Mekera confirmed the Jeep sighting a moment later, and then its headlights stabbed into the darkness, leaving no doubt. I kept going with the binding, though, hoping we’d have enough time to slip away. The fact that they were coming in a Jeep rather than on foot suggested someone on board was not a vampire. More thralls, perhaps. Or it could conceivably be Werner Drasche in person. If that thrall had called us in at dawn, Drasche would have had time to fly here from most places in Europe.
Oberon, get next to the tree now. We’ll be shifting before that Jeep gets here. Aloud, in between Old Irish phrases, I said to Mekera, “Get your stuff. Touch the tree. We’re shifting.”
I didn’t see her do it since we were all in camouflage, but I heard Mekera shoulder her quiver and knapsack as the rumble of the Jeep grew louder and the lights grew brighter, shuddering as the suspension tried to deal with the uneven surface of the plain. I finished tying up the knots of the tether to Tír na nÓg just as the Jeep reached about sixty or so yards away; they were probably tracking the thrall’s satellite phone.
Counting on the darkness and my camouflage to keep me invisible and on their engine to mask the sound of my movement, I scrambled to my feet and laid hands on the tree, then had to drop my camouflage so that Mekera and Oberon could find me. They needed physical contact both with me and with the tethered tree to shift.
And in the time it took for them to spot me and move, I was visible to the occupants of the Jeep. I didn’t know how many were there—I couldn’t see past the glare of the headlights—but one of them was definitely Werner Drasche.
“O’Sullivan!” he barked in his Austrian accent, and then he shot me. Or rather, he shot the tree three times, and shot me once. He wasn’t a very good marksman in a moving vehicle and he was clearly aiming for my head. Tree bark exploded above me and then a slug punched into my back, midway down and to the left, making a hash of my spleen. It didn’t pass through, which meant I had to shift with it—and that was fine. The exit wound would have left blood behind for him to play with, and if I stayed around any longer I might have more serious wounds—or a wounded hound or tyromancer.
Oberon and Mekera both yelped and I felt a tug on my amulet as I shifted us to Tir na nÓg, a familiar tug that meant the lifeleech was trying to drain my energy—and that of my companions. I felt the tether snap behind us as we arrived near the edge of the Fae Court, which meant Drasche had tried to prevent my escape by killing the baobab tree.
He had apparently targeted the area around it, since Oberon and Mekera had also been hit. The two of them swayed on their feet, dizzy and weak, and I knelt beside them, drawing energy through the strained connection to earth and feeding it to them, ignoring my spleen for the moment.
I’m trying to fix that.
“What hit us?” Mekera asked, holding a hand to her head.
“The crazy ascot-wearing fool. He took a sip of your energy. He would have taken more if we had stayed there. I’m giving you some back, but you should be fine with some calories and rest.”
“It was weird. I felt a sharp pain all over, and then it was as if I’d fallen into a comfy chair and didn’t have the strength to get out of it. Like a blood donation where they take a bit too much. The sting of the needle and then your life gets siphoned away. Hey, you have a hole in your back.”
“Yeah. I’ll see to it in a minute,” I said, answering them both. “Are you two feeling a little bit better?”
“I’m still tired but not dizzy anymore.”
“Good.” The pain from my gunshot wound was beginning to assert itself and I shut it off. It was time to remove the bullet. “Mekera, would you mind holding your palm about a foot over the hole?”
“What for?”
“I need you to catch the bullet.”
“Excuse me?”
“I’m just going to bind the bullet inside me to your palm, and that way, I can start healing.”
“Bind it, like, permanently?”
“No, only for a moment.” After the slug wriggled out of me and flew to Mekera’s hand, I triggered my healing charm and let my body start dealing with the damage. It would be best to take a day or two to rest, and Emhain Ablach would be a lovely place to do that, but I had an advantage now and I didn’t want to waste it. I knew precisely where Werner Drasche was and it was a hell of a long way from Toronto.
He’d left a note with Kodiak Black’s girlfriend that said to find him because we needed to talk, but he’d just proven he’d rather shoot me than talk to me. We were on the same page, then.
Drasche knew I’d spoken to Mekera, because the thrall had told him. He would have had all day to call someone in Toronto and I could have a party waiting for me there. Or he might have been so eager to catch me that he didn’t think of it—or he believed Mekera when she told him I’d never go back there.
Who could be waiting for me in Toronto? Besides Drasche, only Theophilus himself would give me any trouble—that or a whole lot of vampires. But they’d hardly be out during the day, and it wasn’t likely that anyone else besides Theophilus or Drasche would have the key to the safety deposit box. The faster I moved, the more likely I’d score whatever was there to score; I could let my spleen heal on the way. But first, Mekera needed to get out of Tír na nÓg. A couple of faeries had dipped down to investigate who had arrived, saw that it was the Iron Druid, and flittered away again. More would come eventually, and it wouldn’t be long before some liveried official of the Court inquired on Brighid’s behalf what I was doing there.
