Druid Justice

by M. D. Massey

  Druidic magic wasn’t like other types of magic, because druids preferred to work with the elements rather than against them. Our magic was subtle, involving more finesse than brute strength. And while it wasn’t always as powerful as other types of magic, druids could work spells on the fly and get immediate results, a big plus when you were under a time crunch. Not only that, but our magic didn’t require us to use magical power sinks or foci, which was also quite the advantage in a pinch.

  Finesse was exactly what I needed right now, because I didn’t want to kill Elmo—I just needed to stop him from causing me further harm. I’d thought about calling up a strong wind to nudge a stack of cars on top of him, but that would definitely injure him, possibly mortally. I also considered using a burst of heat and light to frighten him away, but I had no open flames nearby and little light to work with, so there was nothing from which I might create such a spell. If I’d had some water handy I might have been able to submerge him in it and freeze it—but again, there was nothing around that would suffice.

  There was, however, one thing I had a great deal of around me: metal. And what was metal good for? Conduction. If I could store up enough electricity in the chassis of the Corolla and release it into Elmo all at once—without electrocuting myself—it could act like a sort of supernatural stun-gun, knocking him out. It was a gamble, but I was out of options. The ogre was still banging away on the cars outside, inching them closer and closer to the one I was in, so I had to work fast if I was going to stop him.

  After I clambered through the window, I made sure I wasn’t touching any metal inside the car by pulling my arms in and my feet up in the seat. Then, I cleared my mind and extended my awareness to the air and metal surrounding me, sensing as the mixture of elemental gasses, water vapor, and dust flowed around the little vintage Corolla. I concentrated on the atoms and molecules in the air itself, willing them to become positive- and negative-charged particles around the metal frame and body of the vehicle. As I did, I coaxed the static charges I’d created so they’d leap from the air into the metal, which was thankfully not grounded at all.

  Soon, little sparks of electricity were jumping and arcing all over the surface of the Toyota. Satisfied that I’d stored enough magical electricity in the car’s metal, I focused on the nearby stack of cars inching its way toward the Corolla. Finally, they were almost in contact. I grunted as I waited for the next blow, straining against the electrical charge I’d built up, my force of will a dam that held the magical energy in place.

  BOOM! Elmo hit the stack one more time, causing the cars to move the final few centimeters needed to make contact with the Toyota. I released the spell, sending all that pent up electrical energy into the cars around me and channeling it toward the ogre. My efforts were rewarded by a loud zap!, followed by an earth-shaking thud.

  The smell of ozone and burned hair met me as I crawled out of the stacks. Elmo was laid out nearby, snoring like a fat man sleeping off his Thanksgiving dinner. Finnegas was there too, leaning against the crusher as he puffed on a hand-rolled cigarette.

  “Took you long enough,” he quipped.

  Cradling my arm, I took a seat in the dirt against the nearest car and laid my head back against the cool surface of the fender with a frustrated sigh.

  “I honestly and truly hate your guts right now, you know that?”

  Finn grinned and spit a fleck of tobacco off his lip. “So, I guess that means no Greek food?”

  Two

  A few hours later at sunup, I sat nursing a cup of coffee with Finn while we watched Elmo chase dragonflies nearby. After setting my collarbone by hand, Finn had spent the last few hours healing me via magical means. Finn’s bone-setting skills were adequate if not expert, and if I’d screamed and cussed a little as he pushed and pulled the ends of my collarbone into place, it’d been a small price to pay to avoid a huge emergency room bill.

  “Our ogre friend over there doesn’t exactly seem like the smash and bash type,” I said as I watched Elmo use the utmost care to cradle an iridescent, green and blue dragonfly in his paving-stone-sized hands. “How’d you get him mad enough to attack me, anyway?”

  Finn puffed on his cigarette, exhaling smoke through his nostrils. “I promised him ice cream to get him over here. Then I told him you were another ogre in disguise, and that you’d stolen our ice cream money.”

  “That’s pretty flipping devious.”

