Paper & Blood

by Kevin Hearne

  I raised my glass, nodding to Buck to indicate that he should propose the toast, and the others all followed suit. My hobgoblin cleared his throat and temporarily committed himself to an air of sincerity and gravitas.

  “Tae new friends while honoring the old; tae blazing new trails while remembering the paths of our youth; and tae knowing ourselves better and loving what we see.”

  Roxanne looked delighted. “Sláinte,” she said, and drank deep.

  Roxanne turned out to be mightily disappointed that the Glasgow Cathedral was not for sale. She thought it would make a fantastic domicile for a former Chooser of the Slain, and its close proximity to the necropolis made it prime real estate. She demanded that we find her a castle instead and said that when we found an appropriate property, we could find her lurking among the tombs and frightening mortals with ominous croaking.

  [If you wish to be a normal human, owning a castle will place you outside the normal range,] I pointed out. She shrugged at this inconsistency.

  “I can live with supernormal.”

  [I should probably mention that we don’t have the funds to purchase a castle.]

  “Find me a place and then we will discuss the cost.”

  She went shopping for “dark-queen shite” with Nadia after that, visiting a goth store called the Necro Crypt, which Nadia maintained would be a fantastic new name for an estate if we could find one. Buck and I were left with an unenviable errand on top of my commitment to secure Roxanne Morrigan all the proper identification she would need to live as a citizen in Scotland.

  I retreated to the Internet to search for ridiculous real estate and discovered that there was an actual castle for sale—Bardowie Castle in Milngavie, north of Glasgow—for about three million pounds. It rested on the shore of Bardowie Loch, and parts of the building dated back to the fifteenth century; while Roxanne would no doubt need to redecorate to taste, there were enough crooked trees and old stone on the property to satisfy her. It was interesting enough to open that discussion of cost, anyway, because I expected her to simply expect me to produce the purchase price somehow.

  When Nadia returned to the office alone a few hours later, I asked her where Roxanne was.

  “Oh, I dropped her off at the necropolis. She’s gonnay be a spooky crow, like she said, until ye have sumhin tae show her. I’m just holding on tae her stuff until she gets a place.”

  [Back in the wizard van. I have something.]

  It was a very short drive from our office on High Street to the necropolis, but I had to spend nearly an hour walking around the graves before I spotted Roxanne perched on the elaborate tombstone of some long-dead tobacco merchant. I had hailed two other normal crows, who flew off when I called them Roxanne, but the third time was the proverbial charm. She cocked her head and cawed at me, and then her scratchy mental voice entered my head.

  I did not expect to see you so soon.

  [I may have found you an ideal living situation.]

  Show me.

  Thus it was that an elderly couple, come to pay their respects to some ancestor, found Nadia, Buck, and me sidled up next to a tombstone, holding up my phone for a crow and swiping through real estate photos as the corvid peered at them intently. They froze, squinting, and the man took off his glasses to clean them, as if a smudge on their surface was somehow responsible for the tableau he was witnessing.

  “Pure brilliant, crows are,” Buck said, and pointed at Roxanne. “This one predicts football games, so we’re just getting a hint for the betting, ye know. Word tae the wise: Put yer money on Inverness to win by a penalty in stoppage time.”

  That was enough to make them shake their heids and dismiss us as addlepated sorts, but the man could be heard muttering to his wife, “I wish Grandfather had been buried in a nice cozy churchyard in the Lake District. This place gets weirder all the time.”

  It will require remodeling, Roxanne announced when I got to the end of the photos, but it will do. How much?

  [Three million pounds should buy it and get most, if not all, of the remodeling done.]

  I assume that is a large sum?

  [Yes. I would have significant trouble arranging that.]

  You will not have to arrange it. I will secure the funds, with Nadia’s help. And Buck’s, if he wishes it. What say you, hobgoblin? Are you up for a heist?

  Buck immediately brightened and blurted out, “Aye!” but then he looked at me. “I mean, would ye mind if I helped with the heist, ol’ man, as it may require some time away from ma duties?”

  [We have work to do on lifting my curses,] I reminded him.

  “I know, I know, but this is a three-million-pound heist tae buy a gallus castle! Ma legendary status would be set in stone—and none of yer shite stone either, no crumbly shale, but smooth, sexy marble, man! A true legacy.”

  I supposed it would be better to have Roxanne settled sooner rather than later.

  [You need to do it quick and in such a way that it doesn’t come back to bite us,] I said, and Buck whooped and leapt straight up a good ten feet in the air, demonstrating a joy that was wholly inconsistent with being in a cemetery. He landed and started punching the air in time with his phrases.

  “A three! Million! Pound! Heist! And! We’re gonnay! Get! Away!”

  “Think about what I said,” Nadia reminded Roxanne. “The Necro Crypt at Milngavie would be a belter of a name. Goths would come from all over the world tae see it when it’s fixed up proper.”

  We took our leave, and I had Nadia drop me off at the train station on High Street. I took it across town to the Mitchell Library, for it was Thursday in Glasgow now and that was my day to visit Mrs. MacRae in the Mitchell Library. Perhaps she could help me find some lore in the occult stacks that spoke of gods working together to curse mortals. Anything might give me a clue at this point or might shed new light on old contracts once I dug them out.

  I found myself feeling a twinge of envy at what Connor had accomplished: He had finally worked himself free of the gods. And it only took him two thousand years and a decision to put Gaia’s interests before his own.

  Which provided me with an object lesson. Living with the curses had in a real sense been easier for me than finding out who was responsible. I had a feeling I wouldn’t like knowing the answer. But simply living with it was not an option, now that I knew that others’ lives hung in the balance. And the fact was that Connor’s problems never got solved until he faced them. When your opposition is (quite probably) immortal, you can’t really wait them out, because they’re going to win that game every time.

