Druid Mystic: A New Adult Urban Fantasy Novel (The Colin McCool Paranormal Suspense Series Book 10)

by M. D. Massey

  Maman Brigitte’s expression flickered back and forth between anger and amusement. “So, it’s fine for a woman to put her body on display, but a man’s not allowed to notice?”

  “Only if the woman wants the man to notice. But how we’re supposed to know that is beyond me.”

  The goddess clutched her stomach as her uproarious laughter echoed around the room. “I know you don’t, little druid. My granddaughter was all hot an’ bothered after that little adventure you two went on, an’ you barely even noticed. That ass was ripe for the picking, an’ instead you probably went home and stroked yourself off to Internet porn. Unbelievable.”

  On consideration, I realized I’d misunderstood the reason for her current grudge. I didn’t even bother to blush, as I’d grown accustomed to Maman Brigitte’s blunt, foul-mouthed ways. In fact, I could almost like her for it—if she weren’t one of the Celtic gods.

  “Wait a minute,” I said as I rubbed my forehead. “You’re not mad at me for placing Janice in danger?”

  “Of course not, fool. Think I don’t know that trouble follows you like an alley cat after the day’s catch? That’s why I wanted you to take her out, so the poor girl could have a little excitement for once.” She shook her head at me disapprovingly. “An’ some cock as well. But you somehow managed to fuck that part up royally—that’s why I’m mad at you.”

  “Huh. Go figure.”

  “Now you’ve gone an’ gotten mixed up with that shifter girl, an’ knowing you, you wouldn’t cheat on her if your life depended on it. Although I could easily make you fall for Janice, it’s not my way to force love or passion on humans. Meaning, you’ll have to repay your debt to me in another way—but that’ll have to wait. We have bigger problems.”

  “We?”

  “Yes, ‘we.’ An’ not the royal ‘we,’ so don’t be a dumbass. There’s powers an’ forces at work right now, some working for you an’ some against you. I happen to be on your side if you haven’t guessed, mostly because I can’t stand that fucker Aenghus, but also ’cause you remind me of your ancestor.”

  “Who, Fionn?”

  She scowled. “That stubborn, vindictive prick? I could never stand him, an’ I couldn’t see why The Seer invested so much time in him. No, you’re more like his son. Oisín was a good lad, noble and true—traits he inherited from his mother. You take after him in more ways than I can count.”

  “Wow, th—I mean, that’s nice of you to say.”

  “Don’t let it go to your head. Remember, the silly fucker died trying to help people. Should’ve stayed on the fucking horse, but mortals never listen. However, I’m hoping you have more sense—at least enough to listen to my warning.”

  If there was one thing I’d learned since I’d gotten mixed up with Oisín’s widow, Niamh—also known as Maeve the Faery Queen of Austin—it was that the gods didn’t get involved in human affairs for no reason. Occasionally they did it for sport, often sending humans on mad, dangerous quests just to see them suffer. Other times they used us as pawns in their stupid games and petty squabbles.

  But when a god or goddess helped you, they always got something out of the bargain—always. Suddenly, I was very nervous, but you didn’t look a gift-deity in the mouth. I clasped my hands in front of me as I gave Maman Brigitte a short, deferential nod.

  “I’m listening.”

  “Aenghus wants you dead. You already knew that, and I’m sure the Seer informed you that he’s not the only one. Nemain told her sisters what you did to that drip-dick Diarmuid, and now the Crow has been sniffing around after you.”

  “‘The Crow’? You mean Badb.”

  “Aye, nastiest of the three goddesses currently serving in the role of the Morrígna. She enjoys causing battles and meddling to shift the tide, as they all do. But more than that, she loves to confuse an’ confound her enemies before slaughtering them.” Maman Brigitte spat on ground. “An utter and total cunt.”

  “Oh, joy. What do you think she’ll do?”

  “Aenghus is a pompous ass, but he’s not half as clever as he lets on. That imbecilic pretty boy couldn’t find you on his own if he tried. But Badb? She’s a crafty old hussy. Given time she’ll track you down, but she’ll likely fuck with you from afar until you’re confused and exhausted. That’s when she’ll strike.”

