by Kevin Hearne
“Hi, Hal,” I waved, then switched mental gears for Oberon’s sake.
I’m glad to sort of see you too, buddy. Go hide under the table of an empty booth really quick before someone sees your tail wagging and wonders if they’ve had too much to drink. I’ll come pet you and get some sausages for lunch. Be careful not to run into anyone.
I told Granuaile we’d settle up later when I settled down for a nice long talk. She nodded and waved as I followed Hal to a booth where Oberon was waiting, his tail thumping loudly against the seat. People were looking around, wondering what was making the noise.
“By Odin’s beard, get that hound to calm down,” Hal growled.
“All right, I’m on it,” I said as we slid into the booth. I found Oberon’s head and began scratching him behind the ears.
Okay, buddy, you need to calm down. Your tail is giving you away.
I have a pretty good idea, believe me. And I appreciate your being good all that time. That’s why I’m getting you two orders of bangers and mash, but you need to chill out, because we’re starting to get unwanted attention.
I know, but we can’t right now. Back up and trap your tail against the wall—there. Now, did you behave perfectly while you stayed with Hal?
Aren’t you leaving something out? Hal told me you ripped up his air freshener.
Heh! You have a point. Quiet now, here comes the waitress.
We ordered two plates of the finest fish and chips and two plates of bangers and mash for Oberon. The poor dog was about to go nuts—I really needed to let him run somewhere until he collapsed.
“Thanks for your patience, Hal,” I said after the waitress left. “He’s just happy I’m still alive and all that.”
“Snorri fixed you up, then?”
“That and a night in the park worked wonders. I feel great.”
“Try to feign some pain when the Tempe police see you, please. You have a bandage on your chest, I hope?”
“No, but I can put one on if I need to.”
Hal nodded. “I think it would be wise. It will be tough to press our suit if they see no evidence of you being shot the day after.”
Hal reviewed with me what the security camera revealed—namely, that we had the most airtight case possible against the Tempe police for shooting a citizen for no probable cause—and we spent some time hashing out how to deal with police questions, the nature of the suit, and how much we’d ask for.
“Look, I’m going to give you my instructions now,” I said. “When the money is finally in your account, I want you to take your cut, then reimburse me for Snorri’s fees for last night. The remainder should go to Fagles’s family as an anonymous donation, all right? I don’t want to profit from some binding of Aenghus Óg’s on an innocent man.”
Hal regarded me steadily for a moment as he chewed a succulent piece of beer-battered cod fillet. Then he said in a dry voice, “How very noble of you.”
I nearly choked on a chip. “Noble?” I spluttered.
“Nobility has nothing to do with it. And I’m not knocking you for making a buck on the situation. All I’m saying is that I don’t want to profit by it, not even by getting some dubious credit for my charity.”
Hal apparently had some doubts but wasn’t willing to say them aloud, so all he said was “Hmph,” as he wiped his hands on a napkin.
“So listen,” I said, changing the subject and trying to cover the slobbery licking noises Oberon was making, “I got a lead on our mysterious barmaid.”
“The redhead who smells like two people?”
I blinked at him. “You never told me that,” I said.
“As I recall that particular conversation, you asked me if she smelled like a goddess”—he began to tick off my queries on his fingers—“a demon, a lycanthrope, or some other kind of therianthrope.” Hal smirked. “You were too smitten at the time to ask me what she actually smelled like.”
Oberon? Is the werewolf telling me the truth?
Never mind.
“All right, Hal, what else does she smell like?”
“I’ve told you all I know, Atticus. You can shift to a hound and smell her yourself if you want.” He placed his hands flat on the table and drummed his fingers, deliberately trying to goad me.
“Thanks, but I’m going to find out the old-fashioned way. She’s going to tell me what’s going on—after I’m through with you.”
“Ah. Is that my cue to leave, then?”
“Almost. This might take a while, so I want you to take Oberon with you to the widow MacDonagh’s house.”
Hal winced and Oberon whined.
“Must I really?”
“Yes,” I said to both of them.
They left a bit disgruntled but quietly enough, leaving me to settle up with the waitress. She looked at the plates of bangers and mash, which looked like they had been licked disturbingly clean, and then at the plates of fish and chips, which had a few scraps of detritus and slaw on them as normal plates would—and then glanced at me uncertainly, knowing that something was very wrong but unable to imagine a satisfactory explanation.
I really enjoy moments like that. Thinking it would be amusing to create another, I dispelled Oberon’s camouflage so that the sudden appearance of a huge dog would be sure to startle someone on Mill Avenue, and if that someone was Hal, so much the better.
The fine bar at Rúla Búla had a few more stools available as the slightly sauced lunch crowd returned to their jobs, and Granuaile had nothing to do but polish glasses when I sat down in front of her. Head slightly bowed, her green eyes locked on to mine as she seductively licked her upper lip, a coy smile playing at the edges of her mouth. Refusing to be toyed with, I looked up at the high shelves full of whiskey and knickknacks as if she were doing nothing more interesting than predicting another day of dry heat, and she chuckled at me.
