by M. D. Massey
Table of Contents
Epilogue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
About the Author
Druid Justice
A New Adult Urban Fantasy Novel
M.D. Massey
Modern Digital Publishing
Copyright © 2018 by M.D. Massey
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Epilogue
About the Author
One
I sprinted between two cars, doing my best to stay ahead of the thundering footsteps behind me. The source of those footsteps was an enormous ogre, one who took great delight in tossing large objects at me as I zig-zagged through rows of wrecked vehicles. With speed born from a desire to avoid death by angry ogre, I ran for my life while keeping an eye out for O.F.O.s—ogre-impelled flying objects.
And just why was I being chased by an ogre, in the dead of night, through my Uncle Ed’s glorious yard of junk? Because Finnegas the Seer, druid extraordinaire and my mentor in all things mystic and arcane, had thought it would be the perfect training exercise for yours truly.
This entire demented exercise was about forcing me to use the magic Finnegas had taught me in the months since I’d returned from Underhill. And while I normally preferred to fight my way out of trouble, we’d recently concluded that I needed to develop other options. So, I had to end this Finn’s way—the druid way.
Well, at least there are plenty of places to hide around here, I thought. Too bad the environment also makes for excellent ogre ammunition.
Junkyards were great locations for playing hide and seek, and my uncle’s salvage yard was no exception. When wrecked cars arrived, we left them in the front lot while we sold parts off each car, a little at a time. Once they’d been stripped clean, those vehicles would be added to the stacks in back, where they waited to be crushed into neat cubes of scrap for recycling. But for now, those junkers would serve as cover for my retreat—and hopefully prevent my pursuer from smashing me like an empty beer can before I figured out a way to stop him.
As I scampered between cars, the ogre ran on top of them, giving him a distinct advantage in the speed department. I’d have done the same, but I was in my human form, so even a glancing hit from a flying engine block would ruin my day. Yet I knew I couldn’t keep this up forever, and shifting into my Hyde-side wasn’t an option. I’d been having... issues with it of late, which made me hesitant to let that side of me loose.
Suddenly, the booming cadence of cars being crushed by size twenty feet stopped. A quick glance over my shoulder revealed that the ogre’s foot was stuck in the moon roof of an old Datsun 240Z. Sensing an opportunity for a peaceful resolution, I turned around to try to reason with him while I had the chance.
Once I got a good hard look at my pursuer, I couldn’t help but question the wisdom of that decision.
The ogre was around eight feet tall and had shoulders half as wide, but he was mostly human-looking despite his size. His head was topped by a wild rat’s nest of shoulder-length chestnut hair above a ruddy, almost boyish face. His brown, soulful eyes glowered beneath a thick, protruding forehead, and his crooked yellow teeth were on full display as he roared, struggling to free his foot from the Datsun’s roof. Contrary to the rest of his appearance, the ogre wore a ratty Elmo t-shirt that stretched across his prodigious chest and belly, and a filthy canvas tarp that he’d wrapped around his loins like the world’s largest diaper.
Honestly, he’d have been kind of cute, if he wasn’t trying to kill me.
“Now, now, big guy—let’s take a moment to sort this out. There’s no need for this to get ugly…”
The ogre freed his foot while I was talking, then cut me off mid-sentence by flinging the detached bed of an ’82 Chevy truck at me like a frisbee. I spun out of the way and watched as the projectile hit a stack of cars in the distance, causing them to sway precariously as they absorbed the impact. Worried that they might cut off my escape if they fell, I kept one eye on the stack and the other on the ogre as I did my best to calm him down.
“Seriously, dude, we can talk this out. I know Finnegas told you something about me that really pissed you off—but believe me, the old man is lying.” I ducked a driver-side door that the ogre had torn off a Plymouth Duster, noting that his aim was getting better.
“C’mon, man—that car’s a classic!” I yelled. The ogre paused from reaching for the rear door of the Duster. “Yeah, that one! If you have to keep throwing things, tear up that Hyundai over there.”
The huge creature’s brow furrowed as he pointed at a late eighties Honda Prelude that still had some decent sheet metal on it. “No, that’s a Honda. Try the ugly little silver car behind it.” He pointed at the Hyundai I’d been referring to, and I nodded. “Yeah, that’s the one. It’s a worthless piece of junk, so feel free to tear pieces off it to your heart’s content.”
The ogre shrugged, then began pulling on the Hyundai’s front bumper.
“Now, as I was saying, I’m sure we can sort this out…”
The beast yanked the bumper off with a metallic pop and a crunch. Realizing it was mostly plastic and hardly a worthy projectile, he tossed it to the side and smashed the passenger side window so he could pull the door off instead.
