by M. D. Massey
I closed my eyes, massaging my temples in an effort to rub away the last remnants of my concussive headache. “You could’ve told me that before we trained.”
“Will Aenghus or the other gods tell you what to expect when they next attack? Boy, the time for hand-holding and spoon-feeding is over. If you want to survive another decade, you’d best start thinking on your feet and anticipating your opponent’s moves.”
“You’re right.”
“And another thing—huh?”
“I said, ‘You’re right.’ It’s time I stopped acting like a kid. I’ve been shirking responsibility for too long, hoping that I could just ignore the World Beneath and live a somewhat normal life. But those days are gone, and they have been since Jesse and I fought the Avartagh. Maybe if I’d faced up to that fact earlier, things would be different.”
The old man and I sat in silence for a while, he rolling a cigarette while I catalogued my many regrets. Chief among them was taking the threat of the fae too lightly. And right after that came holding a grudge against Finnegas. I thought back on all the additional years of training I might have had with him. Certainly I was making up for it now, but if only I’d listened to him all along…
My druid mentor lit up, taking a few puffs and blowing lazy smoke rings as he considered his next words. “Eventually, you’re going to have to stop blaming yourself for what evil does. If you don’t, the guilt will eat you alive.”
“It’s not really guilt that eats at me these days. It’s regret.”
He stared at the cherry on his cigarette for a few moments. “I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
Finnegas frowned. “You’re way too young to have regrets.”
“Yeah, but that’s not your fault. I mean, you didn’t force Fionn MacCumhaill to thumb his nose at the fae and the Celtic gods all those years ago.”
“Didn’t I, though? There’s a lot you don’t know, Colin. For starters, I’m the one who trained him—”
“I already know that,” I said, cutting him off.
“But do you know why? It’s because I needed warriors to do the druid’s dirty work. The Dagda might have been all for teaching druidry to humans, but the other gods weren’t so keen on the notion. Many of them outright opposed the idea of giving mankind the means to defy the gods.”
“Humankind, boomer. Nobody says ‘mankind’ anymore.”
“And I’m too old to give a shit,” he said, flicking ash on the floor. “Now stop interrupting me and let me finish. This is important, and it directly relates to why you’ve become of such interest to the Celtic gods.”
“I’m a threat to them—we’ve already established that.”
The lines on his forehead deepened as he drew his brows together. “Not exactly. Even with all the training we’ve done, you’re barely a nuisance to a full-fledged deity like Aenghus. The gods don’t fear what you are; they fear what you might become.”
“But Finn, I’m hardly the best student you’ve ever had. Most of my victories have just been dumb luck, ‘Hail Mary’ passes that somehow managed to score a win for the team.”
“It isn’t luck that’s saved your bacon so many times, but ingenuity. And that ingenuity is the hallmark of what made the druids such a threat to the gods. Why do you think they conspired with the Romans to wipe the groves out?”
“Ah, so it was the Celtic gods. I had my suspicions.”
He gave a short nod and blew smoke from his nostrils. “Some of them. How else would the Roman Empire gain the means to do so? And now that they suspect you have access to a grove, there’s no telling what they’ll do.”
“You think Aenghus told the twins to poison me?”
“They know you’re using magic to bounce around, they just don’t know how. Transporter spell might explain it, but chances are you’d be dead by now if that’s how you were getting around. That just leaves a few other options. Takes centuries to master portal magic, and they think I’m too old and feeble to pull it off.”
“Leaving the only logical conclusion—that I have access to a grove.”
“Yup,” he said, taking a puff of his cigarette. “They can’t see it, and they sure in the hell can’t locate it, but you can damned sure bet they suspect it’s there. And the fact that you couldn’t zap yourself away after the twins poisoned you cinched it. Only one kind of travel magic relies on telepathy, after all.”
I considered how I was being outmaneuvered at every step. Opposing the gods was like playing chess without being able to see your opponent’s pieces. In a game like that, you had to play defensively to survive. And even then, you were only prolonging the inevitable.
