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

by M. D. Massey

  When I walked back into the campsite, Click was cooking breakfast over a large camping grill that had appeared from nowhere. Bryn sat on the forest floor nearby, sipping from an enameled metal mug with her back against a large log bench. Once I spotted the matching enameled metal coffee pot sitting atop the fire, all of my concerns vanished, replaced by my deep desire for that sweet black nectar.

  I made a beeline for the coffee pot, taking time to admire the spread Click was preparing as I poured myself a cup of joe. Atop the grill sat a sizzling assortment of breakfast meats, including several varieties of sausage, and steaks—honest-to-goodness steaks. Intoxicating smells emanated from a mess of bacon and eggs in a cast-iron frying pan, liquid grease crackling and sputtering with promises of profound satiety and early-onset coronary artery disease. But the real treasure amidst all that fatty goodness sat on the griddle that rested on the far side of the grill.

  “Holy shit—are those pancakes?” I asked, my stomach rumbling.

  “Aye, lad. After the verbal drubbin’ I gave ya’, I felt I owed you some decent grub as some small means o’ recompense.”

  I took a sip of the coffee—Luther’s special roast. “Click, you Welsh pain in the ass, I could kiss you right now.”

  “Now, now, let’s not get carried away,” he said, suppressing a smile. “’Sides, fair Brynhild tells me we’ve cause ta’ celebrate.”

  Bryn cleared her throat loudly. “Just Bryn, please.”

  “Oh, right, right,” Click said as he gave me a wink on the sly. “Bryn says she might’ve found the Physician. Again, cause fer’ celebration.”

  “It’s certainly progress, if her intel is correct,” I said.

  “It is. I’m a valkyrie. We know how to make people talk,” Bryn interjected with a self-satisfied smirk.

  “Um, that’s creepy,” I replied. “Anyway, say she’s right and Býleistr did kidnap Dian Cécht. Seems like we’re going to have an uphill battle rescuing him, based on what Bryn told me.”

  Click produced a blue enameled plate out of nowhere, deftly flipping meat, eggs, and pancakes on it in a few smooth swipes of a spatula. He handed me the plate, magically producing utensils and a bottle of maple syrup as well. After pouring the sweet sticky stuff over my pancakes, I busied myself with stuffing my face as the magician and the valkyrie spoke.

  “I’m certain ye’ll be able ta’ deal with those giants once we find them, lad. What concerns me is the act o’ finding his lair. As I recall, gettin’ ta’ Jötunheimr is no simple matter.”

  Bryn stood and sauntered over to the fire, snagging a steak and a sausage, which she deftly rolled inside the steak like a burrito. The valkyrie took a large bite, wiping grease from her chin with the back of her hand. Swallowing a huge bolus of meat with a loud gulp, she gestured at me with her meaty creation.

  “Fomorian or not, you know as well as I that Býleistr’s a handful. I’m sure that Colin’s capable, but a direct confrontation would be disastrous, as Loki’s brother has hundreds of his kind under his command. We’ll need to use cunning and subterfuge to rescue the Physician—that is, if we want to make it back from Jötunheimr hale and whole.”

  I swallowed a huge lump of chewed up pancake, washing it down with a generous slug of coffee. “Quick question. Where exactly is Jotunheim, anyway?”

  “’Tis its own dimension, lad. Unreachable directly from this realm.”

  “So, how do we get there? Do we have to climb the World Tree or something?” Bryn and Click glanced at each other, then they both broke out in laughter. “What’s so funny?”

  “You actually think there’s a huge tree that connects the realms?” Bryn set her coffee cup down on a nearby log. She was laughing so hard she was in danger of spilling it. “Oh, that is rich.”

  “I bet he thinks there’s a giant squirrel that scurries up an’ down its trunk as well!” Click declared with glee. He danced from foot to foot with his index fingers curled in front of his mouth. “‘Oh, look at me, I’m a giant squirrel, out ta’ eat young druids fer’ a snack.’”

  The valkyrie snickered loudly, shaking her head as she looked my way. “There’s no ‘world tree,’ Colin—at least, not in the conventional sense. Yggdrasil is a network of portals and pathways the gods created so their armies and agents could travel from plane to plane.”

  “Okay,” I said, setting my plate down. “Sheesh, excuse me for being ignorant of the realities of Norse cosmology.”