  “But effective,” the old man replied. “Once I had him convinced you could take whatever he could dish out, he was more than willing to give chase. Which reminds me…”

  Finn reached into a nearby ice chest, waving away a cloud of dry ice fog to retrieve five gallons of Neapolitan ice cream. He whistled to get the ogre’s attention before tossing the cartons at Elmo one by one. The ogre’s face lit up as he snatched the cartons from the air, squeezing them until huge glops of ice cream oozed into his mouth and dribbled down his chin. He didn’t seem to mind the mess, and I couldn’t help but chuckle at the expression of sheer delight plastered across his face as he enjoyed his prize.

  I took another sip of coffee, enjoying the early morning air. The sharp aroma of fresh-brewed coffee and the acrid tang of tobacco smoke combined with the heady odors of gasoline and engine oil proved to be a strangely comforting combination. I’d been living in my uncle’s junkyard way too long, if these were the scents and smells that put me in my comfort zone.

  “How’d you know I wouldn’t hulk out on the poor guy?” I asked.

  Finnegas scratched his nose and flicked ash off his cigarette. “For one, you’ve gained better control since training with the alpha. And besides that, I know what a bleeding heart you are when it comes to the downtrodden.”

  The alpha in question was Samson, head of the local werewolf pack. He’d helped me learn how to control my ability to shift, a process I wouldn’t care to repeat under any circumstances. Having your guts ripped out and being bled within an inch of your life, then being healed only to do it all over again… well, it wasn’t on my list of all-time favorite experiences.

  Not that I wasn’t grateful for Samson’s tutelage, though. It was just too bad that it could have been all for naught.

  “The magic’s changed, since I got back from Underhill,” I stated as I stared into the distance. “I get… urges, when I shift now. And it feels like something is missing inside me when I shift, too.”

  Finnegas raised an eyebrow. “Something like empathy?” I nodded once, and the old man exhaled forcefully. “Cú Chulainn experienced the same when the ríastrad came over him, although as time went on he was able to retain more and more of his humanity as he changed. Strange that the process should be happening in reverse for you, so soon after you’ve managed to gain control over it.”

  “You think it might have something to do with being exposed to the magic of Underhill, or the Treasures?”

  Finn rubbed his chin. “Maybe—or it could be another kind of fae magic. They’ve been throwing curses at you non-stop since you got back, you know.”

  “Oh, I’m well aware. And if it wasn’t for the lot of them being cut off from Underhill, I’m sure one of their spells would’ve gotten through already.”

  Months before, I’d used the Four Treasures of the Tuatha Dé Danann to close off the portals between the magical realm of Underhill and earth, effectively cutting off all the earthbound fae from the bulk of their magic. This had weakened the higher fae considerably, placing even their most powerful magic-users on par with human mages. And it had caused minor, but annoying, complications for some of the lower-order fae as well. Most of them still hadn’t forgiven me, and probably wouldn’t for centuries to come.

  “But…?”

  “But they haven’t, and I’ve been diligent in reinforcing my wards and charms each morning and night. Trust me, I’d know if one of their curses snuck through. No, I don’t think that has anything to do with what’s happening to me.”

  The old man drummed his fingers on his thigh. �
�Still, I don’t like it. Best that you don’t use your ability to shift, unless it’s absolutely necessary. At least, not until we get a handle on what’s going on.”

  I nodded. “Way ahead of you, old man.”

  “Hah! That’ll be the day.” Finnegas wheezed a chuckle that turned into a coughing fit. I narrowed my eyes and sat up slightly, but he waved me off as he recovered. “Just the after-effects of healing you earlier. Forces me to feel my age, which isn’t necessarily a bad thing. Never hurts to be reminded that you’re mortal… especially when you’re well past your expiration date.” He glanced sideways at me. “Time’s short, you know.”

  “So you keep telling me.”

  Finnegas had broached this conversation several times since I’d been back from Underhill. The gist of it was that his magic wasn’t as strong as it once was, he was getting old, and he needed to pass on everything he could to me while he was able. The subtext was that, if I applied everything he could teach me, I might be in his shoes many centuries hence. Frankly, it all freaked me out a bit, so I tended to avoid delving into the topic whenever it came around.