“… like a couple of civilized individuals. Maybe we could discuss our differences over dinner? I’m sure I could rustle up a couple of goats for you to eat, or maybe a nice healthy cow might be more to your liking?”
The ogre roared even louder than before as he yanked on the door again. Just my luck to be chased by a vegan ogre, I thought.
“Alright already—forget that I mentioned farm animals, okay? We can just do some salad and bread. I know this awesome little Greek place that makes the most amazing tzatziki sauce. Lots of vegetarian options there.”
The ogre cocked his head, again pausing in his efforts to remove the Hyundai’s door. Now, time to reel him in.
“You like that idea, huh? So, how about I go pick us up some feta salad, a little falafel—w
ith some sides of baba ghanouj, tabouli, and hummus? Then, we can sit down and enjoy a nice meal and work this whole thing out. Heck, I’ll even skip ordering chicken for myself… whaddaya say, big guy?”
As soon as I mentioned eating chicken, the ogre tore the door from the Hyundai with a single mighty pull. He turned those baby browns on me, glowering as he huffed and puffed; whether that was in anger or exertion, I couldn’t be certain. With a snort and a grunt, he crushed the car door between his hands, forming it into a roughly basketball-sized sphere of jagged metal.
Nope, that’s definitely anger. Here we go…
“What, was it the chicken comment?” I asked, hoping against hope that I might salvage the situation.
He compressed the car door down to the size of a volleyball, scuffing the dirt with his feet like a bull ready to charge.
“Well, I guess that answers my question. And just when we were starting to make progress.”
The ogre opened that huge mouth of his and roared. Despite the twenty feet or so between us, I could smell the stench of his breath, which reeked of wild garlic and canned beans. He bounced the ball of metal once in his right hand, then palmed the sphere in both of his ginormous mitts.
I backed up on the balls of my feet, preparing to dive out of the way at the very last instant. “So, I guess this means no Greek food?”
The ogre exhaled in a long growl as he wound up in a running start, like a high school jock preparing to smash the class nerd at dodgeball. Then, he released the ball of metal with a loud grunt, throwing the damned thing like Pedro Martinez walking Reggie Sanders with a mean fastball.
I’d say that means no, I thought, narrowly avoiding getting my head taken off by eighty pounds of cheap Korean metal. I didn’t even bother looking back as I bolted for the relative safety of the stacks at the back of the yard.
Thanks for the awesome lesson, Finn, I thought as the ogre roared somewhere behind me. I dashed between two rows of stacked, stripped cars and reflected on my recent life choices.
I’d been at odds with Finnegas since my girlfriend Jesse had died a few years back, mostly because I’d blamed him for her death, but also because he’d become an alcoholic and drug addict shortly thereafter. But he’d eventually cleaned himself up, and events of late had caused me to reassess our relationship and patch things up with the old man. We’d recently resumed my druid apprenticeship, at which time he’d begun coming up with ever more devious and demented “lessons” by which to teach me the ways of druidry.
Tonight’s lesson apparently involved a lot of running, ducking, diving, and rolling to avoid being turned into a hamburger by a seven-hundred-pound ogre named Elmo. Earlier, Finnegas had told me the name had been pinned on the ogre because he was a fan of the public television character. The old man had also mentioned that Elmo kept quite an extensive collection of memorabilia featuring his eponymous idol, in his burrow beneath a trash dump near Rocko the red cap’s trailer park.
Obviously, he’d fed me that info so I’d feel sorry for the ogre—and it had worked. Ogres were normally gentle, sedate creatures, and not at all prone to violence or anger. They just wanted to be left alone for the most part, and most of the other supernaturals were more than happy to give them a wide berth. Ogres were considered by many to be the outcasts of the fae world, more than lower-order fae like the red caps or other half-fae supernaturals like Finnegas’ assistant, Maureen, or my friend Sabine.
Unfortunately for them, ogres were not a unique race of their own, but instead the product of a union between a higher fae and a human who carried latent giant DNA. Mixing one supernatural race with human DNA usually turned out okay… but throw another species into the mix and the outcome could be unpredictable, to say the least. Typically, the offspring ended up being almost giant-sized, which was the first strike against them. Adding insult to injury, such offspring were often deformed in some manner, and no higher fae would ever accept a physical defect in one of their children.
Fae were not the most tolerant creatures, and their caste system was based on physical beauty as well as magical power. Higher fae were typically supernaturally attractive, lithe, and graceful. They lorded over the lower-order fae, which included the dwarven folk like the red caps, anthropomorphs and hybrids like kelpies and fuaths, and monsters like nuckelavees and oilliphéists. At the bottom of the heap you had outcasts like ogres, who got shit on by everyone in the fae world.
