Blood Ties: A Junkyard Druid Urban Fantasy Short Story Collection (Junkyard Druid Novellas Book 4)

by M. D. Massey

  Blood Ties

  A Junkyard Druid Urban Fantasy Short Story Collection

  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

  Note to Readers

  Old Ghosts

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  The Goblin King

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Going Under

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Afterword

  Note to Readers

  The events in Old Ghosts occur immediately after Book Five in The Colin McCool Paranormal Suspense Series. Events in The Goblin King occur concurrently with events in Book Six of the series, and Hemi’s story in Going Under happens sometime between Books Five and Six.

  Thus, here lie spoilers… you have been warned.

  Certainly, these stories can be enjoyed as standalones, if you don’t wish to read the rest of the novels first.

  But for those who are so inclined, here’s a chronological reading order for books I’ve released in the Colin McCool universe to date:

  Druid Blood

  Blood Scent

  Junkyard Druid

  Graveyard Druid

  Moonlight Druid

  Underground Druid

  Blood Circus

  Druid Justice

  Blood Ties

  Druid Enforcer

  You may also wish to read my THEM Post-Apocalyptic Series, as Colin makes appearances in Books Three and Five. However, you don’t need to read those novels to know what’s going on in Colin’s world.

  Old Ghosts

  In which Colin discovers a gift from a Celtic god is a mixed blessing.

  1

  The rumbling beneath my feet intensified, shaking the nearby stacks of junked cars until they swayed and threatened to topple over on me. I had no idea what sort of magic I’d unleashed by planting the Dagda’s acorn, but I knew enough to get the hell out of the way of several tons of falling metal. Backing away, I narrowly avoided being crushed by a seventies-era Lincoln Continental with a smashed front end.

  The earthquake caused by the acorn’s fae magic seemed to be localized to within about twenty yards of the site where I’d planted it. Once I escaped the immediate area, I could safely observe the results of my decision to plant a tree in memory of Elmo, the gentle ogre who’d died at the hands of Commander Gunnarson and his thugs on that very spot. I still blamed myself for his death as well as Uncle Ed’s, neglectful as I’d been in protecting them from my enemies. But what was done was done, and nothing I did was going to bring them back.

  Not unless the Dagda’s magic acorn could raise the dead.

  Pfft. Fat chance of that.

  Yet something mysterious and dangerous was happening now that I’d planted it, that much was clear. The ground continued to shake, and cars toppled and fell until a large pile of automobile husks covered the spot where I’d buried the acorn. Is the seed reacting to Elmo’s remains? I wondered. Or is it simply supposed to respond this way after being planted?

  I guessed the latter. There had to be a very good reason why the Dagda had given me the thing in the first place. He was the deity who’d first taught druidry to the Celts, and I suspected he didn’t want our order to die out. As to why, I had no idea.

  One thing I’d learned in my interactions with gods and demigods was that their motives were often difficult to fathom. Whether due to boredom, capriciousness, or madness caused by near-immortality, they seemed to delight in meddling with the lives of humankind. Finnegas, my mentor in all things druidic, had taught me that none of the fae or Tuatha de Danann could be trusted—not even the ones who seemed benign and friendly.

  As Finn had taught me, and as I’d observed time and again in my dealings with them, they were all of an alien mind and possessed of motives that mere mortals could not fathom. While the acorn had been a gift from the Dagda, who seemed to be the kindest deity in all the Celtic pantheon, I was certain he had an ulterior motive for giving it to me. Exhibit A: I might have easily been killed by the magic released when the acorn was planted. But had the Dagda bothered to warn me? Nope. He’d just given me the damned thing and told me not to lose it.

  What a dick. We were definitely going to have words the next time I saw him. Which, I expected, wouldn’t be far off. The gods, petty as they were, had a tendency to return to the scenes of their crimes. Sure as the sun would rise tomorrow, the Dagda would be along eventually to check out his handiwork.

  Speaking of which, the rumbling and ground tremors were beginning to subside. Curious as to what might come next, I took a few cautious steps toward the pile of junked cars that had covered Elmo’s burial site. Pausing at a distance I deemed safe, I dropped to the ground and planted an ear to the earth. Silence.

