by Kevin Hearne
Siodhachan is here in Tasmania too, on the same mission as we are, but somewhere else at the moment. At least Greta didn’t try to kill him when we met up for a brief while. She’s got more acid for him than spent coffee grounds have for me garden soil, but maybe in a season or three she will mellow out like a teacher lapping up medicinal bourbon after school. I’m going to give it time.
We’ve found a den with five afflicted devils in it, one of them as near death as ye can be without stepping over the line. I take care of that one, and the apprentices work on the others. We’re almost finished when Greta tells me someone’s coming; there is a whisper among the ferns underneath the eucalyptus. Since we’re away from any settlement, I’m thinking it must be a hiker or hunter, but it’s neither. It’s Brighid, First among the Fae, come to find me.
She’s all armored up for some reason, red hair spilling over the pauldrons, and it sets me on edge. Where’s the fight she’s dressed for? I hope it’s not with me.
There’s a faery with her, the tall, slim sort ye see in underwear advertisements, who always look bored with being so handsome and desirable and minimally dressed. Except he is dressed, all spiffy in his silver-and-green Court livery with high thread count and a powdered wig with curls on the sides of his head. Without even turning on me true vision, I can feel he’s covered in magical wards, even more powerful than Brighid’s.
“Well met, Eoghan Ó Cinnéide,” she says, nodding once to me.
“Well met, Brighid.”
The First among the Fae gestures to her right. “This is Coriander, Herald Extraordinary of the Nine Fae Planes.” I’m not sure why she puts the adjective after the noun in his title; maybe it’s to make him sound as fancy as he looks.
I nod at him. “How are ye, Cory? I’m Owen.”
He gives me a bow dripping with excess manners and says in a mild musical lilt, “So pleased to meet ye, sir. I prefer to be called Coriander, if ye please.”
If that’s his preference, then I’m already suspicious we may not be the best of friends. I introduce Greta and me apprentices to Brighid and sort of wave at the parents as a group. She takes note of the apprentices and says they’ll need to undergo the Baolach Cruatan soon.
“But I’ve come here on urgent business,” she says. “May we draw aside and speak in private?”
“Of course.” I ask Tuya, me youngest apprentice, to finish up healing the devil I’d been working on and tell them all I’ll return soon. Brighid and I step into the undergrowth and the Herald Extraordinary floats about three steps behind.
“It has come to my attention,” Brighid says, “that one of the Norse gods intends to begin his pantheon’s version of apocalypse. They call it Ragnarok. Are you familiar with it?”
“Aye. Siodhachan caught me up on all that bollocks.”
“It poses a serious threat to us. Should they harm a significant portion of our Irish population, we will suffer a similar reduction in our powers, and tethers to Tír na nÓg and the other planes may be severed.”
“So it’s back to defend the homeland, eh?”
“Yes. But we alone may not be sufficient. We need all the Fae to participate. We need all the Tuatha Dé Danann too.”
“Ye mean we need Fand and Manannan Mac Lir.”
“Correct. Siodhachan tells me she’s in the Morrigan’s Fen.”
“Aye. I heard the same.”
“It is my opinion, Owen, that only you can mend the rift between us.”
“I was just thinking someone ought to be mending rifts, but I didn’t think I’d have any part in it. I’m rather the sort to create rifts.”
“She will not speak to me or Siodhachan. We are corrupted by iron, both in her eyes and the eyes of all the Fae who follow her. She cannot listen to us or she will lose face among them. But you are of the Old Ways and have enjoyed their hospitality in the past. You will at least gain an audience.”
“Forgive me, Brighid, but I don’t think so. All those Fae and the Morrigan’s yewmen will cut me down before I can even flash me teeth at Fand.”
“That is why I am sending Coriander with you. No one will harm him or dare touch anyone under his protection.”
“His protection?” I glance back at the bewigged faery and wonder if he can even protect his own sack from a swift kick. Brighid catches this and smiles.
“By all means, Eoghan, feel free to test his defenses if it will ease your doubts.”
“What? Ye mean punch him in the nose or something?”
