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

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Druid Mystic: A New Adult Urban Fantasy Novel (The Colin McCool Paranormal Suspense Series Book 10) Page 15

by M. D. Massey

Oscar sneered at me from within his helm. “He fell easily to my spear. Fortunate for him, I was using the blunt end.”

  His father’s eyes swept around the glade, taking in Oscar’s warriors at a glance. “And by the looks o’ your fiann, not a moment too soon.” His eyes softened, but his voice remained hard as steel. “Go, attend yer sister and get her what she needs ta’ heal the Seer.”

  “Athair—”

  “I’ll not tell ya’ again. And while yer at it, consider how ye’ll make amends fer attacking yer descendant an’ ally. Now, go!”

  The sharp tone in his father’s reprimand must’ve cut Oscar like a knife. As he scurried off to do his dad’s bidding, he cast me a backward glance that told me we were definitely not going to become pen pals. When he was gone, Oisín sighed softly and shook his head.

  “Apologies, druid. He means well, but sadly he takes after his grandfather, all action with little thought given ta’ the consequences.”

  I shrugged as I continued to rub my wrists. “Meh, I get knocked out all the time. It’s kind of like a hobby for me to get laid out cold and wake up in restraints. I’m used to it.”

  He chuffed good-naturedly as he clapped a gloved hand on my shoulder. “Be that as it may, perhaps we could get Plúr to look at yer wounds? An’, while we get some food in yer belly, ya’ can tell me how ye and the Seer became stranded in Mag Mell whilst in the august company o’ a pair of the neamh-mairbh.”

  16

  A few hours later we were in the fiann’s hold. I sat across a banquet hall table from Oisín, stuffing my face with roasted boar, hard cheese, and even harder bread while I shared the events of the past few days. Oscar was off on some errand getting magical herbs for his sister, and she was busy tending to Finnegas. As for Clara and Saint Germain, they were safely locked away in the keep’s dungeons, with Oscar’s warriors under strict orders from Oisín to leave them be.

  Clara was still unresponsive, and nothing I did could rouse her. Meanwhile, the Butcher’s voice continually whispered in the back of my mind, telepathically trying to convince me to free him in exchange for saving the old man. I ignored him, as I did my best to ignore the looks I was getting from Oscar’s fiann. Their reactions ran the gamut—mostly a mix of resentment and embarrassment at the thrashing I’d given them, and morbid curiosity regarding the guy who looked like a younger version of their warrior-king.

  “As far as I can tell, someone hijacked us while we were in transit between New Orleans and Austin,” I said, as I took a swig of an ale that tasted like warm, watered-down beer. One might expect better alcohol in the afterlife, but apparently one would be wrong. “I didn’t think it was possible, but it’s the only explanation I can come up with.”

  Oisín puffed his clay pipe and nodded. “One o’ the gods, no doubt. Badb would be me first guess. She excels at such magic, an’ she delights in confusing an’ confounding her enemies from afar.”

  I thought of the image of the crow that the Oak had sent, and the cawing I’d heard just before I asked it to take us to Crowley’s place. “I think you’re right, but I still can’t understand why these gods are miffed at me. Okay, so I killed Diarmuid—but the guy had it coming. Why his foster-father sent him after me in the first place is beyond me. Finnegas keeps telling me I’m a threat to them, but I don’t see it.”

  The bard sucked on his pipe, then he pointed the stem at me. “Yer caught up in the machinations of the gods, whether ya’ like it or not. We both know my father’s ta’ blame fer that. He chose ta’ oppose them in his youth, an’ now his offspring an’ descendants pay the price fer his hubris. Yet our kind were ever known fer being the pawns o’ the gods—and we have little say in it, regardless.”

  “‘Our kind’?” I asked. “I know I look like you. But with all that Tuatha blood running through your veins, genetically we’re about as far apart as two people can get.”

  “Don’t be so sure, druid. Father’s line has remained pure, all these centuries down to ye—Finn Eces made sure o’ it. And, when he saw fit ta’ wed yer own father ta’ one o’ the same line as Cú Chulainn, I believe yer fate was sealed.”

  I chewed and swallowed one last bite of boar before speaking. “You’re saying my ríastrad brought me to the attention of the gods. Yeah, I can see that. But I thought I inherited that from Dad’s side of the family. I mean, Manannán was said to be a Fomorian, was he not? And if that’s the case, then I must’ve inherited Fomorian blood through Niamh.”