  I tsked and rubbed the back of my neck. “You’re not exactly filling me with confidence here, Brigid. Maybe you didn’t notice, but I’m not myself these days. And even when I was in top form, Finnegas told me point blank I couldn’t take on a god. Hell, I barely survived my scrape with Diarmuid.”

  “Lucky for you, Badb generally doesn’t care to get her hands dirty. Plus, she won’t take you seriously at first, no matter what Nemain tells her. Expect her to send a flunky to do her dirty work.”

  “Again, not exactly what I’d like to hear. Based on past experience, even the gods’ flunkies are serious players.” I stroked the stubble on my chin. “But warning taken. Now, do you mind if I ask you a couple of questions about a different matter?”

  She drew her lips into a tight frown. “Saint Germain has asked you to help him, and you wish to know if he speaks the truth.”

  “Correct.”

  Maman Brigitte snorted with displeasure. “You have bigger problems to deal with right now. Why help the undead solve theirs?”

  “My reasons are my own. I just need to know if it’s true—if he’s really the only vampire primary to ever successfully survive the act of possession with his mind intact.”

  “I wouldn’t call it intact,” she said, “but what he has told you is true. He’s still a killer though, Colin—all the neamh-mairbh are, even your friend who runs that coffee shop. They might talk pretty about only feeding on the willing, but take away their food source and any vampire will go feral in a fortnight.”

  “Just the same, I can’t leave him here if he’s slaughtering innocent people. And if he is a primary, and the primary spirit is dominant, killing him will be easier said than done.”

  The goddess tsked and gave a rueful shake of her head. “Just like Oisín, always sticking your dick in the doorjamb on someone else’s account. Well, I’ve warned you about Badb, so my part is done. Go on, save your undead friend from himself. But don’t you come crying to me when he tries to rip your throat out.”

  I flashed her a shit-eating grin. “Why Brigid—I had no idea you cared.”

  Maman Brigitte’s eyes narrowed, but a smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. “You watch that cute little smart-ass of yours, druid. My granddaughter would be mighty upset if something were to happen to it.”

  A split-second later, I found myself standing in the middle of City Park. It was almost noon, so I decided to fill Finnegas in and get his take on things. Then I’d catch some sleep before doing recon on the dead drop. With any luck I’d have Saint Germain out of the city by midnight, and then we’d be on our way to Tahiti or some such.

  When I entered the Grove, the old man was basking in the sun next to the pond, hat pulled down over his eyes with a beer in one hand and a fishing pole in the other. Moving quietly so as not to wake him, I tiptoed past on my way to my Keebler cottage.

  “How goes your hunt?” he asked casually.

  “For an old man, you sure have sharp ears,” I remarked, plopping down in the soft grass beside him.

  “You were moving quietly enough—it’s the vibrations in the ground that gave you away. A master druid can tune into that and more without thinking about it. Makes it near impossible for someone to sneak up on you.”

  “Hmph. Guess that gives me something to work on in my next meditation session. Anyway, things got weird fast with Saint Germain.”

  He sat up, dropping the pole and setting his beer in the grass before readjusting his battered straw cowboy hat. “How so?”

  “For starters, I didn’t find Jacques—he found me. Rather, he lured me into a trap.”

  “You look pretty fresh, so you obviously didn’t tussle. What’d he want t
o talk about?”

  I explained my conversation with the vampire while Finnegas sipped his beer in silence. “I’m supposed to meet him later tonight and get him out of NOLA. What do you think?”

  “Personally, I think you’d be better off killing him outright and letting the Vampyri Council sort it out. Wouldn’t be easy though, if he is what he says he is.”

  “Brigid said his story pans out.”

  “She did, eh? I’d heard rumors, but I don’t know of many mortals with the willpower to resist a hostile possession by a primary spirit.” He tugged on his beard as he considered the situation. “So, what are you going to do?”

  “Like I told Brigid, I can’t just leave him here to go on another rampage. Plus, I think the hold he has on his alter-ego is slipping. I figure if I can get him out of the city, I can hide him somewhere safe until I find a way to either help him control it or separate him from the spirit for good.”