  There was a significant chance that I would not survive a confrontation with beings that could craft such an intricate pair of curses, but I knew I could not live with myself if, through my negligence or incompetence, Buck came to harm. I’d pursue any end that saved him from an early exit. I’d prefer an end that didn’t involve me actually ending, but if that was the only option, so be it.

  The tantalizing clue that Gladys Who Has Seen Some Shite gave me was helpful but did not provide an obvious solution, since twins were mildly ubiquitous in the world’s pantheons, often representing opposing dualities or else a harmonious balance of complementary talents. Not that twins necessarily cast the curse on me—it was just one of many avenues to explore.

  Maybe I had committed some hubris eleven years ago and didn’t realize that I’d offended someone. Off the top of my head, twin deities that resided in my territory included Osiris and Isis in Egypt and Apollo and Artemis in Greece. I did not immediately recall writing or enforcing any contracts that affected them eleven years ago, but perhaps a patient review of my records would illuminate a dark corner of my mind. It was a thorny problem with plenty of fog between now and then, and it was time to walk back through memories with a lantern and see what was hiding back there. Gladys Who Has Seen Some Shite and Ogma wouldn’t be bringing their d
rama to my office until Monday, so I hoped that in the four days until then I could make some progress on my problem.

  Mrs. MacRae, the widowed librarian from Oban who’d moved here some years ago, was sitting behind her reference desk and saw me emerge from the fourth-floor elevator. She was wearing her typical somber colors with a bright-patterned scarf draped artfully around her neck, this one white with green clovers splayed festively across it. She smiled and gave me a tiny wave, and I felt a lift in my step and a flutter in my heart. It was good to be home.

  for Aussies

  Typically, I like to do my own location scouting. Layering the fantastic on top of the real is kind of my jam; I love the travel and I also love providing the vicarious experience to readers. So I was scheduled to go to New Zealand, Tasmania, and mainland Australia in April 2020, but, yeah, the coronavirus pandemic made that impossible. There was some rue and despair and some genuine worry about how I’d do justice to Australia without having laid my own eyes on it, but that August deadline got ever closer. Enter the amazing Amie Kaufman, who really saved my metaphorical bacon here. She recruited her husband, Brendan, plus friends Kate Armstrong and Paul Gablonski, to take some remarkable videos for me in Melbourne and along the Bicentennial National Trail in the Yarra Valley, plus the Healesville Grand Hotel and so much more. I technically could have written my book without their contributions, but I would not have wanted to, and it would have lacked many details that it currently has thanks to their incredibly kind efforts. So five billion thanks to them all.

  Amie also referred me to spiffy human Nicole Hayes, who performed vital video services in Glen Waverley and told me some of the houses there were very swish, and thanks to her I found a place for Shu-hua and Ya-ping to live.

  Thanks go to Karyn Gaffney for providing a bit of Irish language help, and to Angel Giuffra for thoughtful advice.

  Any accuracy I’ve achieved with the Scots language in this book is thanks to a Weegie, Stu West, who’s been kind enough to help me out with some pointers. Any mistakes are mine, of course. But just between us, I believe that the Scots word stooshie is the cutest name for a fight in the whole world.

  My family and friends keep me at least moderately sane. Thanks so much to the Canadian D&D crew, my wonderful neighbors, Alan O’Bryan, Chuck Wendig, Delilah S. Dawson, and my pen pals scattered around the globe. Kimberly & Levi, I love you.

  I must thank Sarah Coleman (known as @Inkymole on Twitter and Instagram) once again for the amazing cover art, as well as art director David Stevenson.

  The turbo rad peeps at Del Rey do so much behind the scenes to make books happen. Thanks to Metal Editor Tricia Narwani, editorial padawan Alex Larned, Julie Leung, David Moench, Penelope Belnap, Ashleigh Heaton, Megan Tripp, Keith Clayton, and Scott Shannon for doing a boatload of stuff to get this book to a place where you can read it.

  But dang, most of all, thank you for reading and for saying nice stuff about Al, Buck, and Nadia and spreading the word. You’re the best! May you be blessed with happiness and a drink you like and—only if you wish it—a lucky pair of truck nuts.

  By Kevin Hearne

  INK & SIGIL

  Ink & Sigil

  Paper & Blood

  THE SEVEN KENNINGS

  A Plague of Giants

  A Blight of Blackwings

  THE IRON DRUID CHRONICLES

  Hounded

  Hexed

  Hammered

  Tricked

  Trapped

  Hunted

  Shattered

  Staked

  Besieged

  Scourged

  THE IRON DRUID CHRONICLES NOVELLAS

  Two Ravens and One Crow

  Grimoire of the Lamb

  A Prelude to War (in the anthology Three Slices)

  First Dangle and Other Stories

  OBERON’S MEATY MYSTERIES

  The Purloined Poodle

  The Squirrel on the Train

  The Buzz Kill (in the anthology Death & Honey)

  By Delilah S. Dawson and Kevin Hearne

  THE TALES OF PELL

  Kill the Farm Boy

  No Country for Old Gnomes

  The Princess Beard

  About the Author

  Kevin Hearne hugs trees, pets doggies, and rocks out to heavy metal. He also thinks tacos are a pretty nifty idea. He is the author of the Seven Kennings series and the New York Times bestselling series The Iron Druid Chronicles and is co-author of The Tales of Pell with Delilah S. Dawson.

  kevinhearne.com

  Twitter: @KevinHearne

  Instagram: @kevinhearne

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