  A gasp arose from the warriors around us, causing me to wonder what I’d said. The look on Oisín’s face told the tale, and I immediately regretted mentioning his ex. She was responsible for his death, after all.

  “Sorry—I didn’t mean to reopen old wounds.”

  He waved my comment off. “Think nothing o’ it. We’re still cordial, for the sake o’ our children. They see her quite often. Or at least, they did before the gateways ta’ Earth were closed.” He puffed his pipe with a wry grin on his face. “I have ta’ admit, it’s been a bit o’ an inconvenience. But it was nice ta’ see someone get the best o’ me former wife fer a change. Father would’ve approved.”

  “No offense, but I’d like to have a word with old Fionn.”

  “None taken. Believe me, before he took his final rest I had words with him on several occasions. He was a great leader and a noble man, but stubborn and slow ta’ forgive a slight. I’m sure Diarmuid said much the same when ya’ met him.”

  “Ah, Diarmuid—not exactly my favorite enemy of all time. I know you two were buds and all, but if I could kill the raping bastard all over again, I would.”

  The bard stared into the fire for several long moments, and for a second I worried that I’d said the wrong thing again. “Yes, well, we were companions and bound ta’ one another by honor an’ shed blood. But it was well known among the fianna that none could trust their wives or daughters around that scoundrel. When Gráinne cast her geas on him, we only chose ta’ help them because we knew her magic would keep him away from our women.”

  “So, you guys also thought he was a dick,” I said, matter-of-factly.

  “Aye. That said, as a warrior Diarmuid represented the best o’ us, and he could always be counted on in battle.” Oisín gave me a sidelong glance. “I’m curious, how did ya’ manage ta’ defeat him?”

  “Honestly?” I replied. “I cheated.”

  The bard’s laughter filled the hall, and while the rest of the fiann couldn’t understand what we were saying, it was clear that his cheerfulness put them at ease. “Ua Duibhne was long overdue fer a comeuppance,” he said, wiping his eyes. “Oh, how I wish I coulda’ been there ta’ see that fight.”

  “Speaking of which, is there no way to get back to Earth from here?”

  He gave a slight shake of his head. “Not unless yer a god, and even then ’tis difficult. The Seer might be able ta’ manage it, when he is well.” He stood, beckoning me to follow. “Come, let’s see how he fares under the gentle ministrations o’ me daughter, Plúr.”

  Their keep was a proper castle, made from grey weathered stone and built with high walls and a moat to keep out the riff-raff. Meaning, all the monsters and unseelie fae that roamed Mag Mell. As we walked together through the castle halls, Oisín explained that Mag Mell was a separate realm connected to Underhill. And like Underhill, it was as deadly a place as any—which meant that the fiann were under constant threat of attack.

  “I thought Mag Mell was supposed to be some sort of paradise, like the Elysian Fields or Valhalla.”

  Oisín laughed. “’Tis a paradise, fer those who dedicated their existence to battle. We fight, we heal, and there’s game o’ plenty ta’ be had. What’s not ta’ love?”

  “Well, I guess I always saw the afterlife as being a bit more, I don’t know—sedentary?”

  He looked confused. “Who in their right mind would want that?” Before I could answer, he pulled up short in front of a large oaken door. “Ah, here we are, the infirmary. Haven’t had much use fer it la
tely, as we typically heal before Plúr can get ta’ us—benefits o’ the afterlife, ya’ see.”

  “I’m curious—what happens if you die in Mag Mell?”

  “After a visit ta’ Donn’s realm, ya’ come back.” Oisín shivered. “But ’tis not a pleasant experience.”

  “I met the guy recently. He didn’t seem so bad.”

  “That’s because ya’ weren’t dead,” he said, with finality. “Now, let’s check in on the Seer.”

  He entered the room and I followed. The space inside was bright and cheery, with high windows that let in plenty of light and fresh air. A row of beds lined the length of either wall, and an apothecary table sat at the far end. The infirmary smelled of flowers, herbs, and strong alcohol, with just the faintest hint of old blood, piss, and shit lingering in the background.

  Hmm. Apparently, not everyone heals before Plúr gets to them.

