by Kevin Hearne
“A giant bag of gold I can understand, but making me drive up here to deliver those Girl Scout Cookies and whiskey? That makes you a whole new species of asshole,” she said, then stepped on the accelerator and peeled down the hill, leaving me in a cloud of dust. I coughed a bit but grinned. I knew what to get her for the holidays. I hefted the sack and, after bidding farewell to Granuaile and the hounds, took it with me to pay Goibhniu and thereby finance the stealth war against vampires.
When I got there and paddled the canoe out to Zealot Island, Goibhniu had already extracted its inhabitant from the slow time and placed him on a makeshift bed on the barge. In keeping with his promise to the Morrigan, he’d called in Fand, who was leaning over the man, lending her healing powers and the miraculous bacon of Manannan Mac Lir’s hogs to his recuperation—for, as expected, he had broken quite a few bones in the shock of removal. She smiled as I approached and said, “Ah, here he is! Your savior. I’ll let you two talk.” She winked at me and whispered, “He’s doing very well considering his age, even with our help.” Her surprise and curiosity about his identity were unspoken but clear.
It wasn’t a mystery to me why he healed so fast, but I felt it best to keep his identity a secret for a while longer. Ignoring her nonverbal query, I simply said, “Thank you.” She complimented my new haircut with a faint trace of sarcasm and took the hint, leaving us alone.
A weathered visage underneath a pair of bushy white eyebrows scowled at me in querulous confusion, one gloved hand holding up to his mouth a strip of bacon, which he gnawed on with gusto. He was having trouble placing me—my haircut was quite severe. I’d had to shave my head because most of the hair on the left side had been torn out by the tooth faeries, and now there was only a couple weeks’ stubble showing. His curt voice was laced with irritation as he spat in Old Irish, “Say something, y’poxy pile of shite.” A small chunk of bacon launched itself from his teeth by way of punctuation.
Normally, such a greeting would elicit from me an assertion that I had enjoyed the company of his mother the previous evening, but, considering who it was, I toned it down a bit. “The good news is that you’re still alive after all these years. The bad news is that you’re still alive after all these years.”
The eyebrows writhed in sinuous fashion atop his brow, wrestling for dominance on his face, until recognition hit him and they drew together in their customary configuration, a severe roof over an angry grimace. “You? Bloody Siodhachan!” Little bacon-flavored flecks of spittle flew from his lips. Deciding this wasn’t enough, he hawked up something gross and spat on the deck before continuing, “Gods damn it, how long was I on that thrice-cursed island? Nobody will tell me. You’ve gone and cocked everything up again, haven’t ye?”
My old archdruid literally hadn’t aged a day since the Morrigan put him on the island, and he was still as charming as ever.
For the Confederacy of Nerds:
AK, Barushka, Alan, Tooth,
and Pilot John
Acknowledgments
In case you might be interested, I’ve included a couple of goodies on my website (www.kevinhearne.com) that couldn’t appear in the book. The first is a Google map of the run across Europe. The second is a much longer retelling of The Wooing of Étaín by Atticus. Links to both can be found on the appropriately titled Goodies page.
Special thanks to Colin Wagenmann in Germany for his insights regarding German geography and for expressing existential quantification in Deutsch. I’m also grateful to Michelle Drew and William Cathcart in the UK for info regarding Windsor Park and Frogmore House, and to Heather Blatt at Florida International University for her invaluable help with Middle English. Dr. D. Forrest Taylor coached me a bit on toxins and their effects. Any inaccuracies are of course my fault and not theirs.
To belay speculation, the similarity betwixt my surname and Herne the Hunter’s is entirely coincidental—unless it isn’t. I know my ancestor arrived in “the Colonies” in the sixteenth century from London and could conceivably be related to an historical Herne (if he existed), but I lay no claim to that and frankly think it far-fetched. I simply found Herne a fascinating and irresistible figure because he illustrates the principle that stories (and perhaps gods) can take on a life of their own.
I cannot say enough good things about my alpha reader, Alan O’Bryan, my agent, Evan Goldfried, and my editors at Del Rey, Tricia Narwani and Mike Braff. Words simply fail, so we tend to drink a lot and sing the praises of a literate populace. Seriously. We’re not bad singers. And we have sung songs about you. Someday we will form our own heavy metal band called Thë Grätüïtöüs Ümläüts and sing of death and linguistics. Our first single will be “(Die)acriticäl Märks.”
Many thanks to you for reading and for spreading word of the series to your friends. It’s the only reason I get to write more.
Last but certainly not least, I’m grateful to my family for their love and support.