“Whatever you wish.” Brighid stops walking and gestures at the herald. “Do go ahead.”
“Can I use me knuckles?” I asks her, and she hesitates.
“I would not recommend it. Start with your bare fists or feet.”
I squint at the fancy herald. “Are ye all right with this, lad?”
“Of course, good sir. I hope you will not be injured too badly.”
Their unworried confidence shakes me own, and I go ahead and check out the herald in the magical spectrum. He shimmers with layers of protective wards, among them a kinetic one of a strength and weave I’ve never seen before.
“Shrivel me cock, lad, who gave ye such wards?”
“Most of the Tuatha Dé Danann have contributed in one way or another. I represent a group effort. I cannot be harmed or deliver harm, except to redirect that aimed at me; I am therefore allowed everywhere in the nine planes, since I cannot be used for treacherous purposes.”
“I see. And should the yewmen take it into their wee woody noggins that I’m to be skewered sideways, ye can prevent them from doing that?”
“So long as I remain between you.”
“Ah, so beware me flanks, then?”
“Precisely.”
I turn back to Brighid. “All right, if I go, how do ye suggest I get her to cooperate?”
“You may relay an offer I think she will find attractive, if she be not mad.” And once she gives me the details, I asks when I must go.
“Now, Eoghan. I will bind this eucalyptus to Tír na nÓg while you make your farewells.”
“But the devils—”
“—will still exist should we prevail. Nothing will remain if we fail.”
“Ah. Thank ye for the perspective. And have ye spoken to Siodhachan about this? He’s on the island somewhere.”
“No longer. He heard from the Morrigan and is pursuing different objectives. We used a tree he bound to shift in and had to travel here at speed over land. You may rest assured that Granuaile will be involved as well.”
“Right, then. I’ll be back soon. Excuse me.”
Greta waits for me, arms crossed and her neck taut with stress as she searches me face. “Damn it,” she says. “You’re leaving us here, aren’t you? I can tell already.”
“I have to, love, though I’d rather not.”
“You don’t have a choice?”
“Not if I want to keep me honor intact.”
She growls at me, “To hell with honor! That’s the kind of thinking that gets people killed. Gunnar’s dead because of his sense of honor, and Hal’s dead because of someone else’s sense of honor. I don’t want you dying for the same reason. I’d rather have you intact than your honor.”
“Not sure if I can stay physically intact if I don’t also protect me honor in this case. I have to go see Fand and convince her to help us fight off Loki. Ragnarok’s coming, love. It’s not the sort of thing ye sit back and watch and hope someone else takes care of it all.”
She snorts in disbelief, then stops breathing. “You’re serious? You’re talking about the end of the world?”
“Let’s hope it won’t be, but yes. It’s what Loki wants.”
“Where are you going?”
“To the Morrigan’s Fen. After that, I’m not sure. But I’ll come back here to finish this job when I can.
Ye can either stay here and watch over the kids—they have the knack for it now—or ye can pack up and fly back to the States. I surely don’t know which is safer.”
“Okay. We’ll decide later.”
I bid farewell to the apprentices and their parents, and tell them to keep up their fine work, and spend a little bit of time with each apprentice.
Thandi worries she’ll forget everything when I’m gone, because she finds something to worry about in every situation. Her father, Sonkwe, is so patient and kind with her that I think this must be a recent behavior caused by her mother leaving them. She will see her strength soon enough.
Ozcar will be fine so long as his parents are all right. He checks on them to see how they’re handling my leaving, and since they seem unconcerned, he simply tells me to be safe and they will do the same.
Tuya asks me if she’s going to get to learn any more about the plants while I’m gone. Healing devils is fine, but she’s really fascinated by flowers and trees and growing things.
“O’ course,” I says to her. “Remember that ye can talk to Tasmania anytime ye wish through your sphere there.” I point to the locket around her neck. “Ask the elemental about its favorite plants and I’m sure you’ll learn all ye ever wanted to know. Did ye know that there are plants here that eat bugs?”
“Really?”
“Sundews for sure, perhaps many more. Ask about them.”
