Trapped

  Granuaile anticipated a strike and caught it as it was still coming up; she had the leverage and should have been able to force Ogma’s staff down, since she was already over the top. Instead, Ogma’s upswing halted and held. He was too strong to be driven down, despite his disadvantage. She lifted and whipped her staff to whack at his head, when the smarter move would have been to shift down and sweep at his legs; he was pretty firmly set, however, his balance impeccable, so perhaps the wild strike at his head was the slightly wiser move to rattle him—it would certainly have rattled him had it connected. However, Ogma leaned back and turned his cheek, avoiding the blow, while extending his arms and striking down with his staff. It cracked painfully against Granuaile’s kneecap—it numbed her for a second—and that was all Ogma needed. He pushed, she was off balance and couldn’t keep up with the flurry of strikes he unleashed, and he was able to sneak past her guard and buckle her knees from behind.

  She knew she was going down and shouted, “Damn it!” as she fell.

  “Ha! Excellent.” Ogma grinned. “You have been well trained.” He shot out his hand to help her up and Granuaile glowered at him. I smiled, recognizing that expression. Oberon recognized it too.

 

  Yes, I saw it, I said, but careful what you say here. Remember, people can hear you. Luchta and Goibhniu had cast a couple of amused glances at Oberon when he’d spoken up, but thankfully Ogma hadn’t been tuning in.

  I’m not sure if Ogma’s patronizing tone had been intentional or not—whether he had meant to goad her, in other words—but, regardless, Granuaile was well and truly goaded. She had a fascinating tendency to access another level of ability when she was angry—not rage-fueled barbarism but rather a hyperawareness and clarity that one needs for combat. I had tried to make her access it without the emotion, because the very peak of her abilities should not be dependent on such, but I’d failed miserably. Emotion could motivate her like nothing else; her long-simmering anger at her stepfather had pushed her to become a Druid in the first place.

  She was squaring off for round two when Flidais entered the shop. She had abandoned her court apparel and returned to the greens and browns of her leathers.

  “What is this?” she asked. “A contest?”

  “A friendly one,” Ogma answered. Granuaile did not affirm this. Perun lumbered in behind Flidais. He looked pleasantly exhausted, and he had found a tailor somewhere to fashion him a new set of clothes. Apparently Perun had given instructions that his abundant chest hair should be displayed to best advantage, for it was, bursting forth in coppery curls from a deeply cut V-neck tunic of walnut brown.

  “Contest is good,” he said. “I like to see.” He sauntered in my general direction, pulling out a flask of vodka from his belt as he did so.

  Flidais raised a hand. “A moment, if you will, Ogma? Our newest Druid is likely unfamiliar with how her weapon works.”

  “She is familiar,” he assured her. “She is quite skilled.” He smiled again, and Granuaile scowled. She wasn’t trying to flirt with him anymore.

 

  I know. It’s great.

  “You won’t give her any unfair advantage?” Ogma said. “My staff has no bindings. It’s just wood.”

  This drew a few chuckles, and Flidais elicited a few more when she said, “We know, Ogma.”

  Flidais reassured Ogma that Granuaile wouldn’t turn invisible or anything like that and it would just be a moment, and he relaxed.

  Seeing Flidais speak in hushed tones to Granuaile, however, I tensed up.

  Flidais was most definitely on Brighid’s side of politics. If anything, she was much more Brighid’s right hand than Ogma or anyone else. I could never forget that when Aenghus Óg was out to get me, it was Flidais who kidnapped Oberon to force me to confront the god of love directly. She had done so at Brighid’s command. She was also the one who had convinced me to accept the exploded Lord Grundlebeard theory.

  And, I realized with a chill, she might also be the one speaking to vampires.

  Two events, months apart, that I had not connected until now: Flidais leaping out of my bed, ready to fight because I “consorted” with a vampire named Leif Helgarson; and then Leif Helgarson, on a cold stretch of Siberian tundra, telling me that it was Flidais who had suggested to him centuries ago that he wait for me in some desert, and eventually I would flee there in my attempt to hide from Aenghus Óg and the Fae.

