Druid Arcane: A New Adult Urban Fantasy Novel (The Colin McCool Paranormal Suspense Series Book 11)

by M. D. Massey

  Druid Arcane

  A New Adult Urban Fantasy Novel

  M.D. Massey

  Copyright © 2020 by M.D. Massey

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Dedicated to M.D. Massey, Sr.

  Rest in peace, Pops.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Epilogue

  1

  The semi-immortal wizard known as Click and I were at the edge of the Highlands in Southwest Iceland, waiting to meet with a valkyrie, one of Odin’s chosen. It was a bright sunny day in April, but still cold. I shivered as the wind cut like a knife through the layers of clothing I’d worn. As I scanned the hills all around, I stamped my feet and rubbed my arms in an attempt to drive some warmth back into my extremities.

  Despite the cold, my companion was dressed in a thin black t-shirt, an old-school leather motorcycle jacket, and jeans cuffed over black boots polished to a high shine. He wore his short dark hair slicked back on the sides, with a single lock artfully dangling down the center of his forehead. His boyish face was both clean-shaven and blemish-free, and despite being thousands of years old, he didn’t appear to be a day over seventeen. In short, he looked like a teenage reincarnation of James Dean, plucked straight out of some fifties-era feature film.

  “Ya’ have’nae been in a fight until ye’ve tussled with a valkyrie.”

  “Huh?” I replied distractedly.

  “Valkyries. Mean buggers, but lookers, every one. Tough as nails in a scrap.”

  “Right.” Click was nuts, so I dismissed his offhanded comment as I continued to search for our contact. “Click, didn’t you say she was supposed to meet us here at noon?”

  “Well, I did’nae exactly say the lass was meetin’ us,” he offered with a distracted shrug. “‘Twas more like we were s’posed to come out here, an then ye’d scuffle, an after she’d decide whether or not yer worthy of any assistance she might offer. ’Tis, if yer not dead after said row.”

  He pronounced “row” like “cow,” referring to a fight, not a canoeing excursion. “Wait a minute,” I said, scowling as I gave him a sideways glance. “I thought we were coming out here to talk, not get jumped.”

  “Oh, I’m not gettin’ jumped,” he replied as he tilted his head quizzically. “That’s yer purview, lad. Might even say it’s yer own specific area o’ expertise.”

  “Click…”

  Ignoring the warning tone in my voice, he snapped his fingers and produced a pack of cigarettes from thin air. In the past, I’d often wondered how he could create such a complex object with magic. Eventually, I realized he wasn’t just conjuring them from the aether. Somewhere in Iceland, a tobacco shop owner was probably wondering how the hell his stock was disappearing and considering whether he should call an exorcist.

  “Oh, ’tis not as though ye’ve not fought demigods afore,” he said as he pulled a cancer stick from the pack. “By this juncture, ye’ve had plenty o’ experience, have ya’ not? I’d think the entire ordeal would be old hat ta’ ya’ by now. But if ya’ want ta’ pack it in an’ head back ta’ the oak—”

  I exhaled in frustration but kept my comments to myself. Complaining did absolutely no good. We’d been in Iceland for six months now, searching for the Celtic god of healing, Dian Cécht. And for all our searching, we had nothing to show for it. Moreover, I’d made enemies of the local fae, also known as the huldufólk, and they’d done all they could to make my life miserable ever since.

  “Alright, five more minutes, then I’m calling it.” I paused, cocking my head as I looked up. “Do you hear that?”

  Click patted his pockets, oblivious to my concerns. Why he didn’t just use magic to light his cigarette was beyond me. Having grown accustomed to his idiosyncrasies to the point of prescience, I reached in my Craneskin Bag and tossed him a cheap disposable lighter. He snatched it out of the air, looking at it with surprise before lighting up. After taking a few puffs, he pocketed my lighter before turning his gaze overhead.

  “Oh, ya’ mean that high whistlin’ noise?” he said, his cigarette dangling from his lower lip as he spoke.

  “Yes, that would be the sound I was referring to.”

  “Hmm. I’d say our valkyrie is about to make her presence known. Good luck, and if ya’ survive I’ll see ya’ back at the Oak.” With a snap of his fingers, the Welsh master magician once known as Gwydion disappeared.

  “Click, wait!” I yelled, knowing I was wasting my breath. The youthful-looking trickster was like the wind; he came and went as he pleased. I kicked a clump of frozen snow, stubbing my toe on a bowling ball-sized boulder hidden beneath. Growling in frustration, I cursed the day Click was born. Then I began seeking the source of that whistling noise, which grew louder by the second.

  The sound morphed into an ear-piercing, high-pitched whine that reached a screeching crescendo, just as a blinding ball of light crashed to the ground twenty yards in front of me. As it struck, a thunderclap reverberated from the point of impact, causing a shockwave that sent me staggering. I clapped my hands to my ears, but too late—between the whistling sound and the thunder, my sense of hearing was toast.

