Graveyard Druid: A New Adult Urban Fantasy Novel (The Colin McCool Paranormal Suspense Series Book 2)

by M. D. Massey

  “Worse. With possession, the entity lives within the host alongside the host’s own spirit and soul. This makes it possible to perform an exorcism, and get the person back.

  “But a body thief uses dark magic to force someone else’s soul out of their physical form. That puts them in a state of limbo, unable to move on to the next life, and unable to reenter their own body. Many hauntings are caused by just such magics.”

  Then, it hit me. “You think he’s here to get a new body.”

  “Not just any body. I have a strong suspicion he wants yours.”

  That threw me for a loop. “Why me? Can’t he body-snatch whoever he wants?”

  Finn pulled the covers closer around him and gave a barely perceptible shake of his head. “It is because of who you are, of what you are—and what you possess.”

  “He wants the Eye.”

  Finn lifted his shoulders an inch or so, then dropped them with a sigh. “Without a doubt. But he likely also sees you as a bonus, a sort of package deal that he just can’t pass up. Even so, the joke’s on him.”

  “Really? How so?”

  Finn reached for a thermos, which I handed to him so he wouldn’t have to get up. He poured himself another steaming cup of tea, and I waited while he collected his thoughts.

  “How much do you know about the Eye?” he asked.

  “I’ve been reading up on it, ever since it embedded itself inside my skull. But the records are vague about what it is, how it was made, and why Balor had it in his possession.”

  Finn sipped his tea. “Hmmm. Yes, I suppose they are. The Fomorians of Irish folklore might be compared to the Titans of Greek legend. In fact, I think they were probably the same people, if you could call them that. But in reality, they were more like demons than anything else, monstrous creatures that never truly belonged to this plane of existence. Some were beautiful, all were terrible, and they were powerful enough to oppress the Tuatha Dé Danann for a time.

  “That alone should tell you everything you need to know about the Fomorians. They were powerful, monstrous creatures who enjoyed conquest and destruction. Like the fae, the Fomorians drew their power from other worlds, but they were craftier. When Balor saw how men were using foci to store and wield magic, he decided to use such a device to make him that much more powerful.”

  “The Eye.”

  “Just so. The Eye was—and still is—a pure construct of Fomorian magic, crafted by Balor to focus and enhance what power he was already able to wield. But there’s a difference between it and, say, an amulet or staff that a human might wield. The Eye has the ability to tap directly into the Fomorian plane of origin for power.”

  It was all starting to gel for me now. “So, the Eye has the potential to make any human the equal of the fae in magical power. No wonder he wants it. That could make the Fear Doirich the most powerful human magic user on earth.”

  “Exactly. In essence, he’d be god-like in the powers he could wield, much like the Tuatha and Fomorians of old. And there aren’t very many fae left who wield that sort of power.”

  I pondered the implications, and asked the obvious question. “Finn, if that’s so, then why haven’t you and Maeve whisked me away and locked me up where the Fear Doirich can’t find me?”

  He extended a finger in the air. “Ah, now we come to the heart of the matter. See, Maeve can’t use the Eye herself. The magic is anathema to her kind, in fact. It’s why Lugh never used it either, even though he was half-Fomorian and Balor’s grandson. Too much Tuatha blood. But Cúchulainn? He inherited many Fomorian traits from his true father. Do you see where I’m going with this?”

  “I think so. You’re saying that Cúchulainn’s ríastrad was caused by his Fomorian ancestry, which he inherited from Lugh.”

  “Yes, and that’s why the Eye chose you—or rather, your alter ego—to wield it. When Fuamnach cursed you with the ríastrad she somehow altered your physical make-up, giving you those same Fomorian traits that Cúchulainn possessed. Call it a sort of magical gene splicing, if you will.

  “And that’s why I’m not concerned about the Fear Doirich taking the Eye from you. For one, he could never wield it, and second, it wouldn’t have him.”

  I took a deep breath and blew it out through pursed lips, gathering my thoughts after the revelation I’d just received about my curse.

  “But Finn, aren’t you forgetting something? If he takes my body over, then can he wield the Eye?”