  Finnegas clapped his hands on his knees and stood up. “Fine then, we’ll discuss it later. I’m going to take our ogre-friend back to his burrow, before the morning crew shows up. Give that shoulder another hour or so, and it should be good as new.”

  “Good as something,” I muttered as Finnegas walked off and lit up yet another cigarette. “You really should quit smoking, you know!” I yelled after him.

  He waved my words off absently while casting a spell that altered the appearance of the ogre. Now, Elmo merely looked like a too-tall human instead of the hulking behemoth he really was. For a moment, I wondered how Finnegas was going to get the big fella back to his trash dump, then I saw him leading Elmo to one of the flatbed tow trucks.

  The ogre hopped on the back of the truck, latching on to the light bar over the cab with a huge smile. Finnegas cast a “look away” spell on him, and they were off. I hoped Elmo wouldn’t smash his face into an overpass on the way home. Austin had enough problems with road maintenance as it was.

  As I watched them drive away, I took another sip of coffee, grimacing when I realized it had grown cold. I said a few words in ancient Gaelic as I rubbed the mug, relying on friction for the energy to fuel the spell. The cup warmed in my hands as the magic amplified the small amount of heat I’d created, and seconds later my next sip was piping hot.

  Magic does have its uses, I thought. When it’s not turning you into a cold-blooded killer, that is.

  A few hours later, a call from Sal the red cap roused me from a much-needed nap. Red caps, or fear dearg, were a type of lower-order fae once known for waylaying human travelers, brutally torturing and killing them so they could soak their hats in their victims’ blood. These days, modern red caps ran low-level cons, protection rackets, and vice schemes, working in organized groups patterned after the mob. They mostly preyed on the dregs of fae society, although they weren’t against victimizing the odd human as well.

  “Colin—izzat you, paisan?” Sal, his boss Rocko, and their entire crew all dressed and spoke like east coast mobsters. Being around them was like being in an episode of The Sopranos, but in miniature. Since coming to somewhat friendly terms with the fear dearg, I’d learned to ignore it.

  Besides, they were one of the few fae groups who didn’t currently have a major beef with me. As it turned out, when I’d cut the fae off from most of their magic it had opened up a world of profitable opportunities for Rocko and his crew. Of late, they’d been doing a significant amount of business dealing in black market glamours and “look away, go away” charms, for those fae who now lacked the ability to cast illusory magic themselves.

  I cleared my throat as I put the phone on speaker. “Who else would it be, Sal? The pope?”

  “Har, har, very funny. I just thought it might be that hunter girlfriend of yours, answering your phone behind your back. You know how these dames can be. Far be it from me to open my trap and say somethin’ that’d get you in hot water with your woman.”

  “Um, we don’t exactly have that sort of relationship. I’m relatively certain she trusts me enough to respect my privacy.”

  The dwarf chuckled. “Yeah, you keep telling yourself that. Anyway, ’dis is a business call. We got a lead on whoever’s been knocking off fae.”

  Sal—rather, Rocko by way of Sal—had recently hired me to look into several suspicious deaths of fae in the area. The killings had started occurring not long after I’d cut the fae off from Underhill, while I was still laying low in the aftermath. At first, it had just been low-level fae, the sort of nameless nobodies who comprised the bottom echelons of fae society. But over the last few weeks, the killings had escalated to include prominent fae—including a few who were close to Queen Maeve.

  Ah, Maeve. Once my benefactor, she’d long been fond of pulling my strings and making me dance to her tune. I’d finally grown tired of being her errand boy, thus my decision to level the magical playing field between fae and humans. And despite the fact she was my very, very distant ancestor, that single act of defiance had made me persona non grata with Maeve’s court… or what remained of it after my trip to Underhill.

  A nervous cough from Sal brought my mind back to the present. “So, what’s up, Sal? Did another corpse pop up?”

  “Bingo, druid. Plus, this time they caught the killer red-handed—literally.”

  I greatly doubted that the killer had been caught at the scene. After personally investigating half a dozen fae deaths, I knew only one thing for certain; the killer was no dummy or stooge. They had access to magical means of covering their tracks and were very good at doing so. It was highly unlikely they’d slip up at this stage in the game.