  “It’ll kill him, if you do,” the old man remarked. “He’ll wither away the instant the spirit leaves his body. And unless you find a way to contain it or send it back across the Veil, it’ll just possess another poor shmuck.”

  “Saint Germain insinuated that he’s okay with his own demise, if it comes to that. In fact, it’s partly why I agreed to help him. As for the rest, well—at the very least I’ll need to recruit some help.”

  Finnegas frowned, patting his pockets for his tobacco bag. “Who do you have in mind?”

  “Brother Carroll for the exorcism, and Crowley for containing or dispelling the spirit.”

  “Hah! I’d like to see you get those two working together,” he said as he focused on rolling a cancer stick. “That’ll be the day.”

  I sighed heavily. “Do you have a better idea?”

  “Sure, leave that idjit to his own devices, wait for the Vampyri Council to step in, and lay low until we figure out how to deal with Aenghus.”

  “Speaking of which—Brigid says one of your old flames is involved now. Apparently Badb is just as eager to see me meet a premature end as Aenghus.”

  “As I said before, I only slept with her once. Twice would’ve been courting disaster.”

  “If she’s that dangerous, they why’d you bump uglies with her?” I said, biting back a chuckle.

  Finnegas dropped his chin to his chest and glowered at me. “You’ve obviously never met a woman who maxes out the hot-crazy matrix.”

  Although dryad Jesse immediately came to mind, I kept my thoughts to myself. “Fair enough.”

  The old man lit his cigarette, taking a huge puff and exhaling slowly. “I’m not surprised that Badb decided to come after you, considering she’d already shown an interest.”

  “Yes, but why is she interested in me? I mean, why are any of them after me? Why sic Diarmuid on me, or send the Dullahan to take me out? Am I really such a threat to them?”

  “Told you before, you’re a potential threat, and the Celtic gods haven’t been seriously threatened in a millennia or more.” He stabbed his cigarette at me to punctuate his point. “So, the best thing we can do is lay low and stay out of their way until they lose interest—unlikely—or until we come to some sort of truce with the gods who want you dead.”

  “And how likely is that to happen?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “It wouldn’t be the first time the gods made a deal with a mortal to keep them from causing trouble. But first, you need to show them that killing you is more trouble than it’s worth. And that’s a very hard thing to do when you’re dealing with the gods.”

  “Great. Thanks for another riveting pep talk, old man.”

  He tipped his hat at me and winked. “My pleasure.”

  11

  After some meditation, a training session, and a long nap inside the Grove, I geared up and went Earthside. The skies were grey and overcast, creating the kind of gloom that makes a person want to put on warm socks and stay wrapped up on the couch all day. I didn’t have a couch and I couldn’t stream movies in my Keebler cottage, so I stepped out into a light drizzle, pulling my jacket close around me as I headed for the French Quarter.

  I didn’t have to be at the dead drop until after dark and, with nothing better to do, I stopped at a Krystal burger on Bourbon Street and pigged out. I took my time demolishing a five-pack and an order of chili cheese fries, then headed over to St. Pat’s—a small coffee shop and bar located in the back of the Irish Cultural Museum. With an Irish coffee in hand to warm me up, I parked myself at a window table to watch the rain and dry off before nightfall.

  As the bleak sunlight gave way to dusk, I headed north for Louis Armstrong Park. Since I had no idea who might be watching the designated dead drop, I cast an obfuscation spell on myself before circling the area. Taking my time, my eyes were peeled as I headed up St. Anne, then right on Essence, cutting across to St. Phillip and back down to Rampart.

  It was still too early for vamps to be out, but there were a couple of buskers and a trio of pan-handlers present, each stationed so they could watch every entrance and approach to the park. From what I could tell, all of them looked like they were more interested in hanging out than scoring change from tourists. I noted their positions—and the fact that Saint Germain had a mole in his inner circle. Then I headed to the Haunted Museum and Spirit Shop across the street to watch and wait.