“I will!”
Mehdi, a solemn boy from Morocco, assures me that he and his father will pray for my safe return. “We will work hard while you’re away,” he adds.
Amita hears this and nods. “We will heal as many devils as we can.” She’s already the sort of person who works tirelessly at a goal once she’s been given one. She’s going to be a powerful champion of Gaia when she grows up.
Luiz, me animal lover, doesn’t care at all that I’m leaving. “What? Oh. Bye,” he says, then he whips his head around. “Wait. We don’t have to stop healing devils while you’re gone, do we?”
“No, lad. Ye can keep at it.”
“Good. I love this.” He flashes a gap-toothed grin at me before turning his attention back to the devil he’s healing, and I’m already forgotten.
Me farewells to the apprentices finished, Greta grabs me by the face, both hands in me beard, and leans her forehead against mine. “You come back to me, Teddy Bear.”
“Ye can be sure that’s the plan, love.” I really don’t want to leave her, or any of them. This bollocks sounds like the kind of fool thing Siodhachan keeps getting involved in. Maybe this is what it’s going to be like now, being one of the few Druids left instead of one of the many: Everything’s an emergency. I give Greta the sort of kiss that says I want to pick up where we left off, and I promise a good run through the forest when I’m back.
Brighid is just finishing up when I rejoin them. “All right, Andy,” I says to the herald. “Let’s go.”
“It’s Coriander, sir.”
I grin at him. “A four-syllable name is impractical in battle, lad, and in most poetry too, if ye care about what the bards say. I’ll give ye only two syllables until ye actually save me bones from the Fae. You can pick. Cory, Ian, Andy, Gobshite, I don’t care. What’ll it be?”
“Coriander, sir.” He shoots a pleading glance at Brighid, but she looks amused, and I laugh at him.
“How about Fuckstick? Aye, that’ll do.” He doesn’t have a ward against me calling him the wrong name. I know it makes me a fecking arsehole, but he’s a far sight more smug than I can stand. And besides, I have to carve off what wee slices of amusement I can from this situation. I’m pretty sure the First Law of Owen is about to enforce itself.
last week a vampire exploded in my bar in Warsaw. Not spontaneously: I unbound his undead ass because he came in to threaten me, and he went sploosh in spectacular fashion. People screamed and panicked. One of my regulars thought it was so metal, though, and he’s become one of my favorite people. I give him free shots of Żubrówka with his beers now. Much of the vampire’s remains landed in his pudding and kind of ruined his nice leather jacket, but he just snapped pictures of the gore for his Instagram.
Since Atticus and Owen are in Tasmania helping out the elemental there, I’m pretty much on my own—at least during the day—enforcing the treaty with the vampires. Specifically the part where it says all vampires need to be out of Poland in order to keep a promise Atticus made to the Sisters of the Three Auroras. A vampire older than Leif Helgarson by the name of Kacper Glowa emerged in Krakow and said he wasn’t going to leave, and neither were the rest of the vampires, so he’s thumbing his pale boogerless nose at both the Druids and at Leif.
I don’t know: Do vampires have boogers? Leif finally admitted that they sorta-kinda poop—or, more accurately, excrete in the most disgusting fashion possible—but maybe I’m assuming too much on the booger front.
Leif is helping me with the problem, and we did clear out a nest in Krakow, taking out twelve of those suckers. But Glowa wasn’t among them, even though it was his property. Leif thinks if we take out old Kacper the rest will fall in line and leave the country. All we have to do is find him. Which is proving difficult because you can’t divine the dead, and he’s old and rich and very, very good at hiding.
So I am back at work at Browar Szóstej Dzielnicy in Warsaw, even though I was shot in that nest raid a few days ago, because we’re hoping he’ll try to come after me or at least send a minion we can hopefully trace back to him.
Who comes to visit me instead? A decidedly dejected member of the Tuatha Dé Danann, looking out of place in hunting leathers with a bow strapped to her back. She sits down at the bar next to my metal regular, Maciej, drawing stares from pretty much everyone since she appears to be cosplaying for a Renaissance festival. Well, that, and she’s a red-haired goddess renowned for her sexual appetites. She kind of projects an irresistible vibe, and the stares are mostly of the wanton and lusty sort.