  But whoever this scapegoat was, they might have witnessed something that could lead me to the killer. It was definitely worth following up on.

  “Who’s the suspect, Sal?”

  “Some ogre who lives in the trash dump behind the trailer park. Elwood, Elmer, Elmore… some shit like that.”

  “Elmo? You mean to tell me that the fae are trying to pin these deaths on Elmo?”

  Sal inhaled sharply. “Sheesh, druid, what do you expect us to think? They caught the mook covered in blood, huddled over the body—which incidentally happened to be found at the very trash dump where the ogre lives. Besides, you know ogres and fae don’t get along. Seems cut and dry if you ask me. All we need is for you to verify the evidence so the fae can sleep easy at night again.”

  “Sal, Elmo wouldn’t hurt a fly—at least not intentionally. He’s the poster child for the gentle giant type, and hardly smart enough to mastermind all those deaths.”

  Sal tsked. “I guess maybe I could see that. He’s never been the sharpest knife in the drawer, that’s for sure. And to be honest, he’s never caused us any trouble either—he just mostly sticks to himself. You think maybe someone framed him up?”

  “I can’t really say without being at the scene.” I rubbed sleep out of my eyes and looked at the time. “Can you just keep everyone calm until I get there?”

  “Hmm…”

  “What Sal?”

  “Well, about that… the fair folk are pretty riled around here, and it looked to me like they were working themselves up to do something bad to that ogre.”

  “Shit.” I ran my fingers through my hair. “I’m headed over now. Try to make sure no one hurts Elmo, and if necessary tell them anyone who does will answer to me.”

  Sal remained silent for the span of a few heartbeats. “You sure that’s a good idea, druid? You’re not exactly popular around here, you know.”

  “I’m well aware, Sal. But as Machiavelli said, ‘It’s better to be feared than loved.’”

  “Sounds like my kind of guy. Did he write books or something?”

  “Or something. Just make sure we don’t end up with two deaths today, alright?”

  “Alright, druid. I’ll spread the word.”


  “You do that,” I growled, pulling on a t-shirt and some Van’s before grabbing my keys and heading out the door.

  I got to Rocko’s trailer park in record time—and if I broke a few traffic laws on the way over, that was between me and the Gremlin’s speedometer. Since garnering the hatred of most of the fae population, I’d increased the runes and wards on my vehicle, including some “look away and forget I was here” spells that also helped me avoid speeding tickets. Now, whenever a traffic cop saw me speeding by, their eyes just sort of passed right over my car. It wasn’t as good as invisibility, and it wouldn’t fool anyone with more than an inkling of power, but it had helped me lose a few tails and escape some fines. I called that a win.

  I drove to a small playground in the very back of the trailer park, where the local kids had loosened some boards in the fence to allow them access to the empty lot around back. My friend Hemi and I had discovered their hangout several months ago while investigating the abduction of Sal’s son. Despite being fae, the local teens were typical kids, and they preferred to smoke and drink away from the prying eyes of their parents.

  A crowd of angry fae had gathered at the playground. More were crowding the hole in the fence, and beyond from what I could tell. The locals hissed and spat as I shoved my way through the crowd, but they all gave me a wide berth as soon as they recognized me. I was lucky these fae were lower order, because their lives hadn’t been affected all that much when I’d closed the gateways to Underhill.

  In fact, many run-of-the-mill fae didn’t seem to be affected by it at all. The lower fae mostly possessed small magics, innate talents that didn’t require them to draw on Underhill’s power. And those who’d relied on spells to mask their physical anomalies from the human world, well… they’d simply purchased charms from Rocko and his gang that served the same purpose.

  Of course, that didn’t keep the lower fae from despising me for what I’d done. For one, the fae hated it when mortals pulled one over on them. That made me persona non grata on principle alone. Plus, they resented having to pay for spells that had been child’s play to cast before I’d shut the gates down. Yet to them, the level of enmity they felt toward me only merited casting minor curses and the like. For example, making my milk spoil faster, or affecting my luck so I couldn’t find a decent parking space—small annoyances that my wards easily intercepted.