  As the light and smoke faded away, I saw a tall, regal female figure standing on the spot where the lightning struck. She was dressed from head to toe in shining armor, with a winged Viking helm on her head and a round shield on her arm. Large, hawk-like wings snapped out from her shoulders, spanning at least fifteen feet from tip to tip before folding behind her back.

  There was another blinding flash of light. When the spots cleared from my eyes, the valkyrie’s appearance had changed completely. The blonde who stood there now wore modern clothing, including yoga pants, a light blue puffy vest over a tight thermal shirt, hiking boots, and a tasseled knit cap. She was almost as tall as me, maybe six feet, and she had the body of a fitness competitor. Flaxen hair fell in braids from under her hat, and piercing blue eyes stared at me from beneath a curtain of bangs that nearly covered her eyebrows.

  To say that she was attractive would be an understatement. She had the fine, angular features that so many Icelandic women possessed. High cheekbones, wide-set eyes that were slightly upswept, and a sharp, dainty nose above bow-shaped lips that would’ve been attractive had they not been drawn into a frown. In short, she looked like some sort of European fitness model, the kind who make their living posting workout videos and makeup endorsements on social media.

  She opened her mouth to say something, but I couldn’t make it out. All ambient sound had been replaced by a sort of muffled whooshing noise, accompanied by my own heartbeat hammering inside my head. The girl certainly knew how to make an appearance, but if she wanted
to have a conversation, it might’ve been better if she’d forgone all the theatrics.

  I tilted my head toward her as I held a hand up to my ear. “What’s that?” I yelled. “You’ll have to speak up—that thunderclap screwed up my hearing.”

  The valkyrie’s frown deepened as she blew hair from her eyes. She reached over her shoulder and pulled a wicked-looking longsword from thin air. She pointed the sword at me, then gave me an arch-eyed look as if to say, Ready or not, here I come.

  With a sigh, I pulled Dyrnwyn from my Bag. As I held it aloft, a flicker of flame ran up and down its length before sputtering out. So, this valkyrie wasn’t pure evil—but she wasn’t pure as the driven snow, either. That was good to know.

  It’d make what I had to do next a bit easier.

  I’d tangled with fae, vampires, ’thropes, giants, demigods, Fomorians, and even the spawn of an outer god. Yet, nothing I’d faced before came close to the ferocity the valkyrie displayed as she pressed her attack. This chick might’ve looked like a snow bunny on holiday, but she fought like a rabid honey badger with a grudge.

  Fortunately, I was ready for it. Well, not necessarily ready for this specific encounter, as Click had failed to provide enough warning for me to properly prepare. But I was ready to handle her in a general sense, having gotten into the habit of stealth-shifting whenever we made contact with supernatural entities. Here in Iceland, we were the outsiders, and I never knew when some fae creature or monster might try to eat me for the hell of it.

  The upside was, I’d gotten even better at shifting quickly, cutting my time from human to half-Fomorian down to under ten seconds. A full shift took twenty, which wasn’t as great an improvement—but it was still better than the thirty or forty seconds a full, voluntary transformation used to take. When the gods had it in for you, ten seconds could mean the difference between life and death.

  I blocked a low slash at my knee, leaning out of the way just in time as the valkyrie’s lightning-quick reverse, circular thrust whistled past my face. As soon as the blade cleared her midline, I took the opportunity to thrust Dyrnwyn upward at her eyes, angling the sword to reduce the profile. Keeping your blade aligned with your opponent’s line of sight made it harder for them to judge distance, and I’d likely have scored a cut against someone less-skilled.

  But the valkyrie was no such opponent. She casually deflected the stab, following with a riposte that I just barely turned away from my chest. I leapt out of range, using a bit of superhuman speed and strength to hasten my momentary retreat.

  “We don’t have to do this, you know!” I said, louder than I’d have liked. My hearing was returning, but slowly, since my Fomorian healing factor wasn’t as robust in my stealth-shifted form.

  She danced back, shaking her head as she responded in a breathy, pixieish voice slightly reminiscent of Björk. “The Valkyries can only gauge a man’s measure in battle—that is our way. The magician should have warned you. Now, fight and prove your mettle—or die. It makes no difference to me, Irlander.”

  Oh, it’s going to be like that, eh? Fine.

  My first sword instructor had been Maureen, half-kelpie and erstwhile girl Friday to my druid mentor, Finnegas. She was deadly with a blade and could’ve mopped the floor with your typical Olympic fencing champion without breaking a sweat. More recently, I’d trained under a Japanese swordmaster by the name of Hayashi Hideie, who happened to be a tengu. Hideie had devoted his very long life to perfecting the ways of kenjutsu, and he also possessed some unique talents that made him a very difficult opponent in battle.

  Between the two of them, I damned sure knew my way around a swordfight. I also knew when I was outclassed. I might have spent the last several years training under two of the finest sword masters in the Austin demesne, but this valkyrie had spent millennia studying blade craft. Thus, I was as likely to defeat her in a straight-up swordfight as I was to sprout wings and fly.

  Time to cheat.