  Finn nodded. “Yup. But it ain’t gonna happen.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because the Eye makes you immune to necromancy, his most powerful magic!” The old man cackled and slapped his knee, spilling a small amount of tea as he did so. He set the cup down and wiped his eyes. “Ah, serves the dumb sumbitch right. He was always an asshole.”

  “I still need to take him out, Finn. And if I’m immune to most of his magic then I’m home free, right? I can just run in and kick his ass. Boom, done.”

  “Ah, but I said most. Meaning, not all. And what he can bring to bear without his necromancy is still enough to squash you flat. No, you can’t fight him head on, that’s for sure. You’re going to have to be crafty about it.

  “Good news is, I’ve been preparing for this. I knew eventually you’d figure it out and insist on going after him. So I came up with a plan. Here’s how it’s going to work—”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Finn and I spent the better part of an hour painting my body with runes in a complex spell that was designed to be nearly undetectable—at least until it was triggered for its intended purpose. When we were finished, I admired the old man’s handiwork in the bathroom mirror. Finnegas might have been currently weakened by years of drug and alcohol abuse, but he was still a master of the druidic arts. Marking these runes on my skin and setting up this spell was pretty much child’s play to him. It would have taken me months just to figure out the spell, and weeks to draw up the runes correctly.

  “You ever consider taking up a career as a tattoo artist?” I asked with a wry grin. “I know a few studios in SoCo that would kill to have you slinging ink for them.”

  He scowled at me. “Bah. Probably have me doing bad Celtic knotwork and kanji tattoos.” He stroked his beard and cocked an eyebrow. “Of course, it might not be a bad way to meet young, attractive women with daddy issues.”

  I chuckled as I craned my neck to get a look at the runes on my back. I wanted to remember how he’d done this, in case I needed to use this spell again in the future. I doubted I could pull the whole thing off myself, but there were components of it that might come in handy. The only downside was that it was pure druid magic, which meant I couldn’t wear armor over it, or it would interfere with the spell. I’d have to go commando on this one… and I had a feeling it was going to hurt.

  “Be careful not to smudge that. It still needs a few minutes to dry.”

  “Alright already. Get me a fan or something, will you? I’m kind of getting antsy.”

  Finn rolled his eyes at me and mumbled something about young people being impatient, but he shuffled away to grab a fan from the shop. While I waited, I pondered what he’d told me while he’d worked on the spell.

  He’d explained that the Fear Doirich used an ingenious method that allowed him to jump from body to body and extend his lifespan. Each person consisted of three components or elements: the soul, which was basically a person’s thoughts, emotions, memories, and personality; the spirit, which was literally the spiritual power supply for each person; and the body, obviously the corporeal shell that housed the soul and spirit while on this plane of existence.

  According to Finn, the spirit served as a sort of metaphysical glue, melding the soul and body together as one. However, the Dark Druid had transferred his spirit into a phylactery, which freed his soul to jump from one body to another. When he wanted to do his body snatching thing—typically when his current vessel was nearing the end of its usefulness—he’d find a suitable and usually unwilling don
or, cast some major necromantic juju, and force their soul from their body.

  At which point the Fear Doirich would take up residence in said body, using the host’s spirit to bind him within, until he needed to find a suitable replacement yet again. Finn’s plan hinged on discovering where Darky Darkerson kept this phylactery of his. I’d need to find it before I confronted him, otherwise the whole plan was moot. In which case I’d either be squashed like a gnat, or the Fear Doirich would trigger my curse and then do a disappearing act, leaving me to tear up the city. All that death and destruction would power him up with death magic, which he’d eventually use to come back and kill me anyway, in order to take the Eye.

  Either way, I was royally screwed. Everything hinged on me finding that phylactery. And I was pretty sure I knew exactly where it was—or, at least, who had it in their possession. All I needed to do was track that person down. And for that, I was going to need some supernatural assistance.

  By the time Finn had returned with a shop heater, the ink was nearly dry. A few more minutes under the furnace blast of a forced air propane heater and I was all set. The old man flipped off the heater, and we stared at each other in the awkward silence.