  Finnegas lay still and silent in the sunniest corner of the room, with Plúr sitting at his bedside. The demigoddess had one hand on his forehead and another on his bare chest, and she was chanting in the same ancient dialect of Gaelic the rest of the fiann used. Since she appeared to be in a deep trance, we tip-toed in and sat on a nearby bed until she acknowledged our presence.

  By now I’d already realized who Plúr reminded me of, because she bore a striking resemblance to her mother. When Maeve, otherwise known as Niamh, chose to appear in her full glory, the fae queen took on a regal and otherworldly appearance. While Plúr wasn’t doing the glowing, magicky, floating thing that her mom did when she was pissed or trying to intimidate, there was no doubt in my mind she was her mother’s daughter.

  “How’s he doing?” I asked, as I walked up to hold his hand. When Plúr failed to answer, I glanced at her in time to catch her and her father sharing a look. “I’m not a kid, Plúr. Just give me the facts, alright?”

  “The Seer is dying, young druid,” she replied. Like her brother, she spoke in barely accented American English. “His injuries are both physical and magical in nature, and therefore beyond my ability to heal. I am sorry.”

  Her words hit me like a ton of bricks, and my legs went weak. Before I realized what I was doing, I sank down to my knees beside Finnegas, sobbing. Meanwhile father and daughter stood by silently, waiting for me to regain my composure. Minutes later, I stood and wiped my eyes before facing them.

  “How long?”

  Plúr tilted her head slightly, her expression softening as she spoke. “A week, perhaps, if I continue to use my magic to sustain him. If not, then days.”

  “This is Mag Mell,” I said with desperation in my voice. “Surely there’s someone or something that can heal him.”

  The look Oisín gave me as he spoke was grim. “Sadly, Dian Cécht and his children left Tír na nÓg many years ago for parts unknown. And Slainge's Well, which once existed in this realm and your own, is no more. For those of us who earned a place here in the afterlife, the magic of this land heals us. Unfortunately, the effects do not extend to those who trespass in Mag Mell.”

  “There is one who can heal the Seer,” his daughter added.

  Oisín shook his head vehemently. “’Tis impossible. Tethra the Fomorian guards father’s tomb like a dragon guarding its hoard, and he’ll let none near it.” His eyes met mine. “Believe me, we’ve tried.”

  “Wait a minute, back up. You’re saying that your dad’s tomb is here, in Mag Mell, and there’s a Fomorian guarding it?”

  “Exactly,” he replied. “We’ve tried ta’ recover his body and move him here, with his own people. But the gods fear we’ll revive him, which is why Tethra guards the tomb. Since we lack the means ta’ wake Fionn, it seems rather pointless. But who can understand the motives o’ the gods?”

  “I don’t get it—how can your dad heal Finnegas if he’s laid out dead in some tomb, with no way of reviving him?”

  Plúr looked at me like I was the slowest student in the class. “Did you not study the legends and deeds of your ancestors?”

  “Mmm, sort of, I guess. No offense to those present, but it wasn’t exactly a high priority for me. I was too busy trying to not get killed by the fae.”

  The corners of her mouth turned down, although her sour expression did nothing to mar her fine, delicate features. “If you’d paid attention to the legends, you’d know that water carried in Fionn’s hands can heal any wound.”

  “Right,” I said with a snap of my fingers. “That’s how he fucked—er, got back at—old Diarmuid. He had that boar gore him, and then pretended like he was trying to heal him. But actually he was just stalling until Diarmuid croaked.”

  “That’s correct,” Oisín said. “Although t’wasn’t nearly as dramatic as the sagas make it seem. After Diarmuid had been wounded, father didn’t even try ta’ heal him. Instead, he simply stood by an’ watched his friend bleed out.”

  “That’s cold,” I remarked.

  “Grandfather wasn’t exactly a kind man,” Plúr replied. “But even in his current state—somewhere between life and death—his hands have the power to heal.”

  “Meaning, I just have to find a way to sneak past that Fomorian dude, and I can heal Finnegas.”

  “Easier said than done,” Oisín replied ruefully.

  We spent the next half an hour arguing about why it would be a really bad idea for me to try sneaking Finnegas past this Tethra asshole. Oisín’s chief argument was that the guy was his own army—and we didn’t have a Hulk. Not at the moment, anyway, considering my current inability to shift without dying.