Maciej is too startled to feel much else but surprise, however. “Oh, hey!” he says in Polish, which I’m pretty sure Flidais doesn’t speak. “You have tattoos like Granuaile has. Or used to have.”
The Polish word for tattoos is almost identical to English, and that, combined with his pointing to her Druidic tats and then my arm, is enough for Flidais to piece it together.
“Yes, hello, my tattoos are like hers,” she says in English, then her eyes turn to me. “Hello, Granuaile. Would you—wait, what happened to your tattoos?”
I don’t respond in English because it wouldn’t do to have Maciej hear. I use Old Irish instead. “Welcome, Flidais. I still have them. They’re just under a nice magical cloak that the Sisters of the Three Auroras gave me. I got too many comments about them and it was distracting.”
“You two could be sisters,” Maciej says, switching to his accented English. “Are you sisters?” I can see Flidais getting annoyed and think perhaps I should defuse that before she acts on the violence in her head.
“Pardon me a moment, Flidais?” I say to her. “I’m just going to explain who you are.” I switch to Polish for Maciej’s benefit and also so I can speak frankly to him about the mortal peril he’s in. He needs to know that Flidais is not my sister and she will most likely mess somebody up, and I don’t want him to be on the receiving end. I hope my grasp of the language is up to the task; it’s much improved but I’m not sure it’s solid.
“Wyglądamy podobnie, ale nie jest moją siostrą. Ma na imię Flidais i jest naprawdę niebezpieczna, mówię serio. Zobaczysz—potrafi naprawdę zepsuć człowiekowi dzień, kiedy ktoś ją wkurzy. Nie chcę tylko, żebyś to był ty, dobra?”
Maciej agrees but asks for clarification. “Dobra. Więc mam z nią w ogóle nie gadać?”
I confirm that for him, continuing in Polish: “It’s safer if you don’t say anything. Enjoy your drink—it’s on me, all right? And let someone el
se make the mistake. Just tell her right now it’s an honor to meet her—because it is—and ask her to forgive your interruption. Trust me.”
Maciej nods quickly, his long hair flowing around his head like he’s rocking out to Trivium or HammerFall. He does trust me, and I like to think it’s not just because I give him free booze sometimes. He turns to the Irish goddess of the hunt and speaks slowly in his best English. “Is an honor to meet you, Flidais. Please pardon my interruption.”
Flidais’s expression mellows from hostility to only mild disdain. “I appreciate your courtesy, mortal.”
“Mortal?”
I shake my head at Maciej vehemently and he gets the message not to pursue that. Flidais ignores his question, fortunately, and just talks right over him.
“Please pardon me while I talk to Granuaile for a while.”
“Of course,” Maciej says. “Please.”
Flidais awards him a brilliant smile for his compliance, and I beam at him also. He blushes a little bit and then looks down politely. I breathe a sigh of relief. That could have gone wrong so quickly for him.
“What can I get for you, Flidais?” I ask.
“Whatever you have that’s closest to something Goibhniu would have brewed,” she says.
I almost ask her, “Short or tall?” but catch myself just in time. She’s an Irish goddess. If I give her a tiny glass of beer she will hurt me. Instead, I merely nod and pull her a true imperial pint of my favorite local brew, a thick oatmeal stout with chocolate notes and a clever bit of mint thrown in.
“There we are,” I say, and set it down on top of a coaster. “It’s great to see you. To what do I owe the honor?”
“I have a message for you from Brighid, but that can wait. This can’t.” She picks up the twenty ounces of stout and chugs the whole thing in one go. By the end of it, both Maciej and I have our mouths open in awe. “Ahhhh,” Flidais says, thunking the empty glass down on the bar, a thin mustache of foam on her upper lip. “That was surprisingly satisfactory. Another.” She meets my green eyes with hers, and I recognize the expression from the mirror whenever I feel like I could kill something.