  He raised his chin at me, a universal male sign of regard and greeting. “If you die, don’t worry—I’ll be standing by to console your girlfriend.”

  “Hmpf. Like she’d go for a shriveled up old coot like you.”

  He crossed his arms and sniffed. “Daddy issues, my boy—it’s every old man’s ace in the hole. And I’m pretty sure your girl has them in spades.”

  “You’re a horrible person, you know that?”

  He winked and clapped a hand on my shoulder in what would have been a fatherly gesture, had he not just ruined the mood.

  “Just trying to give you some last minute motivation, kid. Now, go have fun storming the castle.”

  I called Sabine before I left the junkyard, and asked her to relay a message to Chief Ookla and Guts through Maeve’s people.

  “Way ahead of you, druid boy. No way was I letting you take this guy on with just Gunnarson and his goons at your back. The trolls are going to meet you at the graveyard in thirty minutes.”

  “Thanks, Sabine. How’s Bells doing?”

  “Sleeping beauty is doing just fine. I’ll keep an eye on her while you’re gone. Just make sure to come back in one piece.”

  Sabine wasn’t clued in on what was really going on, and I didn’t feel the need to worry her with the details. Little did she know that I might not come back at all, if the Fear Doirich found out I was immune to his necromantic mojo before I was able to put the whammy on him.

  “I’ll do my best,” I mumbled.

  Sabine sighed. “Just don’t get killed.” Then she hung up.

  Guts and his crew were waiting for me when I pulled up to the cemetery, decked out in their full battle rattle. They were wearing magically enhanced bone armor, and carried an assortment of war clubs, axes, and other fighting implements made from bone, bronze, and some sort of volcanic rock. This bunch were all stink-free, thankfully. I admired their gear as I walked up, reminded of both ancient Aztec and Maori weaponry. Hemi would’ve been pleased.

  “Oy, mate—you starting the party without me?”

  As if on cue, Hemi sauntered out of the shadows to join me. I greeted him with a fist bump and a bro shake.

  “Man, I am glad to see you. I take it Sabine told you what was going down?”

  “Sure enough. Whatever you need, bro. I got your back.”

  “Thanks, man. Just so you know, it’s probably going to get hairy once the fighting starts.”

  He smiled. “That’s why I came.”

  I greeted Guts as well, made introductions all the way around, and looked over my crew. It consisted of about a dozen of Ookla’s warriors, Guts, and Hemi. I’d called Gunnarson on the way over; he agreed to have a team in position to move in after the fighting started. I’d just have to keep my fingers crossed that he wouldn’t bail on me and leave our asses hanging in the wind.

  But, first things first. Once Finn had told me his plan, something that Madame Rousseau mentioned had clicked. I was pretty sure I knew exactly where to find the Dark Druid’s phylactery, and that was our first order of business.

  “Listen up, fellas. We’re tracking a particular ghoul that’s going to have a peculiar scent, like two humans in one body. Guts here knows the one we’re looking for, because he’s the same ghoul that led Bells and me into an ambush at the distillery and the sewers. Has your team picked up the trail yet, Guts?”

  He smiled a crooked, lumpy grin. “We on the scent, know where he went. We find where he be—hunt good, you see.”

  “I have faith that your people will get the job done,” I replied sincerely. These were the same warriors who’d rescued Bells and me. As far as I was concerned, they were worth twice as many of Gunnarson’s people, because I trusted them.

  Guts nodded enthusiastically, his muscles flexing in anticipation beneath gray-green lumpy flesh. “We bring tribe and Druid glory, no worry.”

  I turned to Hemi, who was stoically indifferent to the presence of the trolls. Despite the cold, he was dressed in board shorts and a t-shirt. His jade battle club was tucked into his waistband, and he held a six-foot whale bone spear in his right hand. I suspected it was incredibly old and rare. Runes carved along its length pulsed with magic.

  “Hemi, we’re going to let the trolls take the lead in tracking this ghoul down. He has something I need, and once we retrieve it we’re going to proceed with the assault on the graveyard. I just need you guys to run interference so I can get close to our main target.”