“What’ll it be, Atticus?” she said, placing a napkin in front of me.
“A name, I believe, was where we left off.”
“You’re going to need a drink first.”
“Tullamore Dew, then, on the rocks.”
“You got it. But you’re going to have to be patient. I’m going to tell this my way.”
“Your way? No one else’s? Like, no one else in your head?”
“That’s right. My way,” she said, pouring me a generous shot over ice. She placed it squarely in front of me, then folded her arms under her bosom and leaned against the bar, her face only a foot away from mine. Perfect skin, a slight tilt to the end of her nose, strawberry gloss on her lips. It was difficult not to think about kissing her, especially as she pursed her lips for a moment before saying, “So. You’re a Druid.”
“If you say so. What are you?”
“I am a vessel,” she replied, and then her eyes grew round. “Or maybe you should think of me as a Vessel with a capital V. That would be more impressive, more mysterious and Scooby-Doo, you know?”
“Okay. A vessel for what, or for whom?”
“For a very nice lady from southern India. Her name is Laksha Kulasekaran. You should not be alarmed at all by the fact that she’s a witch.”
Ch
apter 19
Gods Below, I hate witches.
Since one of them was probably listening to me through Granuaile’s ears, however, I thought it more discreet to keep that observation to myself. But doubt would be permissible to express where outright disdain would not. I gave her my best Harrison Ford half grin o’ cynicism, worn by every character from Deckard to Han Solo to Indiana Jones, and picked up my glass. “A nice lady, huh?”
“Very nice.” Granuaile nodded slowly, ignoring my look of disbelief.
I took a luxurious sip from the glass and waited for her to continue, but apparently the ball was in my court. If doing things her way meant I had to ask more questions, so be it. “And how long has this nice lady had a timeshare in your noggin?”
“Since shortly after you came back from that trip to Mendocino.”
“What?” Even though I had just taken a sip of fire water, I suddenly felt cold.
“You remember. You turned into a sea otter and removed a pretty golden necklace set with rubies from the hand of a skeleton that was—what?—only fifty feet below the surface and a couple of feet beneath the sand?”
Chills and thrills at the Irish pub. “How do you know about that?”
“How do you think? Laksha told me.”
“Right, but how does she know?”
“She was originally the owner of that skeleton, but that particular mortal coil failed her in 1850. Since then, and up until recently, she resided in the largest ruby of that necklace.”
I decided to save all my questions about turning rubies into soul catchers for later. “Then what happened?”
“Well, you can probably figure it out from there. Once you got the necklace, what did you do with it?”
“I gave it to a witch named Radomila—”
“Who is not as friendly as she likes to pretend and happens to live upstairs from me in a very stylish urban condo—”
“And she promptly exorcised Laksha from the necklace—”
“And that’s how I got a roommate in my skull!” Granuaile pushed back from the bar and clapped manically for me as if I had just finished playing Rhapsody in Blue in a third-grade talent show.
“Well, okay, I understand now, but I think we skipped a few of the details.” I downed the rest of my whiskey, and when I put the glass down, Granuaile was there with the bottle, ready to refill it.
“You’re going to need a double,” she said, pouring more than was probably advisable. “Nurse that for a bit while I get some work done.” Then she slid out of my vision to attend to her few remaining customers.
I had plenty of thoughts to nurse along with the whiskey. Indian witches, in my limited experience, were capable of some really dark hoodoo, and any witch capable of jumping out of one body into a gemstone and then into another body after 160 years or so had some serious magical muscle. My main question was how I could get the witch out of Granuaile’s head safely—and who else would have to suffer to make it happen.
The witch obviously wanted my help with something, and I could only assume that she wanted a new body to inhabit. But I didn’t have any of those currently in stock, and bodies were one of the few things you couldn’t buy (yet) on Amazon.
Whatever this Indian witch wanted from me, I knew it would mean quite a bit of trouble, and it didn’t escape me that I owed the lot of it to Radomila, along with so many other recent woes. A confrontation with her—and, by extension, her entire coven—might soon be unavoidable. On this gloomy note, Granuaile returned.
“Right about now I bet you’re wondering what Laksha wants,” she said lightly.
“That thought had indeed crossed my mind.”
“But what you should be wondering is what your favorite bartender wants.”
“Is that so?” I grinned.
She nodded. “It is. You see, I kind of like having Laksha in my head. She’s been teaching me all kinds of stuff.”
“Such as?”
“Such as, all the monsters are real—the vampires and the ghouls and even the chupacabra.”
“Really? How about Sasquatch?”
“She doesn’t know about that one; it’s too modern. But all the gods are real, and for some reason almost everyone who knows him thinks that Thor is a giant dick. But the most interesting thing she’s told me so far is that there’s still one honest-to-goodness Druid walking around after all the rest have died, and I’ve served him a whole lot of dark beer, bottles and bottles of whiskey, and occasionally flirted with him shamelessly.”