  One of them had lied to me about knowing the other. On the one hand, it was far more likely that Flidais would unbind a vampire on sight than give him advice on how to find the world’s last Druid, but, then again, if Flidais was truly on speaking terms with vampires, she might do much to hide the fact. She might even give my apprentice an enchanted weapon with bindings no one else could properly read.

  That made me wonder. What else was carved into the grain of Granuaile’s staff besides a spell for invisibility? Was there a way to trace her, perhaps? A dinner bell for vampires? I know it is rude to question gifts, but this might be of the Trojan horse variety. Even if it were legit, invisibility would not be the devastating advantage that it would be against humans. Vampires could use their other senses to track her movements reliably.

  Conspiracies are fun, I’ve noticed, only when you’re the one conspiring. Or if you’re one of those guys who live in trailers and believe the government is hiding aliens—they must have fun fantasizing about how badly the nation is being deceived. But to know, for certain, that you are the target of a conspiracy—that’s not entertaining. It’s a recipe for acid reflux.

  I need a TUMS.

 

  It was high time that I did some conspiring of my own. I called to Goibhniu and asked if we could have a quick word. The brewer grinned in good spirits and offered one of those greetings where you grip forearms instead of hands.

  “What’s on your mind, most ancient Druid?”

  “Can you make one of those cone-of-silence thingies so we can’t be overheard?” I asked. “I never quite learned that trick.”

  “Sure,” Goibhniu said. “You kind of have to learn it if you’re going to have a serious talk in Tír na nÓg. Faeries everywhere.” He mumbled a few words in Old Irish and rolled his eyes up and it was done. It was less graceful than the way Manannan had done it, and I didn’t quite catch all the words. “There,” he said. “I’ll teach it to you later if you like.”

  “Thanks. What’s the coin of the realm in Tír na nÓg these days?”

  “Gold and silver are still acceptable everywhere.”

  “Excellent. I was wondering if you had any pods of yewmen frequenting your pub?”

  “Yewmen?” Goibhniu’s affable expression disappeared. “Who are you wanting to kill, Atticus?”

  I shrugged. “No one important here. Just some vampires on earth.”

  Goibhniu frowned. “That battle was fought long ago, Atticus, and the Druids lost.”

  “I didn’t lose. I just took a very long time-out. The vampires are after me now. Granuaile too. I’m not going to sit back and let them call all the shots this time. I have resources now—the Fae have resources—and we should use them.”

  Goibhniu considered this and nodded once. “All right, but why yewmen?”

  “Vampires can’t sense them. No heartbeats. No blood. But the yewmen do have magical sight, so they can see a vampire’s aura and figure out where to stick them, pun intended. They’re made of wood, so, duh, a quick branch through the chest and we’re done. Cut off the head, bring it to you for bounty, keep a tab running, I’ll pay monthly.”

  “Whoa—bring the heads to me? And a tab?”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I don’t want to be involved when the vampires start wondering who’s offing them. They can reach us here, you know. They have contacts, and they can hire yewm
en or anyone else.”

  “Do you know who their contacts are?”

  “No.”

  “Well, I’m sure you have contacts too and can conduct business as cleverly as they can. Don’t you have a barfly who conducts such shady doings anyway?”

  “Yes,” he admitted.

  “Employ him, then.”

  Goibhniu shook his head. “You’re asking me to start a war.”

  “No, it’s already started. I’m asking you to help me win it. And honestly it doesn’t have to be yewmen only. It could be a standing bounty for anyone seeking fortune. Let the vampires relearn what it feels like to be hunted again. They have had their own way for far too long.”

  “Any vampire is okay?”

  “Yes. As long as it’s from Italy. Start with Rome and spread out from there. Follow the path of the Roman conquest, in fact. That will take out the oldest vampires first, and the hunting will get easier as you go.” Theophilus was in Greece presently, but so was Leif. I didn’t quite want him dead yet, in case he proved useful. The world’s vampires marched to orders from Rome, however, and it was time to hit them where it would hurt most. Theophilus would probably have to move to Italy to take over personally if the yewmen were successful.