  Although we’d spent six months Earthside here in Iceland, the time I’d spent in the Grove training with Click could be measured in years. It was hard to gauge time inside the Grove, as it passed much differently there. However, based on my own sleep cycles and how far I’d progressed in the arts of chronomancy and chronourgy, I estimated that I was several years into my apprenticeship under the magician.

  Half a year ago, Click had referred to my talents as “paltry,” although they’d certainly saved my ass when I dueled Diarmuid, a psychotic demigod. Since then, I’d devoted considerable effort to improving my control and expanding my repertoire. While I’d never be able to warp time and space as easily as the quasi-god formerly known as Gwydion, I now possessed enough skill to have an edge against your typical demigod—or valkyrie.

  Slowing my breathing and quieting my mind, I entered the calm, still mental state required for performing time magic. Entering that state was second nature to me now, and I could cast minor time cantrips with relatively predictable results. Casting time magic wasn’t my issue now. The main challenge in using this particular school of magic was not letting anyone know I was doing it.

  There was a reason the gods had outlawed the practice and hunted chronomancers into extinction, and that was because fucking with time was dangerous as hell. Get caught using it, and you’d be branded as enemy number one on every pantheon’s list of The World Beneath’s Most Wanted. No thanks. I had enough gods wanting my head on a platter as it was.

  Besides, I didn’t have to humiliate the valkyrie; I only needed to fight her to a draw in a convincing manner. I scanned the immediate time streams, looking ahead several seconds and focusing on the branches and outcomes that showed the highest probabilities of victory. After choosing a course of action that would most likely end the fight without getting me killed, I took a deep breath, and waited.

  Although it took only milliseconds, my brief glimpse into the future revealed a myriad of possible scenarios. In one, I slipped on a patch of ice while retreating. In that variant, the valkyrie stabbed me through the chest, pinning me like a bug to the rocky earth below. In another, I just barely missed a parry and got a longsword through the eye. And in a third, I overcommitted to a thrusting attack, losing my sword arm at the elbow.

  Time and again, I’d watched myself die as similar scenes played through my mind like movie clips. Needless to say, it’s a bit disconcerting to observe your own demise once, never mind dozens of times. However, doing so proved my hunch that she was the better swordsman, and that I’d likely lose to her in a fair fight.

  But as I watched myself expire a thousand different ways, one scene appeared over and over again as I flipped back and forth through alternate futures. In it, the valkyrie attacked with a very specific flurry of slashes and thrusts, a combination of moves she’d likely practiced so often they’d become habit. On identifying that probability pattern, I ran the scene forward and backward in my mind, focusing on her first few movements and looking for the trigger.

  Aha—there it is.

  Each time she chose that attack combination, I’d allowed the tip of my blade to drift left just a hair, leaving my right upper quadrant exposed. Each and every time I did, the valkyrie thrust high where my guard was weak, pressing her attack in a flurry of motion that left me playing catch up on every stroke and gradually losing ground until she scored a killing blow.

  Now, I knew how to defeat her. She was quick, so my timing would have to be perfect to make my plan work.

  We stared each other down like a couple of cowboys in an old spaghetti western flick. The valkyrie’s piercing blue eyes met mine, and I couldn’t help but give her a little wink. Her eyes narrowed and her forehead creased, signaling that I had goaded her into action, just as the events had played out in my mind’s eye moments before.

  She lunged at me without warning, covering a ten-foot distance in a single bounding step. As predicted, her first attack was a lunging thrust that revealed itself to be a feint at the apex of the movement, just after I committed to
the parry. Seeing that I’d taken the bait, she pivoted on her lead foot, bringing the sword up and over her head for a short, quick, slashing attack at my neck. The movement was intended to be a killing blow, although I’d blocked it and a few others in every future scenario I’d seen.

  But I had the upper hand now, because I knew what she was about to do. As she redirected her blade, spinning it around over her head toward my neck, I released my sword and burst forward, tapping my Fomorian speed to make my movement much more explosive. As our bodies collided, I grabbed her around the waist, clasping my hands behind her back just at the point where her floating ribs met her spine.

  Then, I squeezed, using every bit of my Fomorian strength. First, I heard cartilage snap, then her ribs cracked, one after another. I continued to crush her, anaconda-like, pulling her spine toward me until she was bent backward over my arms in a grotesque imitation of a circus contortionist.

  With my head tucked under her left armpit, I was too close for her to do much more than slap me on the back with her sword. That was the thing about longswords—they were great at long and middle range, but not so much in close. Not unless you reverted to half-swording, that is. Even then, your timing had to be perfect, else you would end up in a grapple with two hands on your sword while your opponent stuck a dagger in your gut.

  The valkyrie struggled valiantly to escape the hold, but I wasn’t having it. I spun and pivoted, lifting her overhead as I arched my back, driving her headfirst into the ground in a classic suplex. It was the type of attack that people didn’t expect in a hand-to-hand fight, but one that was incredibly effective if you could pull it off without knocking yourself out.