“All right, let’s get you to Emhain Ablach.”
Gathering around a tethered tree, we shifted to the Isle of Apples, a sort of paradise for Manannan Mac Lir’s horses and I suppose pie aficionados and cider heads. I know that Goibhniu used to harvest a few bushels every year and make a limited-press hard cider for Beltane.
Always fragrant and blessed with a sort of eternal summer like Tír na nÓg, it wasn’t difficult to see why Manannan used it to relax.
Mekera’s face, skeptical at first, eased and brightened after a few seconds of looking around and taking in a couple of deep breaths. “You weren’t lying,” she said.
“Well…no.” I didn’t have the energy to be offended.
“Did you tell me everything, though? Who else will be here?”
“As I said before, Manannan Mac Lir, god of the sea, will visit from time to time. I’ll let him know you’re here and he can bring you whatever you need. You’ll have horses, birds, and bees around. No real living space, but lots of apples to eat.”
“I’m not worried about shelter. Looks like it’s mild here.” She waved a finger at the canopy of apple trees all around us. “Are these all the same?”
“No, they’re bunched in different varieties. You’ll see and taste differences as you walk around.”
Oberon…what?
I’m not sure Manannan has heard of them if they’re a North American thing, but I’m sure that whatever he has here is delicious.
Mekera nodded to herself in satisfaction and shifted her knapsack of goodies from one shoulder to the other. “I think I’ll take that walk around. You have time to come with?” Her eyes flicked down to my back. “If you’re feeling up to it?”
“I should be going—” I began, and Oberon interrupted me.
Aw, come on, Atticus, please? Just a short walk?>
“—But I suppose I could accompany you for a while.”
“Good. We’re allowed to sample the fruit? It’s not forbidden?”
“All you want. No forbidden fruit here.”
She plucked two from the nearest branch, their skins a pale rose shot through with streaks of yellow, and tossed me one of them. “You first,” she said.
I chose to be amused rather than annoyed that she suspected I’d brought her to an island full of poisoned apples. I tore into mine without hesitation and it was delightful, crunchy and sweet with just a tiny hint of tartness. Seeing that, she took a bite of hers. “Damn, that’s tasty,” she said around a mouthful. I nodded agreement, and we began walking.
All right, Oberon, why do you want to stay here so badly?
Do you see my eyes rolling at you right now?
Apples are only one ingredient. Where do you expect to get the finest chicken for this?
Oberon, that’s not a real chicken. Monty Python made that up.
You’re going to lose interest in this as soon as I give you another bath.
He had a point. Okay, taste test incoming. I plucked an apple for him and lobbed it in his direction. He snatched it out of the air and began his awkward chewing.
I’m sorry, buddy, we have to go to Toronto after a quick stop at the cabin.
As soon as we can.
“Mm,” Mekera said, finishing her apple and tossing the core. “So—just to review—who knows I’m here?”
“Just me, and soon, Manannan Mac Lir. It’s like a paradise made of privacy and vitamin C. But look, Mekera—”
The tyromancer affected a look of concern. “You said you should be going, right?”
“Ah. I’m trampling on your solitude already?”
She beamed at me, pleased I had figured it out so quickly. I think that once she saw me confirm the apples were safe, she was ready for me to go, and had endured me just long enough to finish. “Thanks for the walk. See you when you’ve rid the world of vampires, Siodhachan.”
“May harmony find you, Mekera.” I sincerely hoped it would.
“You know what?” A slow smile spread on her face as she looked around her. “It might. I’m grateful to you for the talk. I’m not ready to deal with the world’s cruelties yet, but I’m willing to think about it now.”
“Good enough.”
Oberon and I shifted to our cabin in Colorado, where someone had left a once-sizeable fire burning down by the creek and then smothered it with a layer of dirt. Granuaile and Orlaith were nowhere to be found, but the elemental informed me they were in Asgard in the company of Odin, trying to remove Loki’s mark.
“Well, I guess I can’t avoid it any longer, Oberon,” I said, after showering and changing into something that wasn’t caked with mud. “I have to go back to Toronto as Nigel.”
“You don’t. But I don’t want a protracted war either, and being Nigel for a while is the best way I can think of to keep it short.”
I scratched my friend behind the ears. “That’s all the war I ever want you to see.”
To be continued in Staked, book 8 of the Iron Druid Chronicles
Read more by Kevin Hearne
1.
I SHOOT my cuffs, step into the dining car, and play my favorite game: Who should I kill?
