by Kevin Hearne
“Where are we going?” Perun asked.
I didn’t want to fly back to Tempe under these circumstances. Any magic, including Perun’s, was likely to draw attention now. So I named a town about seventy miles from Tempe and hoped I could arrange a ninja operation from there. “A copper-mining town called Globe, northwest of here. I know the perfect place. You can drop me off and I’ll buy you a Big Boy.”
“I am not fond of children.”
“Don’t worry, it’s a drink.”
We reached Globe a little after eleven in the morning by riding the winds, and I directed Perun to an alley behind Broad Street downtown—specifically the alley behind a sports bar called the Huddle. It wasn’t an urban alley full of rats and moldering dumpsters but rather a wide sort of throughway with parking and a couple of trees. Asphalt laid down decades ago was deteriorating, crumbling to gravel and allowing weeds to poke through.
The Huddle had a back patio constructed specifically for smokers; it faced an unused parking lot on the other side of the alley, currently fenced off with chain link. A single trash can sat in front of that fence, enjoying the shade of a willow acacia tree. I had Perun set us down there, and we stacked the coffins on top of each other about five feet away from the trash can. No one saw us do this, because the Huddle isn’t full of smokers at eleven in the morning. The smokers tend to come out at night.
“I need to make a couple of calls in there,” I said, gesturing at the back entrance of the bar, “and then we can enjoy our Big Boys.” I’d chosen this place precisely because it had a back entrance; those come in handy sometimes.
I dispelled our camouflage but left it on the coffins. After a bit of conversation, Perun was convinced that he didn’t need to wear his fur cloak into an American bar around lunchtime. Besides, we were in Arizona now: It was sixty degrees outside in December. He removed the fur to reveal another layer of fur underneath—his own hairy arms and shoulders sprouting from his thin sleeveless shirt. I grinned as I camouflaged his cloak on top of the coffins. Americans have a visceral fear of body hair—a fact exploited by hippies, bikers, and construction foremen—so Perun’s appearance would likely scare everyone in the bar, including the bikers.
After I reminded Perun to speak English again, we entered the Huddle and I threw a wave at Gabby, the owner. She had a quick smile, a ready laugh, and the supreme confidence that she could handle anything. I watched her size up Perun, who was probably two feet taller than she was and weighed twice as much, and savored the moment when I saw she had decided she could take him, even though he was holding Odin’s spear.
“Hey, Atticus, it’s been a while. Good to see you again,” she said. My familiarity with her and her place of business was based on several hunting excursions I’d made in this vicinity with Oberon. She pointed at our weapons. “You need to put those behind the bar.”
“No problem.” I carefully leaned the swords and spear up against the bottled-beer fridge.
“What’ll it be?”
“Two Big Boys full of Bud.” She had a fully stocked bar, complete with a large mirror behind it, but most people came in to enjoy the thirty-four-ounce frozen mugs of beer. Perun and I pulled up stools and avoided eye contact with the locals. They were staring at us and trying to decide if they’d pick a fight if Gabby weren’t around. After a minute I felt their eyes slide away, probably because they reasoned that anyone as aggressively unshaven as Perun was thoroughly dangerous.
Gabby gave us our beers and Perun eyed his uncertainly. “This is Big Boy?”
“Correct.”
“Is not vodka,” he observed.
“Right. You’re in an American bar, so to fit in you have to drink this.”
Perun glanced around the bar at the other patrons, who were mostly wearing jeans and T-shirts and shaved responsibly. “Do you really think I can fit in here?”
“Not a chance. But it’s your duty to make the effort. Cheers.” I clinked his mug and started chugging. Perun took a few cold swallows and then set down the mug abruptly, shuddering as some of it dribbled down his beard.
“Americans like this?” he asked.
“They say they do. Bestselling drink in the States.”
“Should I give them my respect or my pity?”
“It’s a dilemma, isn’t it?” I said. “Hey, Gabby, mind if I borrow your phone?”
I had my cell phone, but there was no way I was going to turn it on at this point; it was most likely dead anyway. Gabby handed the bar’s phone to me, and I punched in a memorized number while Perun took in the sights of the bar. There was plenty to see, starting with the mounted jackalope wearing a pair of sunglasses near the bottled-beer fridge. There was also a mounted javelina head staring at us with glass eyes, because dead animals are practically mandatory objets d’art in Arizona bars. The centerpiece of the place was a pure carven teak sculpture of an Indian motorcycle, resting on an old bartop that was hung from the ceiling by chains. Two pool tables in the back room were currently awaiting players, and an old Lynyrd Skynyrd song moaned on the jukebox in the corner opposite the bar.