Don’t miss the first five and a half books of The Iron Druid Chronicles by Kevin Hearne
Hounded
Hexed
Hammered
Tricked
Trapped
Two Ravens and One Crow:
An Iron Druid Chronicles Novella
Author’s Note
Novellas related to series are often stand-alone adventures or only tangentially related to the overall plot, but this one was conceived and written to be an integral part of the Iron Druid Chronicles. It’s really book 4.5, set six years between the events of Tricked and Trapped, and there are references in both Trapped and Hunted to events that occur in this novella. We’ve printed it here at the back of book six because novellas are rarely printed and sold separately, and also for the very practical reason that this was written after Trapped was already completed and well into its production process. This was the earliest point we could get it into print at no extra cost to you. Thanks for your understanding, and happy reading!
TWO RAVENS AND ONE CROW
AN IRON DRUID CHRONICLES NOVELLA
What would it be like, I wonder, if humans could slobber as freely as dogs? There’s no social stigma for dogs when they slobber and it looks like a lot of fun, so I envy them that freedom. I’ve certainly wanted to slobber at various times—there are situations where nothing else makes sense—but despite having lived for 2,100 years and in many countries around the world, I have yet to find a culture where it’s even mildly acceptable, much less looked upon with approval.
I guess some things will never change.
Despite the universe’s refusal to change enduring truths according to my will, lately I’ve been wishing I could train a Druid in a five-minute karate-movie montage rather than the necessary twelve years. After ten seconds of futile effort trying to solve a problem, the initiate would abruptly improve or learn the lesson and her expression would fill with wonder, and I would award said initiate a cookie or a tight nod of approval. The initiate would bask in the glory of an achievement and then move on to the next difficult challenge for another ten seconds, and so on, until a triumphant swell of music and a slow-motion high five signaled victory and completion. We would smile the radiant smiles of actors in fast-food commercials, merrily chuckling as we ate enough grease to make our hearts explode like meat grenades.
But training my apprentice, Granuaile, wasn’t like that at all. Shaping her mind for Druidry was rough and monotonous for both of us, yet shaping her body was fraught with peril. The peril was the sort Sir Galahad had faced at Castle Anthrax: stupefying sexual tension.
Every winter solstice, I gave my apprentice an entire wardrobe of loose, shapeless sweats, and she kept buying herself tight, formfitting outfits to wear in the summer months. I had trained my Irish wolfhound, Oberon, to help me through it and be my Lancelot whenever Granuaile made my jaw drop, which was more often than I would care to admit. She’d go through her kicks and lunges and various stances and build up a sweat, then I’d start thinking about other ways to get sweaty, and shortly
thereafter I’d need to be rescued.
Can’t I have just a little bit of peril? I would ask Oberon through our mental link.
Granuaile picked up on the pattern after a while, unfortunately.
“Sensei?” she asked.
“Yes?”
“Why are you always leaving about halfway through a workout to give Oberon a snack?”
“What? Well, he’s a good dog.”
“Granted, but he’s a good dog all the time, and the only times you interrupt what you’re doing to give him a snack are during workouts.”
“I reward him sometimes for using big words. And sometimes I reward him for shutting up.”
Now would be a good time to shut up.
Deal.
“So what did he say just now?” Granuaile asked.
“I’m sorry, but that’s classified information.”
Oberon chuffed, and Granuaile’s eyes narrowed. She knew the dog was laughing, blast him, and now she’d be determined to find out what he thought was so funny.
I was saved by the arrival of an extremely large crow. It spat out “Caw!” at Klaxon-level volume, landing on top of our trailer. It startled us all, including Oberon, who barked at it a couple of times. The bird’s eyes glowed red and he stopped, tucking his head down and retracting his tail between his legs.
“Morrigan?” I said.
The red glow faded from the crow’s eyes as she tilted her head and spoke in a throaty rasp, “Surprise, Siodhachan.” The Celtic Chooser of the Slain would never call me Atticus. The head bobbed once at my apprentice. “Granuaile.”
“What’s wrong?” I asked, because the Morrigan did not make social calls. I belatedly realized that I should have offered her refreshment or adhered to some standard of hospitality, but thankfully the Morrigan was too focused on her mission to notice my awful manners.
The crow rustled her wings and announced, “We have business to attend to. You will be gone for at least a week but perhaps two. You won’t need to bring anything, not even a weapon. Shift to your bird form and let us be gone.”
“Wait, wait. I’m going to need more of an explanation than that. Can’t my apprentice come, or my hound?”
“No. Definitely not. Our business does not concern them.”
I glanced uncertainly at Granuaile, and she shrugged.
“You say we’ll be gone two weeks?”
“At the most. But we must begin immediately. Make haste.”
Arguing with the Morrigan would be unwise. Spending at least a week with her—maybe two—would not be any wiser.
I’m doomed, aren’t I?