  I wasn’t convinced the spell’s effects were over, so I stayed put and continued to listen. After a few minutes had passed, I decided to probe the burial spot with my druid senses to determine what was happening down there. I dropped into a druid trance, slowing my breathing and extending my senses—first to the area directly under the piled cars, then deeper into the earth.

  There. I sensed something alive—not an animal life form, but something plant-like. And I did mean “plant-like,” since this was unlike anything I’d encountered before. How I’d not felt it before when I’d held the acorn was a mystery to me. The raw magical power it held now very nearly overwhelmed my druidic senses.

  From what I could tell, the acorn had burrowed deeper into the soil, a good six feet or more beneath where I’d planted it. Now, the thing pulsed with life, energy, and magic, like a heart beating deep within the soil. But something was missing. In fact, it seemed as though the little acorn was waiting for something, some kind of trigger or signal.

  Don’t do it, McCool.

  Ignoring my better judgement, I reached out toward the seed with my senses, probing it with my mind to determine its purpose and current disposition. Would it cause more tremors, or was it now dormant again? I needed to know, because if the junkyard employees were in danger, I’d have to shut our operations down until I found a way to contain it. The last thing I needed was for some poor soul to get crushed under a bunch of cars or sucked into a sinkhole in the middle of the yard.

  I cautiously expanded my awareness closer to the seed, examining it from all angles. Thus far, the shell hadn’t cracked. That was good news. Maybe if I left it alone, it’d revert back to an inert state. I decided I’d ne
ed to ward it, or rather ward the dirt around it, to prevent anyone from accidentally messing with it. The chances of someone digging here were almost nil, and the twenty tons or so of junked cars lying atop it would help dissuade anyone from trying. But eventually, we’d have to move the pile of scrap. That meant there’d be nothing between the Dagda’s spellwork and our employees and customers but a few feet of dirt. Fae magic was tricky, which was why I didn’t want to risk it.

  I sent my magic out toward the acorn, intending to compact and harden the earth around it—then I’d cast a compulsion that would discourage anyone from digging there. Just a tiny little spell was all it’d take, enough to protect the acorn and keep anyone from digging it up again…

  As soon as my magic touched the acorn, I knew I’d messed up. The rumbling that had toppled the cars earlier recommenced even more violently, and the seed’s outer shell popped open with a loud crack that was audible aboveground. An instant later, I sensed rather than saw a small green shoot breaking free from within the seed as magic began to pulse in waves from its center.

  Too late, I scrambled to my feet. I took a few stumbling steps before the earth liquified like quicksand underfoot, pulling me in up to my waist and preventing my escape.

  2

  Soil liquefaction was a phenomenon that often occurred during earthquakes, and I knew liquified soil could swallow cars and topple buildings. But central Texas dirt was full of clay, which prevented natural soil liquefaction. So, I knew that what I was experiencing had more to do with magic forces involved than it did the earthquake.

  I fought to free myself from the soil, but it was like swimming in cake batter. Pressing on the ground’s surface only resulted in sinking my hands and forearms into the dirt, putting me in danger of being completely engulfed. I considered shifting into my Fomorian form to free myself, but quickly decided against it. This was Tuatha magic, after all, and the Fomoire had once been their mortal enemies. There was no telling how the spell might react to the presence of a Fomorian creature in its midst. I decided to just relax and wait for the spell to end. Then, if I was still alive and not totally submerged in liquid earth, I could find a way to dig myself free.

  At least, that’s what I planned before the ground started moving.

  Earlier, all I’d noticed was a lot of shaking. The surface of the earth beneath me had pretty much stayed in place. But now, the ground was starting to move in a circular pattern along with everything on top of it—first slowly, then with ever-increasing speed. Doing my best to ride on top of the liquified soil, I looked around to determine exactly what was going on.

  Realization hit me like a ton of bricks. It’s a freaking whirlpool—the ground is turning into a whirlpool of dirt.

  As the earth churned, gravity and inertia pulled its contents—dirt, rocks, and about twenty tons of junked cars and parts in varying states of decay—toward the center of the whirlpool. And me too, of course—although I was frantically trying to extricate myself from what might become my very own strange, magical grave.

  Elmo, buddy… I just might be joining you soon.