Finnegas was well aware of how I loved to root for the underdog, and that’s why he’d chosen an ogre as my sparring partner for tonight’s lesson. He knew I wasn’t about to treat this ogre like the rest of his kind had, because I hated bullies and I hated fae bullies even more. Besides that, ogres tended to be simple creatures, and I suspected Elmo thought this was all just a game. Which meant I needed to find other than violent means of dealing with him… and that would require relying on my somewhat anemic magic-wielding skills.
Though the ogre was an impressive specimen—basically a larger-than-life version of a He-Man action figure—he wasn’t very nimble or bright. So, after reasoning with him had failed, I led him into the depths of the junkyard through the narrow, twisting labyrinth of stacked junked cars, twelve to fifteen feet high. I’d hoped to lose him in the stacks, but Elmo had proven to be hellaciously fast in the straightaway. And he’d displayed a peculiar knack for sniffing out my hiding spots.
I ducked around a corner and squeezed through a narrow gap between two rows of stacked cars. After turning a few more corners, I crouched behind the bed of a ’66 Ranchero, gasping for air like a fish at a skydiving convention. Once the wheezing in my chest and the rushing in my ears settled down, I cocked an ear to determine Elmo’s position.
Silence—I must have ditched him. I leaned back against the cars behind me, resting my hands on top of my head to make it easier to breathe. I’d barely gathered my thoughts when I heard the ogre’s plodding footsteps headed my way, followed by a resounding crunch as seven hundred pounds of ogre collided with the other side of the stack I’d been leaning on.
The impact transferred through the Ranchero, throwing me across the aisle and into the opposite stack. As I landed, my head bounced off the B-post of an eighties-era Taurus. I was still seeing stars and shaking it off when I heard the distinct creaking and groaning sound that every junkyard employee dreads. I didn’t need to look to know that I was about to be buried under several tons of American, European, and Japanese steel.
Without a thought, I instinctively dove to the side. As I did, my pants snagged on a piece of jagged metal, making me hit the ground at an awkward angle. On impact, there was a loud crack accompanied by a sharp pain between my neck and shoulder. I tried using my left arm to help me stand, wincing as I felt and heard the grinding agony of broken bones rubbing together in my shoulder. Ignoring the pain, I left the arm dangling and braced my other hand on my knee as I stood up.
I had little time to assess my injuries. With a tremendous crash, three cars fell into the space I’d just occupied, and I knew Elmo would be close behind. Cursing my stupidity, I cradled my injured arm as I sprinted off into the dark. Hopefully, I could lose the ogre long enough to figure out a humane way to stop him from accidentally killing me on purpose.
I managed to flee to a corner of the junkyard where Elmo couldn’t easily go, a tight little mouse’s maze made of cars being prepped for the crusher. I’d enjoyed playing in this area of the junkyard as a kid, taking every opportunity to lose myself for hours on end. Mom and I had visited the junkyard whenever she needed my uncle’s auto repair skills, and there were always nooks and crannies back behind the cars where adults wouldn’t dare venture. The crusher stacks were continually being replaced with new cars, which meant every time I returned there were new areas to explore. For a chubby, bullied kid, it was like having my own private fortress of solitude.
Today, I’d lucked out by finding a gap between the stacks big enough for an adult to squeeze through. Holding my injured arm close to my side, I shim
mied and squirmed deeper and deeper into the stacks, until several dozen tons of metal stood between me and the ogre.
I moved my arm experimentally to determine the nature of my injury, only to be met with more grinding agony and pain. No doubt about it; I’d broken my collarbone. It was an injury I was familiar with, only because I’d done the same thing as a kid after attempting to emulate my favorite superhero’s powers of flight by jumping off my neighbor’s picnic table. I also remembered well how much it had hurt to get the break set by our family doctor. Doc Simmons was a retired military physician, and since my dad was killed-in-action he’d always waived our co-pay. But damn, was that guy hardcore. He’d set my shoulder without any anesthetic, and hell if I was looking forward to doing it again as an adult.
But right now, I had bigger problems. Elmo’s earthshaking footsteps reverberated just beyond the relative safety of the cars and trucks between us. Every so often, he’d bellow and bang on the first row of cars protecting me, just to let me know he knew where I was hiding. At first it wasn’t a big deal, but after a few hits, the cars started to shift inward. Considering the rate he was going, it wouldn’t be long before I’d be crushed between the cars or trapped deep within the stacks.
“I am going to give Finnegas a fucking earful when I get out of here,” I muttered.
Elmo must have heard me, because he began hammering at the cars with increased enthusiasm. I slithered farther into the stacks, until I came to a tiny little clearing with the dark summer sky visible above. There, I found an intact 1971 Corolla coupe, all by its lonesome with the seats left inside and decent rubber on the rims.