  The valkyrie gave me a sympathetic smile, the polite equivalent of a pat on the head. “While we’re on the topic, it bears mentioning that neither the gods nor the giants are in the habit of leaving those doorways unguarded and exposed. It will be no small feat to make our way to Býleistr’s realm.”

  “Ya’ see, there really is a giant squirrel, lad,” Click said with a snicker. “It guards the portals from pesky druids who come ta’ steal its collection o’ golden acorns.”

  “Sure there is,” I said, rolling my eyes. “Hey, Bryn, did I ever tell you about the time Click here got nicked by my friend, Hemi? Grabbed him just like a leprechaun, by the scruff of his neck.”

  Click’s face fell, and his voice grew somber. “Come now, lad—there’s no reason ta’ be bringin’ up such painful memories. ’Sides, I let the great blunderin’ lunk capture me. ’Twas the only way I could get ya’ ta’ let yer’ guard down, so’s I might steer ya’ two in the right direction.”

  “Whatever you say, Click.” I turned to Bryn, who, by the smile on her face, seemed to be enjoying our exchange. “So, let me get this straight. Basically, Jotunheim is in another dimension, and we’re going to have to take a portal there, sneak past hundreds of giants and their god-like leader, free Dian Cécht, and make it back to Earth without pissing off the gods?”

  “That is an incredibly simplified, but accurate, summary of the tasks that lay before us,” she replied solemnly.

  I shoved one last bite of pancake into my mouth. “Great, when do we start?”

  7

  The three of us debated our next steps until late in the day. I was all for storming the gates, kicking Býleistr’s ass, and freeing Dian Cécht by force. Bryn continued to advise caution, while Click insisted that we needed to speak to Loki, and that suggestion was a bridge too far for the valkyrie. She spent half an hour arguing with my substitute mentor before disappearing in a flash of lightning and clap of thunder that left my ears ringing.

  “Sheesh, warn a guy before you blow his eardrums out,” I said while shaking my index finger inside each of my ears in turn.

  “That solves that, I s’pose,” Click said, cheerful as ever.

  “What do you mean?” I asked. “Don’t we need her to find Jotunheim?”

  Click blew a Bronx cheer. “Pfah! They’re all fine drinking companions, ta’ be sure, and easy on the eyes. But ya’ can’t trust a valkyrie any further than ya’ can toss ’em in full armor. Their first allegiance is ta’ the gods, specifically ta’ Odin—never forget that.”

  “Whatever. Call me impatient, but I just want to get to Jotunheim and kick some giant ass.”

  Click gave me a disapproving grimace. “That’s yer’ alter-ego talkin’, ’tis. Yer’ smarter than that, lad, so think fer’ a moment. Sure, ya’ waylaid those three tossers that attacked yer’ Oak without so much as breakin’ a sweat. But what happened when ya’ faced Tethra? Ya’ blasted the fooker with both barrels, an’ he shrugged it off. Býleistr’s easily a force ta’ match Tethra, ta’ be sure. An’ with his armies behind him, well—can ya’ stand against such might?”

  I took a deep breath as I ran my hand through my hair. “Ah, shit. You’re right. It’s just that we’re so close, and Finnegas—”

  Click’s expression softened. “He’s not gettin’ any better, and dyin’ a slow death in stasis is not how ya’d care ta’ see your oldest friend go, is it?” I shook my head, and Click clapped a hand on my shoulder. “I know. Never fear, one day ye’ll be able ta’ muster such might as ta’ shake the foundations o’ Jotunh
eim. Then, such as Loki’s kin’ll tremble in their boots at’cher passin’. But not today.”

  “Speaking of which, do you know where to find him? Loki, I mean.”

  “O’ course! He maintains a bachelor pad in Garðabær, a great sprawling modern thing. Hideous, ’tis.”

  “Wait a minute—you’re buddies with Loki? The most hated of all the Norse gods?”

  The magician drew himself up in indignation. “Whoa there, lad, hold yer’ tongue now. Loki’s not a bad fella’, he’s jest’ had some tough breaks. Sure, he’s a trickster, an’ prone ta’ makin’ life miserable fer’ his kin. But that’s his job after all, an’ ya’ can’t blame a viper fer’ bitin’ ya’ on the arse when ya’ turn yer back.”