A puzzled Granuaile answered her cell phone, not recognizing the number calling her.
“Hey, it’s me, back safe,” I said. “No names, okay? Are you in town yet or are you still working on the Verde River thing?”
“I got back a few days ago.”
“Great. I need you to come pick me up at the Huddle on Broad Street in Globe as soon as possible.”
“I’m bartending,” she said, by which she meant she was at Rúla Búla. “Just came on shift.”
“Time to quit that job,” I said.
“Again?”
“Again, and for good. We have to move. Your new life begins now.”
“Oh. Should I pick up the dog?”
The smart answer would have been yes, but I wanted to see the widow one more time if I could. So I said, “No, we’ll get him together.”
“Right. See you in an hour.”
She was so quick and decisive. I hoped she’d make it through the training. For that matter, I hoped I’d make it through the training. The Morrigan’s vision was very much on my mind, not to mention the consequences Jesus had mentioned.
Before I could make my second phone call, Perun whispered urgently, “Do you have Arizona money? I have none.” How sweet of him to be worried about the bill.
“Oh, it’s no problem, Perun. The drink’s on me,” I said. “Especially since it doesn’t look like you’ll be finishing it.”
“Ah. My thanks. I think I go now, Atticus, explore country, find place to hide.”
“So soon?” I thanked him for his invaluable aid and hoped that in his exploration of America he would find a town populated by many beefy, hairy women.
“America has such places?” he asked, hope and wonder filling his face.
“I’m sure it does. It’s a land of opportunity,” I said. He hooked me up with a couple of extra fulgurites for Granuaile and Oberon before he left, and I made sure to dispel the camouflage on his fur cloak outside. “Meeting you was a pleasure,” I told him. “It’s one of the few things about the trip I can say was one hundred percent positive, in fact. As gods go, you’re one of the best I’ve ever met.”
“You are only Druid I ever met,” he said, “but I think best also.” He tried to leave by pounding me manfully on the back a couple of times, but then decided that was inadequate and crushed me with a companionable hug. It was like getting squeezed between large hairy rocks. As he exited out the back of the Huddle, I tried not to laugh out loud at the collective sigh of relief from the locals. I covered my amusement by taking a long draught of my drink.
The extra alcohol gave me the courage I needed to dial the next number. I punched it in and steeled myself for an unpleasant conversation.
“Hal, it’s me. I’m back. And I have bad news.”
“Yes, I’ve been waiting for your call,” the new alpha of the Tempe Pack said, his voice tight with tension. “I already know
it’s bad, but how bad? Are they both gone, or just my alpha?”
“It’s uncertain. Better that I show and tell,” I replied. “I brought them back, Hal. I did everything I could.” I told him where to find me and to bring the new IDs I’d ordered for both Granuaile and myself. “And come in a work van, or maybe borrow Antoine’s wheels,” I added, referring to the local ghoul who collected and hauled bodies around in a refrigerated truck.
“Tell me this much before I drive out there,” Hal said. “Did they at least get their revenge?”
“Yes. They got their revenge. But I never got to ask them if it was worth it.”
“I don’t think it was,” Hal said.
“No. No, it wasn’t.”
Epilogue
All my old haunts were possible traps now, and the Morrigan’s vision of my death had me practically loony with paranoia. Granuaile was already teasing me about my constantly swiveling head, half in jest and half in annoyance; I was making her nervous. Despite her impatient sigh and the rolling of her eyes, I had her park out of sight of the widow’s house so that I could call to Oberon through our mental link from up the street.
Oberon, can you hear me?
He sounded alarmed at my arrival rather than welcoming. That wasn’t right. What? Why not?
Is the widow all right?
Yes. I was sitting with Granuaile in her car, near University Drive.
His question jangled alarm bells in my head. What if I wasn’t talking to Oberon? That scene from Terminator 2 where Schwarzenegger imitated the voice of John Connor and the T-1000 imitated the foster mother replayed in my head. I wasn’t sure if such a switch could be accomplished magically, but I didn’t want to take the chance. Instead of answering him, I asked a question of my own. Oberon, can you get out of the house?
Jump over the fence and come to the front. By yourself. Right now.
“Start the car,” I told Granuaile. She nodded and turned the key in the ignition. Oberon appeared alone at the edge of the widow’s property in a few seconds, looking south down Roosevelt first and then north to where we were parked.
See the blue car? That’s us.
What are you talking about? I got out of the car and opened the back door for him to jump in. He didn’t stop to be petted or anything. He leapt in and immediately started barking at Granuaile before I could close the door.