“Finnegas, if the gods feared the druids so much, why’d they let you live?”
He took a long drag off his coffin nail, exhaling slowly before answering. “After all the groves had been destroyed, I hid for a while. A few centuries of looking over my shoulder all the time tempered my thirst for revenge, so I reached out through the Dagda and he arranged for a truce.”
“And the terms were?”
“For one, I could teach druidry, but never to more than a single student at a time.”
“You taught Jesse and me at the same time,” I said.
“Yes, but I trained you two as fénnid, warriors—not druid mystics. The cantrips I taught you were commonplace in the days the fianna roamed the length and breadth of Éire. Hell, during Fionn’s time, practically every warrior knew how to cast a few minor spells.”
“Huh, you learn something new every day. So, what else did the gods demand in exchange for leaving you alone?”
The old man stared down at his nicotine-stained hands. “I was not, under any circumstances, allowed to plant another Druid Oak—under pain of death.”
I sat up and leaned forward. “Finnegas, if they think I have access to a Druid Grove, that means—”
“Yep. It means they also suspect I broke the truce.”
“Ah, hell.” I jumped to my feet, pacing like a caged lion. “We have to get the Dagda to tell them it wasn’t you. Heck, I’ll tell them, for that matter. Otherwise they’ll come after you, and we can’t let that happen.”
“Even worse,” he said with a grim smile. “They’ll use this as an excuse to come after us both in force—then they’ll try to wipe out the druids once and for all.”
I stopped pacing and turned to face him. “Holy shit.”
“Exactly. Which is another reason why we need to get lost for a while. And train you up so you can survive on your own against Aenghus—and whoever else is hot to trot about the idea of the druids making a comeback.”
“When do you think they’ll move?”
He hitched a shoulder in a half-shrug. “Maeve’s probably all that’s holding them back right now. Once our time is up, it’ll be open game on folks who talk to trees. The good news is, they’ll have a hell of a hard time finding the Oak, much less tracking it. The bad news is, back in the day the gods literally took a scorched earth approach when they set out to destroy the groves.”
“How so?”
“Inside a druid grove, the master of the grove can wield god-like magic. That is, if he has sufficient time to build a connection with his grove and master the powers the grove provides. So, no god is going to be stupid enough to attack a druid in his own grove.”
I snapped my fingers. “The Oak—that’s where it’s weak.”
“Precisely. And to be honest, the groves we had back then weren’t as sentient as this one, and thus they were a lot less mobile. It took a master druid to tap the full power of a particular grove, and only a grove’s master could use its teleportation magic. And then only from grove to grove and oak to oak.”
“So, my Grove is different?”
“In many ways, yes. It appears the Dagda gave you the new and improved version to help ensure its survival—and perhaps yours.” The old man took a long drag off his cigarette, exhaling smoke as he continued. “Like any other tree, druid oaks are susceptible to fire.
Granted, the old groves could manipulate water and earth to protect themselves from natural threats, and physically relocate when directed. But the gods found ways to get around those defenses.”
“Finn, I’ve seen what the Oak can do—and what Jesse could do in her dryad state, for that matter. It seems like it’d be hard for a god to get close enough to do any real harm.”
He crushed his cigarette out on the stone desk and pulled out his tobacco pouch, pointing at me with it as he replied. “Exactly so. Tell me, then—if you were a god, how would you deal with it?”
I rubbed my chin as I thought for a moment. “First, you’d have to keep it from portalling away with some sort of containment spell. Or you could do what Eliandres did to me and break its connection with its master.”
He concentrated on rolling his cigarette as he listened. “Go on.”
“After you immobilized it, you’d have to overwhelm the Oak’s natural defenses all at once. Like by nuking it or something.”
“Or something,” he said, licking the tobacco paper to seal his cancer stick. “And do you think the gods could wield that sort of power?”
“I—I really don’t know. From what I’ve seen, it seems like there are limits to what they can do.”