  According to them, the last time they’d tried to abscond with Fionn’s body Tethra had chased them all the way back to their keep. Then he’d damned near leveled it with them inside. Not with magic, mind you—with his bare hands. In the end, Oisín had to parley with him, and he agreed he wouldn’t attempt a heist like that again.

  “Okay—first off, I had no idea there were still Fomorians around. I thought I was the only one.”

  “Yer half a Fomorian—nay, ye can shift into one. It’s not the same thing. Since ye can do that, and ye’ve druid magic, someday that’ll make ye a force ta’ be reckoned with. S’why the gods fear ye so.” He rubbed his chin for a moment. “O’ course, it might mean ye could best Tethra in single combat—were ya’ ta’ challenge him.”

  “That’s not going to happen, Dadaí,” Plúr said, butting into the conversation. “Is it, Colin?”

  Plúr’s dad gave her an odd look. “Do ye know somethin’ I don’t?”

  “I can’t shift right now,” I said, looking away in shame. “Diarmuid wounded me with his Gae Dearg, and then Plúr’s mom transferred the wound to my other form. She saved my life, but she also trapped me in my human form. If I shift, I’ll bleed out—simple as that.”

  “Ya’ agreed ta’ let him enter the duel carryin’ that dread spear o’ his?” Oisín exclaimed. “Are ye daft, lad?”

  “I was scared. Not for my own safety, but for my girlfriend. Diarmuid had brainwashed her, or put a geas on her, or whatever that weird rapey hoodoo of his does. I figured he’d kill me anyway, so I suggested that he could use the spear if he let Fallyn go. It was my only chance of freeing her.”

  Plúr gave me the sort of smile you might give a slow, if well-meaning, child. “That was noble of you, but foolish. The Seer would never have arranged that duel with Diarmuid if he hadn’t thought you capable of besting him in a fair fight.”

  “And now that rash decision might cost the old man his life,” I said, as my shoulders slumped. “Why is it that whenever you deal with the Tuath Dé, today’s victory always turns into tomorrow’s defeat?”

  Oisín clapped a hand on my shoulder. “Because lad, they’re damned near immortal. Thus, they play a very long game o’ fidchell. I’ve dealt with the sorry bastards for millennia, an’ believe me, I share the same frustrations.”

  “All is not lost, Athair,” Plúr said. “We merely need to find a way for Colin to defeat King Tethra in single combat.”

  “Okay
,” I replied, perking up a bit. “What am I up against?”

  “Well, he’s Fomorian,” Plúr began.

  “Does he get all huge and ugly?” I asked. “Cause that’s what I do when I shift. I grow to about ten feet tall, and when it’s all said and done I look like some sort of huge, scoliotic He-Man.”

  “He-Man?” Oisín asked.

  “A modern folklore figure,” his daughter replied with a wry smile. “Very strong.”

  “Like Ogma?” he asked.

  “Much the same,” she said before addressing me once more. “Understand, Colin, Tethra is a full-bred, naturally-born Fomorian. His kind were considered the demons of ancient Ireland. In fact, many claim they are demons, or their offspring. And Tethra was a champion among his people. However strong and durable you are in your other form, Tethra would be your better in every single way.”

  “What you’re saying is that even in my shifted form, I wouldn’t stand a chance.”

  “Likely not,” Oisín replied. “In his day Tethra was a righteous, avenging god-killer. Imagine a twelve-foot giant who’s as strong as he is graceful, swinging a ten-foot greatsword like a scythe at harvest. ’Twas likely why Badb chose him as her consort.”

  “Wait a minute—you’re saying this Tethra character and Badb are a couple?”

  “Yes.”

  “Yikes. You think Badb sent us here, knowing that I’d have to confront this cat? Maybe thinking that I’d have to go through him to save the Seer’s life? It makes sense that she’d arrange a showdown like this, counting on the fact that her boy toy would rub me out.” I snapped my fingers. “Heck, I bet she was even to blame for the old man’s stroke. Fucking hell, now I am going to kill this Tethra prick.”

  The bard looked at his daughter. “Remind ye of anyone?”

  “A bit of you, to be honest. But also of grandfather,” she said, with a knowing nod. “It’s the lust for revenge that gives it away.”

  “Aye, no wonder ye an’ Oscar butted heads,” Oisín said, with a rueful chuckle. “Yer two peas in a pod, methinks.”

 

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