  I glanced around the group, making momentary eye contact with everyone. “Under no circumstances are you to engage with the old man. He might look weak, but he’s not, and it’s my job to put him down. Even if it looks like he’s about to take me out, do not interfere. Everyone got that?”

  No response.

  “Look, I need everyone to be clear on this. My plan hinges on taking a beating from this guy so I can get close to him. It’s unavoidable. The last thing I need is someone playing hero and screwing up my plan. Am I understood?”

  They all nodded, reluctantly. For this group, taking on the baddest dude would mean gaining honor for their tribes and families. When the time came, I hoped they’d resist the urge to attack the Dark Druid. I didn’t need them getting in the way, and I’d feel terrible if any of them died needlessly.

  Hemi raised a finger. “What if you’re killed?”

  I laughed. “Thanks for the vote of confidence. Look, if I go down don’t try to avenge me. And if I start—changing—run. I won’t be able to tell friend from foe after that. In either case, get as far away as you can, and alert Maeve’s people or Gunnarson so they can evacuate the immediate area.”

  I guess my reputation had preceded me, because everyone nodded their assent.

  “Alright, Guts. Go find me a super-ghoul.”

  We tracked the creature deep into the cemetery, staying away from the chapel to avoid alerting the Fear Doirich of our presence. I knew that once we took out his super-ghoul, it was on. However, if things went according to plan, he wouldn’t realize I’d snagged the phylactery until it was too late.

  After a few minutes of tracking, Guts and his people had led us to the oldest part of the grounds. We’d made reasonably fast progress to this point, but suddenly the trackers slowed, finally coming to a halt in a cluster of old gravestones and rusted wrought iron fences.

  Guts convened with his troll trackers and turned to me with a shrug. “They say trail end here, just disappear. So, ghoul must be near.”

  I shifted my senses into the magical spectrum and spotted a series of magical runes painted in blood on nearby grave markers and statuary. The spells were designed to keep undead creatures concealed by hiding all trace of them from the living. I recognized it as the Dark Druid’s handiwork, since it matched the rune work I’d discovered at the condemned house.


  I hated what I was about to do to these historic markers, but there was no avoiding it. I pulled a magic marker from my pocket and drew a circle around one of the runes. Then I drew several counter-runes inside that circle. Finally, I triggered my counter-spell with an incantation and a few small gestures.

  Whoosh. The rune inside my circle dissolved, like smoke drifting into the darkness. I did the same to the other runes I found, and soon the smell of death and rot became so strong that even Hemi could smell it. The trackers signaled for us to follow, and they soon led us to a mausoleum tucked in the far corner of the grounds. The structure looked ancient, and was covered in an authentic patina of filth and decay, the kind only centuries of neglect can produce.

  As we approached, the smell of rotting human flesh became overpowering. It was all I could do to keep from gagging. Hemi looked a little green around the gills as well, but Guts and his people appeared none the worse for the wear. I supposed they were used to it, and was glad they had been using magic to cover up their stench while on patrol for Maeve.

  However, I’d come prepared this time, and pulled a small canister from my pocket. I rubbed some of the contents under each nostril, and handed it to Hemi so he could do the same.

  “What is this, a magical cream or something?”

  I shook my head. “Vick’s Vaporub. Should help cover some of the smell.”

  He slathered the stuff liberally all over his upper lip. “Right then, let’s get this done,” he said. “Lead the way, Colin.”

  I pulled my war club out of my Craneskin Bag and headed through the opening in front of us. I paused inside to allow my eyes to adjust to the dark, and saw that the room was empty except for a granite sarcophagus in the middle of the space. I motioned for help, and Guts, Hemi and I lifted the lid and set it to the side as quietly as possible. Inside, a tunnel entrance had been dug through the granite floor of the tomb.

  I signaled for Guts to leave his trolls outside to guard our retreat, and traded out my war club for a long knife and my Glock. I also strapped on a headlamp that had red LEDs in place of standard white bulbs. I possessed a very limited form of night vision, but even with a cantrip I still couldn’t see in complete darkness. The red glow from the headlamp would be less likely to give us away, and would give off just enough light to allow me to see in the inky blackness below.