“Well, if you’re going to flirt, that’s the only way to do it.”
“Are you really older than Christianity?”
There was no use lying. The voice in her head had already told her everything. Besides, the whiskey was good, and I could blame everything I said on it if I had to. “Yep,” I admitted.
“And how did you manage that? You aren’t a god.”
“Airmid,” I said simply, thinking Granuaile would have no idea what I was talking about.
She narrowed her eyes. “Are you talking about Airmid, daughter of Dian Cecht, sister of Miach who was slain?” she asked.
That sobered me up some. “Wow. You’d win a shit-load of money on Jeopardy! with a brain like that. They teach Celtic mythology at the university here?”
Refusing to be distracted, Granuaile pressed, “You’re telling me you know the herblore of Airmid? The three hundred sixty-five herbs grown from the grave of Miach?”
“Aye. All of it.”
“And why would she have shared such priceless knowledge with you?”
That was a story for another day. “Can’t tell you.” I shook my head with seeming regret. “You’re too young.”
Granuaile snorted. “Whatever. So is this lore of Airmid’s the secret to your eternal youth?”
I nodded. “I call it Immortali-Tea because I’m fond of puns. I drink it every week or so and I stay fresh and unspoiled.”
“So this handsome face of yours isn’t an illusion? It’s really you?”
“Yes. Biologically, I’m still twenty-one.”
“Out. Fucking. Standing. Wow.” She leaned forward over the bar again, even closer than she had before. “So here is what I want, Atticus.” I could smell her strawberry lip gloss, the peppermint of her breath, and that peculiar scent that I now knew was only half hers: red-wine bouquet mixed with saffron and poppies. “I want to be your apprentice. Teach me.”
“Truly? That is what you want?” I raised my eyebrows.
“Yes. I want to be a Druid.”
I hadn’t heard that one in more than a century; the last person to ask me to teach them was one of those silly Victorians who thought Druids wore white robes and grew beards like cumulonimbus clouds. “I see. And what do I get in return?”
“Laksha’s help. Her gratitude. And mine.”
“Hmm. Let’s put some details with each of those, if we’re bargaining.”
“Laksha knows you have a problem with Radomila.”
“Wait,” I said, putting up a hand to forestall her speech. “How does she know that?”
“Two of the coven came in here yesterday while I was working, and she—or rather, I—overheard snatches of their conversation. When I heard your name I started paying attention. They were talking about taking something away from you, but I don’t know what because they never called it by name.”
I grimaced. “I know what they want. Did they say how they were going to manage it?”
“No, they were talking about how they’d be rewarded once they got it.”
“Interesting. What did they say?”
“They mentioned Mag Mell.”
“You’re kidding. Mag Mell? He was going to give them passage through there?”
“That and a permanent estate.”
“Unbelievable.” My nostrils flared and my fingers tightened around my glass. “Do you know what Mag Mell is?”
“I had to look it up, but yes. It’s one of the Fae planes. The really posh one.”
&n
bsp; “Aye, the really beautiful one. And it’s being sold off to Polish witches. I wonder if Manannan Mac Lir knows anything about it.” Manannan was supposed to be the ruler of Mag Mell. If he knew about Aenghus Óg’s promise and had done nothing, then he was part of the collusion against Brighid; the more likely scenario was that Aenghus Óg was plotting against Manannan as well.
“I don’t have an answer for that,” Granuaile replied, “but I heard one say to the other that they had to leave because Radomila would be waiting for them. Obviously that piqued Laksha’s interest, and that’s how she knows your interests and hers coincide. She wants you to get her a shot at Radomila so she can get the necklace back.”
“If you live below Radomila, why can’t she just take a shot any night of the week?”
“Radomila’s condo is highly protected, the same as your home is probably protected. Laksha needs you to get Radomila out of her safety zone and keep her distracted for about five minutes.”
“That’s it?”
“And maybe get something of Radomila’s.”
“Ah, I see. How about a drop of her blood?”
“That will do,” Granuaile said.
“Does Laksha realize that besides the two you saw here, Radomila has eleven other witches in her coven, all of them magically accomplished? She’s picking a pretty big fight.”
“Laksha can take them all once she has her necklace back.”
“Really?” If that wasn’t overconfidence, then it was pretty scary. I’d be able to hold off a coven like theirs long enough to run away. Take them out all by myself? Not so much. “What’s so special about the necklace?”
“I’ll let her tell you soon.” Granuaile waved away the question. “Don’t get distracted. Laksha says that she is already grateful to you for rescuing her from the sea, but if you help her earn true freedom again, she will grant you any boon that is in her power to give.”
“And how do I earn her true freedom?”
“Distract Radomila so that she can get the necklace back.”
“There has to be more to it than that. For example, where is she going to go? Into Radomila, or back into the necklace? She’s not staying in your head, is she?”