  “How do we know a vampire’s head is from Italy?” Goibhniu asked.

  “Have them document the proceedings with a cell phone camera equipped with GPS.”

  “You know they’ll just make new vampires to replace the ones they lost.”

  “I know. But they’ll be younger, weaker, stupider, and unclear on why Druids should be feared and hunted if it’s a bunch of wee faeries killing them.”

  Goibhniu’s face split in a wide grin, and he laughed. “It’s been a merry few months around here now that you’re back. No one could call you tedious.”

  We spoke for a few moments more on bounties and such, and during this time Flidais completed her instructions to Granuaile. I was well pleased and looking forward to the results of my little chat with Goibhniu; when Leif had supposedly died after the Thor business, the news caused vampires from all over the world to fight one another for the right to rule a piece of his territory. Freeing up territory in Rome itself would cause the world’s vampires to flail like Muppets in their eagerness to be the next bloodsuckers in chief; and in their wakes, other, smaller power vacuums would open up and consume even more of them. Hunting two Druids would cease to be important. Mwah-ha-ha-ha.

  When Ogma and Granuaile set themselves for the second round, I could tell she would win it by following her eyes. She was watching her opponent. She would play the defensive, letting him commit, and then she’d counterattack—decisively. I’d been on the receiving end of it too many times to count. Ogma was watching his opponent as well, but in the wrong way. He was admiring Granuaile’s legs and the curve of her breasts, already anticipating what he’d see once he won her clothes. An arrogance had crept into his manner, an overconfidence, and he didn’t see that the second round would be much different from the first.

  Once it began, Ogma was on the ground in less than thirty seconds, much to the astonishment of everyone but Oberon and me. Granuaile thrust out her hand in his face and said, “Excellent! You are well trained.”

  The workshop quieted. To have a new Druid, scarcely into her third decade, speak to a god centuries old like that? Throwing his own words back at him? I was so proud.

  Ogma, to his credit, did not take offense. He rose without her help, dusted off his kilt, and grinned ruefully. “Okay, I deserved that.”

  He should have apologized. It would have cooled her down and she would have lost focus; she’d pay attention to the fact that she was sparring with a legend and was being watched by gods. But his admission of guilt without apology kept her focused.

  The third round was intense and much longer. It was an outstanding showcase of skill from both combatants. Granuaile wanted to win, and against almost any other opponent she would have, but Ogma was roused now, and he did, after all, have centuries more experience than she.

  When Ogma finally got through her defense and dropped her for the second time, he was clearly sweating and his face showed relief. The applause was loud—thunderous, even, thanks to Perun clapping next to me.

  “I am liking your peoples more all the times,” he bellowed over the noise.

  Once it had died down, Ogma leered at Granuaile and said, “Your clothes, please.”

  “Certainly,” she replied, then disappeared.

  A few confused noises filled the workshop, then laughter, as everyone realized that she had activated the enchantment on her staff.

  “Atticus, will you come hold this for me, please?” her voice called.

  “Sure.” I walked toward the place where she had been standing and stopped when her hand grabbed my shirt. She pulled me close and then guided my hand to Scáthmhaide. Once I touched it, I could see her.

  “I’m invisible to them right now, aren’t I?” she whispered.

  “Yes. We both should be now.”

  “Let me try something. Hold this against my belly.” She raised her tunic, I touched her belly with the staff, and she let go with her hands. “How about now?”

  I checked with Oberon. Can you see us?

 

  “Okay,” Granuaile said. “Keep it there.” She quickly took off her clothes, always keeping contact with the staff, and tossed her tunic and pants toward Ogma. They became visible as soon as they left her hand. There was much laughter at Ogma’s disappointed face. I saw that this could not have turned out any better; though Ogma had technically won, Granuaile had lost nothing and had, in a sense, outmaneuvered him. And no one would patronize her after this.

  A familiar faery in Brighid’s livery appeared in the doorway to the shop and cleared his throat pompously. Recognizing the herald, everyone stopped and stared at him. His voice, like a foghorn, projected certain doom.