  Normally when I walked around under obfuscation, the strong “look away, go away” charms kept humans and some supernatural creatures from noticing me. They might glance my direction, but their eyes would skate past me, lingering for only a second as the spell whispered in their minds, “There’s nothing here, look elsewhere.” But as I scurried in the front door of the museum behind a tipsy group of bachelorettes, a young woman locked eyes with mine, holding my gaze for several long heartbeats.

  Shit, I’ve been made.

  The woman wore an off-white, high-waisted, full-length dress with puffed sleeves that sat just off the shoulders. She was pretty in a plain sort of way, with ruddy cheeks, brown eyes, and long dark hair worn away from her face but left flowing down her back. I was just about to walk over and confront her, if only to discover if she was a friend or a foe. But before I could cross the room, she flashed me a shy smile and walked straight through the wall.

  A ghost—I might have known. This is New Orleans, after all.

  Shaking my head, I posted myself at the front window where I wouldn’t be jostled by the museum’s visitors. Then, I set my eyes on the park across the street and waited. I didn’t have to wait long.

  As soon as full darkness fell across the city, a familiar figure came strutting her way up Rampart, headed for the arched entrance—the dead drop location. She was wearing a different jacket, a black nylon bomber covered in punk rock band and skater patches, and she’d exchanged her mini-skirt for a pair of jeans that had more rips than a bean burrito-eating contest. With her hair tucked back under a black watch cap and a well-worn pair of purple Chuck Taylors on her feet instead of heels, she could’ve passed for a boy.

  Almost. But despite the change of clothes, her diminutive size and cocky attitude made her unmistakable. When she pick-pocketed a Louis Vuitton wallet from a passerby’s purse, I knew for certain Saint Germain’s messenger had arrived.

  Yep, that’s Clara alright.

  The problem was, if I was able to see right through her disguise, the lookouts would, too. One of the buskers had set up right in front of the archway, strumming a beat-up acoustic guitar as his eyes scanned up and down Rampart. He was a tall, rangy white guy with a bald head, facial and neck tats, and a scraggly beard that almost covered the logo on his Deadhead t-shirt. From the bite marks on his neck, and his general “I’m a heroin junkie” appearance, he was definitely cattle.

  I most certainly did not want Clara to be made by these jokers, so I sprinted out the shop and across the street about half a block in front of her. She had her head down, eyes on the pavement, but I could tell by the tension in her shoulders that she was on high alert. Startling h
er would be ill-advised since it would draw attention, but I couldn’t risk being seen by the lookouts either. Unsure what to do, I remembered that she had vampire hearing—not as good as a ’thrope, but good enough to hear someone speaking to her from three-hundred feet away on a busy street.

  “Clara,” I whispered, “the park is being watched. Turn around and head north on Ursulines. I’ll catch up to you shortly.”

  To her credit, she didn’t look around or even give a nod of recognition. Instead she stopped, lit a cigarette, and then headed back the way she’d come. Before following her, I took one last look around. The Deadhead was speaking with someone on a cheap throwaway cellphone, his eyes glued on Clara’s retreating figure.

  Aw, hell—I guess that means the game is afoot.

  Rather than catching up with Clara immediately, I decided to hang back to see who or what would turn up on her tail. The little vampire had barely passed Treme Street when I spotted the first shadowy figure running along the rooftops about half a block behind. Two more soon joined the first figure, leaping from roof to roof on the other side of the street.

  Outnumbered—it figures. And more will arrive soon.

  Over the last few months, I’d spent a lot of time inside the Grove with Finnegas and Maureen, learning druid battle magic and sharpening my hand-to-hand combat skills. I’d also spent considerable time under Hideie’s tutelage, absorbing all I could of the tengu’s vast knowledge of swordplay. Thus, I was confident I could handle a single vamp, even in my human form. I’d fought Diarmuid without the benefit of my Fomorian strength and speed, after all.

  But three vamps at once, in a straight-on confrontation? That added up to a whole lot of nope for me, and if I was going to get Clara through this alive and find out where Saint Germain was, I’d have to fight dirty. The three vamps still hadn’t noticed me, so I cast a combination silence and chameleon spell on myself in addition to the obfuscation spell. Then, I watched and waited for them to make their move.