The old man lit his cigarette with a snap of his fingers. He crossed an ankle over his knee, leaning back against the wall as he watched me think. “Explain.”
“Well, if Aenghus had unlimited power, then why didn’t he just zap me into ash where I stood? And why is he having such a hard time finding me? If you ask me, the gods certainly aren’t all-powerful, nor are they omniscient.” I chewed my lip as I considered what I’d observed of Maeve and the other gods in the past. “It’s almost as if they’re just really, really powerful magic-users.”
Finnegas gave me a self-satisfied grin. “Give the kid a cookie.”
“Wait a minute—you’re telling me that the gods are just super-advanced mages?”
“It’s a bit more complicated than that. They’re not human, and that’s a fact. But they are definitely not all-powerful beings. For one, they can die—although they almost always come back, as you well know. And second, they make mistakes.”
“Which means they can be beaten.”
“I don’t know any mortals who have ever done so, at least not decisively. That said, outsmarting them is definitely within the realm of possibility.”
“But if their power is limited—”
“Stop.” He took a short drag from his cigarette and stabbed it at me. “You are not going to beat the gods through magic or skill in battle, so get that thought out of your head right now. And remember, ‘He who runs away—’”
“—doesn’t get a royal beatdown from a Celtic god. Got it.” I rubbed my neck, looking away dejectedly for a moment while I considered what was at stake. “But if I ever get the chance, believe me when I say I’ll happily end any one of those fuckers for good.”
Finnegas stood, dusting off his jeans as he headed for the door. “Don’t hold your breath, kid.”
After Finnegas and I finished our little post-training chat, it was time to check in with Maureen and run one last errand before we took off for parts unknown. Or two, if Luther made good on his promise earlier. I hoped he’d forget, but old vampires had excellent memories.
Thankfully I’d already completed most of my Earthside errands—including saving Larry the Chupacabra from the wrath of his undead ex, Kiki. His old crew had arrived to lend a hand during that whole crazy caper, and he was currently partying it up with them to celebrate his new, permanent state of bachelorhood. I hadn’t seen him for a few days, and if my luck held he’d stay out of my hair until this all blew over. Larry was a decent cryptid when it came down to it, but he also got on my nerves. Frankly, I was ready for a break from his antics.
When I walked in the front office, Maureen was typing away at a keyboard behind the front desk, bathed in the blue glow of the computer monitor. The place smelled like coffee, Finn’s tobacco, and Maureen, who always smelled ever so lightly of wet horse. I’d never tell her that, though—I liked having all my appendages attached.
She handed me a note from a message pad without looking up from her screen. “One o’ the Queen’s cronies called, bitchin’ about her twin killers bein’ dead. Ya’ wouldn’t happen ta’ know anythin’ about that—wouldja’, boyo?”
“From what I understand, they were killed in a freak accident involving a tornado and a lot of falling debris,” I said with a sly wink.
“Heard there were some knives and bullets in that ‘debris,’” she replied, eyes still locked on the screen.
“I once watched a documentary on the Weather Channel that said a tornado could shoot a piece of straw through a wooden door. So it was probably just the wind.”
Maureen gave a purse-lipped grin. “Hated those cocky fookers. ’Bout time someone took care o’ them.”
“Agreed. Besides killing ‘cocky fookers,’ is there anything else I need to do before we take off?”
She swiveled away from her workstation, grabbing a sheaf of official-looking papers and a pen. “Sign these. It’ll make it easier fer me ta’ keep things going if yer away fer more than a few months.”
I was already putting my John Hancock on them as I spoke. “What exactly am I signing here?”
She waited for me to finish before answering, snatching the papers back as she spoke. “Oh, just yer’ bloody life away is all. Should know better than ta’ sign a contract with the fae.”
“Har, har.”
“Access ta’ bank accounts, power of attorney, and the like. So I can make sure yer’ mother is looked after, should it come ta’ that.” She failed to make eye contact as she busied herself with filing the paperwork away.
“Maureen, I’ll be with Finnegas. We’ll be fine. And to tell the truth, it’s you I’m worried about.”