  I rocked my head side to side. “I suppose. But if that’s the nature of trickster gods, then why haven’t you screwed me over yet?”

  “Who says I haven’t, eh?” He chuckled at my deep frown, mussing my hair like I was his little brother. “Ah, I’m only takin’ the piss out o’ ya’, Colin. Let’s jest say that we tricksters have a code an’ leave it at that.”

  I had no idea what he meant, but I’d learned not to pry when Click was being obscure. Pestering him for more info almost always resulted in being sent on wild goose chases, for no other reason than it amused the quasi-god. Since we’d arrived in Iceland, I’d been sent on quests for magic hákarl, to find Mimir’s well, and, my personal favorite, to track down a hair from Loki’s beard.

  Hákarl is fermented shark, and it smells as bad as it sounds. After I’d bought the disgusting dish from dozens of stores and restaurants, as well as several sketchier sources, Click admitted that he’d just wanted to see which was the best hákarl in Reykjavik. As for Mimir’s well, it doesn’t even exist on the mortal plane. Finally, Loki is the only clean-shaven Norse god in history—facts I only discovered after wasting weeks on each task.

  The magician stared at me in anticipation, as if waiting for me to take the bait. But I’d had my fill of snipe hunts. If Click said, “leave it at that,” that’s exactly what I intended to do. I maintained a neutral expression until he clucked his tongue in disappointment.

  “Anyhow, we’ll need ta’ be gettin’ ta’ Loki’s place afore he gets too deep in his cups. Once he gets good an’ pissed, he’ll be useless ta’ us. That means ye’ll be leavin’ that metal deathtrap behind, lad, as we’ll have ta’ take more direct means.”

  “Uh-uh, I can’t risk using the Oak. The Celtic gods are probably already on our trail as it is.”

  “Huh?” he replied, cocking his head sideways. “Nay, I weren’t suggestin’ ya’ use the tree’s powers. I kin simply portal us there, quick as a wink, no trouble t’all.”

  “What the fuck?” I had always known Click could cast portals. However, I assumed there were limits to his powers, as he’d never offered to portal me around on mundane errands previously. “All this time, you could’ve been portalling me around Iceland?”

  “Why so pissy all o’ a sudden? It’s not as if ya’ didn’t have suitable transportation.”

  “But—I—ah, damn it. Never mind. Just take us to Loki’s house before he’s too drunk to tell us how to get to Jotunheim.”

  “Which is what I suggested in the first place,” Click replied, turning around to cast a portal spell.

  With a herculean display of self-control, I resisted the urge to throttle him. Instead I followed him through the oval, shimmering hole in time and space that he’d summoned, cussing under my breath all the while.

  Dusk was falling when we stepped out of the portal onto a quiet suburban street. Straight ahead was a massive driveway, easily wide enough to accommodate five cars. It led up to a sprawling glass and concrete structure that looked like a modernist architect’s wet dream. It was all cubes, rectangles, sharp corners, and straight lines, broken up here and there with insets of vertical wood siding.

  The wood accents were certainly intended to give the building character, and perhaps add a bit of warmth, but they had quite the opposite effect. Those small patches of organic material stood in stark contrast to the glass, concrete, and steel, sticking out like bits of deadwood trapped in a glacier field. It was all very sterile and contrived, and I shuddered to think what it looked like inside.

  “So, this is Chez Loki,” I remarked. “You were right. It’s awful.”

  “Don’t tell him that, lad, else ya’ might send him into a funk that’ll put him on another bender. He’s terribly sensitive about his current state o’ affairs, and by Asgard’s standards, this place is a pile o’ shite. So, keep all such comments to yerself.”

  I merely nodded, following the youthful-looking magician up the drive. We walked in silence past a Bugatti, a Lamborghini, and an Aston Martin, the last of which had been rammed into a concrete support pillar hard enough to drive the right front tire nearly into the cockpit. How the driver had managed to achieve that much speed while coming up the drive was anyone’s guess. An empty bottle of Cristal sat in the passenger seat, along with a lacy red bra, an open pack of Sobranie Black Russians, and an alehorn that practically bled magic.

  On realizing that the drinking horn was more than just a kitschy souvenir from one of the local tourist traps, I decided to check it out more thoroughly. When I looked at it in the magical spectrum, the power emanating from the alehorn nearly blinded me, and I was forced to break off contact almost immediately. But in that brief instant of contact, I heard a clear, deep, melodious voice reciting prose in some ancient Germanic language, one I understood perfectly.