Oberon, what on earth? Stop that racket. I ducked back into the car and told Granuaile to get us off Roosevelt Street as I closed my door. Oberon’s behavior needed an explanation, but if matters were truly as urgent as he suggested, it would be unwise to demand one before leaving. We could always return if it was a misunderstanding. Granuaile made a U-turn and turned east on University, heading toward Rural Road.
“Where to, sensei?” she asked, checking her mirrors.
“Same place we discussed earlier,” I said. “Oberon says we have to get out of town.” I turned in my seat to collect an overdue explanation from my hound. Now you will tell me why we’re running. What’s happened to the widow?
Ah, so she is alive after all?
Then who’s been walking around in her house and feeding you and letting you outside since then? You’re not making sense.
Well, maybe she’s just in a funk, Oberon. She’s been depressed lately.
What?
I faced forward and slumped in my seat. Shock upon shock left my mouth slightly open and my eyes unfocused.
“Sensei? Atticus? What’s the matter?” Granuaile flicked her eyes from the road to my face, creases of worry between her brows.
“Drive on,” I told her. “Oberon’s right. We have to get out of here.”
Acknowledgments
My editor at Del Rey, Tricia Pasternak, is eternally encouraging and may be a Zen master of Soothing Anxious Authors. She exudes calm even through her emails. Here is one of her koans to boggle your mind: What is the sound of one subplot resolving?
Mike Braff, assistant editor, introduced me to Viking Death Metal, specifically a band called Amon Amarth and one of their songs called “Twilight of the Thunder God.” I had that playing on loop while I wrote the last battle scene, and now I’m fighting the urge to buy a double-bladed axe and a drinking horn.
My copy editor, Kathy Lord, and my managing editor, Nancy Delia, both deserve a bottle of something Irish because I’ve probably driven them to drink anyway—it might as well be the good stuff. They’ve been a spectacular help, and I’m grateful for their assistance.
My agent, Evan Goldfried at JGLM, happened to know a really cool rabbi, Jenny Amswych, who was kind enough to help me out with the Hebrew. I chose the kh spelling instead of the ch for the guttural sound, and I hope that doesn’t ruffle any feathers. If there are any errors, please lay the blame at my door and not the good rabbi’s.
Eli Freysson in Iceland assisted with some of the Icelandic names, but please don’t tease him if I messed up, because I tend to Anglicize things a bit.
I’m grateful as always to my early readers, Alan O’Bryan and Tawnya Graham-Schoolitz. Nick Steinkemper also did me yeoman service on short notice.
Kimberly, Maddie, and Gail Hearne are the most supportive family members a writer could wish for, and I count myself blessed to be a part of their lives.
As with my other books, most of the physical locations (on this plane) are real, albeit used in a fictional way. If anyone does that $75 shot of whiskey at Rúla Búla, drop me a line and let me know if it was worth it. I’ll tell you right now that the Smithwick’s with the fish and chips is always worth it.
Likewise, the teak motorcycle sculpture at the Huddle in Globe is worth a look. It gets even better after you’ve had a couple Big Boys. I’m indebted to the owner, Tracy Quick, for a tour of downtown that included a rare glimpse of the old secret tunnels beneath the streets.
You can find me at www.kevinhearne.com. I’m also on Twitter (@kevinhearne), and I hope to see you at a spiffy shindig of some kind. Maybe we’ll meet at a sci-fi/fantasy
or comics convention, catch a glimpse of Neil Gaiman, and squee in ultrasonic stereo.
Read on for a bonus short story from Kevin Hearne …
A Test of Mettle
Already I am made wholly new. Though I probably do not look any different, I feel as if the world must see me in a new way now that I can see the world as it truly is. I am no longer a barmaid or a philosophy major but a Druid initiate, and it feels as though I have emerged from a long and febrile sleep in a poorly made cocoon. The name Granuaile MacTiernan hardly matters anymore; it is just something that people call me. The elemental, Sonora, calls me Druidchild, and that is who I am now.
The cottonwoods drinking from the East Verde River are poets even without their leaves.
Their branches speak to me of silence and death and a promised renewal that will come in its own season. And time is measured in those seasons, in buds and flowers and seeds, not in the gears of a clock or in the turning of a calendar page.
Their rough bark speaks to me of wind and rain and protecting oneself from harm.
Their roots are fingers that do not clutch but rather clasp in friendship, and they say to the soil: Here will I grow and be nourished for a span of seasons, and soon enough I will nourish you. All that is given shall be returned.
I see that they are like Druids, and tears spill down my cheeks to think that now I am like them, and not the leech on this world I once was.