? It wasn’t because of y’killin’ that worthless Brit bastard, was it?”

  “No, not at all,” I said. And so I whiled away a pleasant hour telling the widow just enough of the truth to entertain her yet keep her safe. Eventually I made my farewells, promised to trim that grapefruit tree soon, and walked over to Mill Avenue and thence north to Rúla Búla. I got some odd looks, and people gave me a wide berth when they saw the sword hilt peeking over my shoulder, but otherwise it was uneventful.

  I got there a few minutes early and Hal wasn’t there yet, so I took a seat at the bar and grinned charmingly at Granuaile. Gods Below, but she was a vision! Her red hair was still curly and damp from a shower she must have taken right before coming to work. Her teeth flashed white at me for a moment, and then she sauntered over to me with a lopsided smirk on her face.

  “I knew I shouldn’t have worried,” she said. “When I saw that article in the newspaper, I was thinking I might not see you for weeks. And now here you are, a supposed shooting victim, looking downright thirsty.”

  “Oh, I’m a shooting victim all right,” I said. “I just heal fast.”

  Granuaile’s expression abruptly changed. Her eyes narrowed and she tilted her head to the side as she placed a bar napkin in front of me, and her voice became throatier as she spoke with a newfound accent: “Druids usually do.” With only three words to work with, all I could do was hazard a guess that the accent was from somewhere on the Indian subcontinent. Then, without much of a pause, the old Granuaile—the perky and beguiling barmaid—was back. “What’ll it
be? A Smithwick’s?”

  “What? How can you change gears like that? What did you just say to me?”

  “I asked if you wanted a Smithwick’s,” she said, her face bemused.

  “No, what you said before that.”

  “I said you looked thirsty.”

  “No, what did you say after that and before the Smithwick’s?”

  “Um …” Granuaile’s eyes boggled at me uncertainly for a moment, and then comprehension dawned—at least, it did for her. “Oh, I know what happened. She must have talked to you. It’s about time. She’s been wanting to talk for weeks now.”

  “What? Who? You can’t throw around pronouns like that without their antecedents if you want people to follow you.”

  She smiled and then held up her hands. “Listen, you’re going to need a drink and time for a long story.”

  “Well I’ll have a Smithwick’s, then, but I don’t have much time. I’m meeting my lawyer here in a few minutes.”

  “Gonna sue them, eh?” She grinned as she went to pull a draught for me.

  “Yes, I’m thinking that they deserve a nice lawsuit.”

  “Okay then, maybe you can hang out for a little while afterward and I’ll let you talk to her again.” She placed the dark beer down on my napkin and smiled again. I melted inside and began to wonder if it was Granuaile that had this effect on me or whoever it was she had hitchhiking in her brain.

  “You’ll let me? Seemed like whoever it was chose her own time to speak up and you didn’t have much say in the matter.”

  “She doesn’t do that often,” Granuaile said, brushing off her temporary possession as a minor irritation, as if it were a mosquito bite. “Usually she’s very polite about leaving me in control.”

  “A name. Give me a name. Who is she?”

  Before she could answer, Hal and Oberon entered the pub, both of them greeting me loudly, though only Hal could be heard and seen by everyone else. Oberon was still in camouflage, but I could see flashes of color shimmering rapidly in the air—he must have been wagging his tail like mad. Someone was bound to notice if that kept up; it wasn’t as if Rúla Búla was empty during the lunch hour.