  On hearing those words, I was moved to right wrongs, perform great deeds, slay monsters, and generally fuck some shit up for the sole sake of committing my name to the annals of history. It wasn’t quite a geas, because it was gone as soon as I cut the connection. Yet the absence of that voice left me with a deep longing to hear it again. If I didn’t know how to resist such magical compulsions, I’d certainly have picked the alehorn up and claimed it for my own.

  There was no telling what sort of mischief might be caused by such an object, were it to fall into the wrong hands. I tapped Click on the shoulder and pointed at the alehorn.

  “You think we should, I dunno, hide that thing or something?”

  “Pfah, no one’s gonna’ steal Óðrerir. Fer’ one, only someone wit’ a great deal o’ magical talent can see the damned thing. An’ even if they did manage ta’ notice it, ’tis more a concept than a physical manifestation o’ magic. Only the gods can grasp such things an’ hold them in their hands as if they were real. Ye’ll likely see more such items inside Loki’s home. Pay ’em no mind, if ya’ know what’s good fer’ ya’.”

  “Er, right. But if I see Draupnir in there, I’m asking him for a copy.”

  Click gave me a quizzical frown, likely puzzled as to why I wouldn’t just steal such an item. I rarely argued the merits of moral constraint with the quasi-god anymore. It was a lost cause. Click saw nothing wrong with minor acts of theft, since resources such as food and money were infinitely reproducible and replaceable to him.

  Once, when arguing with him late into the night, I asked him why he didn’t just create money by magical means instead of stealing it from his unsuspecting victims. “Where’s the fun in that?” was his reply. That was the exact moment when I stopped trying to convince him to behave. I realized that I might as well have been asking the sun not to shine.

  Leaving the cars and alehorn behind, we soon stood in front of a massive glass door, set in an equally massive wall of windows. Although an eight-foot-high concrete retaining wall blocked the view of the home’s entrance from the street, there were no drapes or window dressings to speak of, and we could see to the other end of the house from where we stood. The section of the home immediately beyond the entrance included the living area, dining area, and kitchen, all contained in one large open space beneath a high-vaulted ceiling easily twenty feet high.

  Each “room” was demarcated only by cosmetic architectural features and the furniture each ar
ea contained. The living and dining areas had been decorated in that typical modernist, Scandinavian style so familiar to Americans who shop at IKEA. Except these furnishings had definitely not been purchased at a big box store. My bet was that the ginormous white sectional sofa alone cost more than my entire college education, and that I could make a down payment on a modest home with what he’d paid for the stingray rocker that sat next to it.

  Hell, maybe he didn’t pay for any of it. He is a trickster god, after all.

  As I conducted a quick visual scan of the home, I forced myself to avoid gawking at the insane wealth on display, instead searching for any potential dangers that might be present. Depending on Click to protect me from environmental hazards was an exercise in futility, as he expected me to be fully capable of avoiding magic traps and snares all by my lonesome. As far as he was concerned, if I couldn’t keep myself safe from passive threats, how could I ever expect to survive a direct attack from a god?

  Starting with the front entrance, I scanned every visible inch of the exterior of that home, moving on to the immediate interior just beyond the doorway. Strangely, there were no wards or protective spells here—at least, none I could see. Besides a few odd magical items of immense power left lying about, Loki had set up absolutely no magical defenses.

  As my scan moved on to the next room, that’s when I noticed the bodies.

  Three figures lay atop the dining table in various states of nakedness, sprawled across the massive art deco wood and steel structure in a tangle of limbs and partially or fully discarded clothing. I hadn’t noticed them before because they were statue still and cloaked in deep shadow. Two females, one male. The women were tall and athletically lean—one an olive-skinned brunette, the other the epitome of African beauty. Either could’ve easily graced the cover of Vogue or Harper’s.

  The man who lay between them was about my height, maybe six-two, with long, strawberry-blond hair, a handsome if too-angular face, and the lean, fit look of a triathlete. He was clean-shaven, but not what I might consider “clean” by any means, as he’d apparently thrown up on himself in his sleep. His hair was dirty and unkempt, as were his nails, and his skin had a sickly, pale cast to it as if he were just recovering from a long illness.