“Pfah. Yer’ mother and I are both under the Queen’s protection, so you’ve nothin’ ta’ worry about there. Not even Aenghus would risk raising Maeve’s ire by goin’ after yer’ family or her subjects, tho’ she’s likely right vexed that ya’ took out the twins. No, what worries me is what’ll happen once yer’ gone from the Queen’s demesne.”
She looked like she was about to cry, which was rare for the half-kelpie despite how much she mothered me. I knelt down in front of her chair, taking her hands in mine as I looked her in the eye.
“I promise that I’ll look after Finnegas and you know he’s going to look after me. And the Oak and Grove will be looking after us both. After we jump around a few times, they’ll have no idea where to pick up the trail or how to find us. Once we figure out a way to appease Aenghus and whichever other gods are after me, we’ll come back and things will return to normal. You’ll see.”
She leaned forward, pulling me into a hug. Maureen was surprisingly strong, and frankly she was squeezing the life out of me. I didn’t care.
“Yer’ like a damned son ta’ me, ya’ know that?”
“Does this mean I get to call you mom?” Before I knew it, she was twisting my ear. I found myself on my hands and knees, bending my neck at an impossible angle to relieve the pressure. “Ow, ow, ow, ow!”
A second later, she released me with a soft pat on the cheek. “There’s yer’ answer, ya’ cheeky melter.” She turned back to her workstation, surreptitiously wiping a tear from her eye. “Now, go pester Samson about yer’ lass one last time, so you and the Seer can get yer’ selves in the wind.”
5
I was on my way to the Pack’s clubhouse to speak with Samson when I got a call from “Unknown.” I was pretty sure that Maeve wasn’t calling to apologize for her killers’ behavior, so I figured it had to be one of Luther’s people. I hit the receive button and put the call on speaker.
“McCool’s Extermination Service,” I said in an annoyingly perky, upbeat voice. “You stab ’em, we slab ’em—for a sizable fee, of course. How may I direct your call?”
A female voice answered
, one with a rather pronounced Russian accent. “Is this how you amuse yourself, chudovishche? Is droll.”
“And a pleasant day to you as well, Sophia Doroshenko. To what do I owe the honor?”
“Is honor in killing, true, if done for right reasons. But killing is not why I call today. Have message from Luther for you.”
She pronounced “Luther” like “looter,” which tickled me every time I heard her say it. I stifled a laugh before replying.
“I just saw him earlier—”
“Is true. Is also true you owe him favor, da?”
I exhaled heavily, knowing she’d hear. “I’m all ears. Go.”
“He say come to old warehouse that dead cop used. You know this place?”
I thrummed my fingers on the steering wheel as I considered her request. “You mean the one that Detective Erskine was using to hide all his contraband?”
“Ear-skeen,” she replied, rolling the name on her tongue as if she were sampling expensive caviar. “Da, is place. Is urgent, do not make Luther wait.”
The line went dead. “And a cordial dasvidania to you as well, Sophia. Sheesh, doesn’t anyone follow basic phone etiquette anymore?”
I was on that side of town anyway, so I hooked a U-turn and headed downtown east of I-35. As I neared the area where Erskine’s hideout had once been, I marveled at how the area had changed. Not long ago, the neighborhood had consisted of trashed out lots and rundown warehouses. Now condos were going up on every corner, and many of the old, decrepit buildings that were still intact had been converted into upscale retail and restaurant space.
When I pulled up to Erskine’s old digs, the story was much the same. Rather than the old metal building with faded paint surrounded by chain-link and barbed wire that I remembered, the place had been transformed. Someone had converted it into a trendy restaurant-slash-lounge-slash-nightclub, complete with a valet parking stand, skylights, a floor-to-roof glass entry, and a newly-minted parking lot many times the size of the building itself. However, few cars were to be seen, and part of the lot and front walk had been cordoned off with yellow tape and signs that said, “Under Construction.” Apparently, the place was not yet open for business.