“You’re not doomed,” the Morrigan said, and I belatedly remembered that she could read my mind now—or at least hear thoughts that I projected. “But you will be if you don’t hurry up.”
I turned to Granuaile. “Take a few days off if you wish. You’ve earned it. But continue to practice your languages and work out every day.”
“Okay, sensei. Maybe Oberon and I will head up to Durango.” Our place in Many Farms was just over a hundred miles southwest of there. She fingered her hair, dyed a brown so dark it might as well be black. “I can get this mess fixed up. It’s time.”
Her roots were beginning to show again, which meant mine were too. Our ridiculous fake identities had served us well in this remote location; we kept to ourselves and no one really gave a damn about us. Aside from the embarrassment of our assumed names—the trickster, Coyote, had fixed it so we had to call ourselves Sterling Silver and Betty Baker in public—we liked living and training in Many Farms. Taken all around, Coyote had done us a solid, and he in turn was mighty pleased about the way his renewable-energy projects were coming along, thanks to my help. Six years had done him and the tribe a world of good; the coal mine was shut down forever now that Coyote’s ventures were creating lots of jobs.
“All right. You know the drill, right? If I don’t come back—”
“I’m supposed to call Hal Hauk, I know,” Granuaile said. “He’s got your will. But you won’t make me do that.”
“I sure hope not. See you later.” I ducked into the trailer to undress before I shifted, and the Morrigan squawked impatiently.
Where do you think I’m going? I said as I threw my shirt into the hamper.
If you wanted to go hunting for wildebeest, you should have said so. Listen, watch Granuaile for me, will you?
Divested of my clothes, I triggered the charm on my necklace that bound my form to a great horned owl and hopped over to the door.
Thanks, buddy. I’ll have to owe you that snack. Though I’m sure Granuaile will completely spoil you while I’m gone.
I hopped down from the trailer doorway and hooted a good-bye to Granuaile. The Morrigan flapped her wings noisily and launched herself to the southeast.
Come, Siodhachan, her voice said in my mind. I shuddered and took wing after her. I didn’t like having her in my head, though at the moment I had to admit it was convenient. Unlike the Morrigan, I couldn’t speak like a human while in bird form.
You need to repair your tattoo, the Morrigan replied.
You have procrastinated long enough.
I stopped flapping my wings out of shock and dropped like a stone for a second before I recovered. The Morrigan was not a type A personality who worried about procrastination—hers or anyone else’s.
One thing at a time, Siodhachan.
She didn’t answer. She kept flying as if I hadn’t said anything and allowed me time to realize that she wasn’t going to answer any more questions, whether I asked them one at a time or not. This was highly unusual behavior for the Morrigan. Usually she couldn’t wait to tell me about all the dire shit that was about to befall me. Pronouncing my imminent doom held a certain relish for her. I couldn’t understand why she was being so closemouthed now, but my curiosity was piqued.
We shifted from Canyon de Chelly to a deserted patch of Tír na nÓg, where no Fae would see us, and then from there to a damp gray fen in Ireland,
surrounded by yew trees, that the Morrigan called her own. She led me to a barrow that I suppose I should call her home or estate or perhaps a simple dwelling, but those words don’t really fit the feel of the place so much as the word lair. The Morrigan was a bit too savage to live in a home; she could rock a lair like nobody else, though. Bones, I noticed, were a strong decorative motif. Skulls too. Perhaps that subconsciously tilted me toward the word lair instead of home; few homes are so abundantly adorned with bones—especially ones that the owner has quite probably gnawed on.
We flew straight through an open portal into a longish tunnel lit by torches, until we emerged in a large chamber with a table and a single chair. It had a pitcher resting on it and a lone goblet made of carved and polished wood. Clearly the Morrigan was unaccustomed to entertaining visitors.
The Morrigan shifted in midair so that her feet touched down lightly and gracefully next to the table. I tried to do the same thing and discovered that the graceful bit was something that one achieves only after much practice. My momentum was far greater than I had judged it to be, and I stumbled toward the table. I panicked as I realized that some very vulnerable body parts were about to be squashed into the edge of the table, so I twisted as best as I could and instead smashed my hip against it. Did I mention the table was stone? My entire leg went numb and I crumpled to the ground at the Morrigan’s feet with a pained groan.
The Morrigan laughed hysterically. I’d heard her laugh before, but it had always been evil-genius laughter, not genuine mirth.
It really was ground that we lay on, and not tile or marble or anything else. There was nothing to prevent us from contacting the earth here. And nothing to prevent me from blushing, because the Morrigan was laughing so hard that she couldn’t breathe. Tears streamed from the corners of her eyes. She sounded almost girlish, but I carefully refrained from noting this out loud and did my best to banish it from my thoughts as well.