  “All of the Tuatha Dé Danann are called to the Court immediately to hear a message from the Olympians.”

  Luchta frowned at the herald. “From the Greeks or the Romans?”

  “From both. Hermes and Mercury have come together to deliver the message.”

  Granuaile tilted her head toward me and whispered, “How did they get here?”

  “As messengers of the gods, they have the ability to walk the planes like we do,” I explained. “Just not in the same way.”

  “Any idea what they’re on about?” Goibhniu asked the herald.

  The faery coughed softly into his fist and paused, as if considering his answer deeply. “While I cannot say for sure, my speculation would be that it has something to do with the Iron Druid.”

  Several heads started to turn in our direction, but they caught themselves and none spoke a word about our silent, invisible presence.

  “We’d best go, then,” Ogma said. Everyone nodded and murmured agreement and began to file out of the shop. Granuaile and I followed; we asked Oberon to wait for us in the workshop. I gave her my tunic so that she’d be covered up in case we were forced to show ourselves, but I fully intended to behave like the proverbial fly on the wall—the one that always gets away and never gets swatted.

  When we got to the great wide meadow of the Fae Court, Granuaile found it interesting that there were far fewer Fae assembled to witness the audience of the Olympians. There were hardly any, in fact, aside from the assembled lords, and even they were not fully in attendance. All the Tuatha Dé Danann appeared, however, shifting themselves on short notice to the Court on Brighid’s command.

  The Olympian messenger gods floated three feet above the ground, perhaps ten yards from the small hillock on which sat Brighid’s throne. She was dressed far more formally for this occasion, draped in flat silken panels of royal and powder blue. She affected boredom as she waited for the Tuatha Dé Danann to assemble. When all seats had been filled, she turned her head to the gods in a dilatory manner and said, “All are present. You may proceed, sirs.”

  Ther
e are teachers out there who like to tell their students that the only difference between the Greek and the Roman gods is their names. This is patently untrue. Apart from the wings on their ankles, Hermes and Mercury have very little in common—and the same is true of every Olympian pair. The Greeks and Romans were different people, after all, and imagined their gods differently.

  Hermes lacked body fat to a rather indiscreet degree, and I desperately wanted to lob a cheeseburger in his general direction to see if he’d let it fall. There were ribs and veins showing, and some of the veins also appeared to have whipcord muscles of their own. His eyes were red-rimmed, haunted, and supported by baggage that wouldn’t fit easily in the overhead bin, but they were fixed professionally on Brighid’s defenses, unless I missed my guess. If the shit went down, Hermes would be ready. His hands were large, with square-cut, chunky fingers, like those in Frank Miller sketches, and his bare feet were also oversize. He had the skin tone of a mime and spoke like one too—that is, he let Mercury do all the talking. He held his caduceus in his right hand as if ready to brain someone with it.

  Mercury looked as if he’d just been shat out of a Milanese day spa. In modern popular imagination, his was the silhouette that delivered flowers quickly to your loved ones. Bronzed skin and whitened teeth made me suspect abnormally high levels of asshattery. His feet were sandaled, and he steepled his fingers together in front of his stomach before he spoke.

  “The gods Pan and Faunus and the goddesses Artemis and Diana demand the immediate return of the dryads kidnapped from the slopes of Mount Olympus.”

  Holy shit. I’d thought that Brighid’s herald was pompous, but Mercury was schooling him on that with every word. Oil and contempt practically dripped from his lips.

  “If they are harmed,” Mercury continued, “the life of the Druid Siodhachan Ó Suileabháin is forfeit, and blood price will be required of the Tuatha Dé Danann for not controlling him. His life may be forfeit anyway,” he added, “because the god Bacchus has sworn to slay him.”

  “Your gods and goddesses address their suit to the wrong party,” Brighid replied, “for we are not the Druid of whom you speak. Nor do we have any control over him. He is not our subject and we cannot be held responsible for his actions.” She turned to her assembled kin. “Do any of you have any knowledge whatsoever about these kidnapped dryads?”