Not that I’m going to kill anyone. I’m not allowed to—and it would be bad manners. So, I just smile my sharp smile and nod my polite nods and cut through the crowd of placid humans like an elegant shark through a school of fish. They unconsciously shift and part as they wait in line for their lunch, turning away as I pass and tugging up their collars, fidgeting with their gloves. Silly creatures.
Before I’ve reached his window, the cook has already deposited a blood vial on the counter for me and disappeared. My fingers tighten around the still-warm glass tube, and I know who I would choose, who I would kill and drain until he was utterly empty: the vile gobbet of flesh holding court in his corner of the caravan’s dining car. Barnum himself.
Kill the ringmaster, take the circus. Easy as that.
Barnum sees me watching him, and his fat finger draws a line across his well-covered throat in warning. I walk a fine line here, as the only Bludman in a company of humans, daimons, and freaks. He needs my magic, but he keeps me on a short chain, and I have a bad habit of slipping my collar. One more mark against me, and he’ll either call the Coppers to drag me off to some dank city’s dungeon or drain me himself and make a pretty penny bottling my forbidden but intoxicating blood. Tit for tat, the old duffer would say, silver coins dancing in his eyes.
With the slightest bow to my all-too-mortal master, I pocket the blood vial and leave the wagon. I’ll be damned if I’m going to spend all afternoon among the caravan’s human riffraff, discussing weather and the popular cut of trousers with the creatures who should rightfully be my prey. One day, I’ll rule this circus, or something like it, and on that day, things will change.
Criminy’s Captivating Caravan has rather a ring to it. Much better than Barnum’s Traveling Circus. Not that anyone can tell old Barnum that.
Back in my closet of a room in one quarter of a proper wagon, I flick the cork from the vial as easily as I could rip Barnum’s head off his neck. The blood is cooler than I prefer, lumpier than blood has any right to be, and carries the taste of the sea, tangy and wild, which means it’s at least two weeks old and was taken as payment when we were camped by the shore. One copper coin or one vial of human blood: That’s the only way to get through the circus turnstiles—unless you’ll work for less than that. Two tubes a day is standard, but Barnum only allows me one so I’ll know my place.
Hours later, just as the circus starts up for the night, I entertain myself by picking the locks on the dining wagon and pocketing half a dozen vials of blood. I think of Barnum’s pulsing jugular as I drink them one after the other, swirling through the caravan’s shadows in a floor-length cape as I hurry to the stage. The audience is waiting for me, so close that I can smell their excitement and fear. I wipe the red from my lips, lick the dregs from my fangs, toss the vial to the ground, and whirl out from behind the black velvet curtain in a clatter of glitter and calliope pipes.
Everyone in the crowd wants to be chosen. From the lantern-lit stage, I see a sea of eager faces and waving, gloved hands. It’s rare that a human from the city can interact safely with a tame Bludman like myself, a dapper gentleman in topper and tails with a cultured accent and a smile hiding fangs. I look twenty, but I’m so much more than that. And they have no idea. They live such small lives, have such small thoughts. They think me a monster, manacled in satin and doeskin, and they’re not wrong.
It’s always a woma
n that I choose, though. The way they’re trapped inside their homes, herded behind the high walls of cities, and kept far from a proper education and world view—it makes them pliant and suggestible and eager to please. They practically hypnotize themselves.
She can’t be the loveliest girl in the audience, the one I select. That just makes the plainer girls jealous. But it’s also hard to manufacture chemistry with a homely dullard. What I need is a pretty girl, not too slender and not too plump, not too petite and not too tall, neither a glossy blonde nor a vivacious redhead. She must be agreeable and innocent, with a certain universal girl-ness to her, a shy, dimpled maid in whose wide brown eyes all the other girls can envision themselves.
A girl I can fleece, but who’ll be glad of the fleecing, you see.
That’s part of the magic.
There she is. Third row, flowered bonnet, pink dress that covers her from throat to toes, wrist to wrist. Rosy cheeks, mouth open just a little in excitement to show gapped front teeth. I grin a perfect grin and whip out my arm, flinging sequins and fireflies into the air to rain down on the crowd.
“You, love.”
I point at her and turn my hand over, curling my finger at her, drawing her to me. She gasps and puts a gloved hand to her well-covered chest, laughs at her good luck. Her two friends push her towards the stage, and she blushes as I hold out that same blood-red velvet glove to help her up the steps between the lights.
“What’s your name, darling?” I ask as I lead her to a gilt-armed chair in the center of the stage.
“Elise. It’s...Elise, sir.”
“Have you ever been hypnotized, Elise?”
She sits, daintily, as if the chair might explode from too much weight. “I...no. No, sir.”
I chuck her under the chin, leaving the barest swipe of pinkish powder hidden under her high, lacy collar. “Well, then. You’re in for a treat.”