  Unable to free myself from the whirlpool’s pull, I instead examined the center of the swirling mass of earth, stone, and metal in the magical spectrum. Soon, all became clear. Beneath the earth’s surface, the sprout that had only moments ago been nothing more than a tiny, fragile tree shoot was now growing at a phenomenal pace.

  Magic no longer pulsed from the thing, but instead swirled around the seedling—much in the same way a rotating black hole spun in a vortex that threatened to suck everything into it. With each revolution, nutrients were pulled out of the soil to feed the growing shoot. Rocks smashed against one another, crushed by the magic to extract valuable minerals needed for the tree’s growth. Like a small, green singularity, the spell I’d released was converting earth, stone, and metal into plant matter at an unbelievable pace.

  Clouds began to gather overhead—dark grey thunderheads that rolled in seemingly from nowhere and everywhere at once. I smelled ozone as thunder rumbled in the sky above, then rain began to fall in fat, wet drops that drenched me and soaked the ground, turning the swirling soil to liquid mud. The rain increased in intensity for some time, and seconds passed into minutes as I remained caught in nature’s carnival ride from hell. I had no idea if the spell had been designed to save unwary druids from drowning in a maelstrom of earth and mud, or if I was just lucky to not have been sucked under yet. I just wished the damned thing would stop.

  Finally, the clouds parted and sunlight touched the whirlpool of mud once more. At the center, car parts and rocks dissolved as if made of sugar while the ground roiled and spun around that central axis, clearing a space roughly five feet across. I watched, stupefied and somewhat motion sick, as a sapling shot up from the earth in the now empty space at the center of the magical turbulence.

  All the while, I was being pulled toward the center, along with all the solid matter that was being “digested” to feed the sapling’s growth. The tree took only seconds to expand in girth and height to the size of a five-year-old oak. Moments later, even more earth and minerals had been sucked into the center of the spell, feeding the tree as it rapidly matured.

  Roots spread from the trunk, which continued to increase in size as branches and leaves sprouted everywhere above—until a vast canopy of green extended outward, obscuring the sky. And still the ground spun around the tree, and I with it, even though the spell had by now sucked every last piece of metal either underground or into the tree to fuel its accelerated growth.

  I estimated the tree’s trunk to now be three or four feet across. Although I couldn’t see how high it was from my current vantage point, it had to be fifty feet tall or more. As I was drawn nearer to it, I began to hit the tree’s roots as they grew farther outward from the central, bark-covered shaft. Thankfully, blessedly, the swirling mud began to slow as the oak appeared to reach its full height.

  Great, maybe I can grab a root and squirm free before the dirt solidifies again.

  Or not. I reached for a root, grabbing onto its rough bark-covered surface with slippery, mud-covered hands. Just as my fingers secured firm purchase on the thick, gnarled, rhizomatous growth, something latched onto my ankle beneath the surface of the mud.

  “You have got to be fucking kidding,” I snarled, just before I was yanked under and into the mud around me. I started to freak out a bit as I felt myself being pulled underground, deep within the root structure of the mighty oak.

  Plant food. This is how I go out? Really?

  I held my breath as long as I could, refusing to fill my lungs with the slimy muck that oozed into my ears and nostrils. I almost succumbed to the urge to inhale, but rough, muddy roots clamped around my mouth and nose, making it impossible to take a breath even if I’d wanted to do so. Finally, panic set in. I involuntarily began to shift into my Fomorian form just as I slipped into unconsciousness.

  3

  I woke to unfamiliar surroundings, vomiting up mud and expelling it forcefully from my nostrils. My hearing was muffled, as was my sense of smell, and my eyes were glued shut by what I assumed was caked-on mud and mucous. Cold water splashed all over my head, dousing me but washing away some of the muck clogging my ears.

  “There’s another pail just about a foot in front of you. Mind the tree’s roots, though—else you’ll crack your head and I’ll have to heal you.”

  The voice was familiar—a man’s voice, deep and sonorous. “Lugh, is that you?”

  “One and the same. Now, clean yerself up. We’ve not much time before the old man’s plan bears its twisted fruit.”

  I wiped mud from my eyes, which provided me with enough eyesight to locate the bucket. It looked to be made of a single piece of wood, but not carved or fashioned by human hands. Splashing water on my face, I cleaned away most of the dried mud—at least enough to enjoy the use of my senses again.

  I wiped water from my eyes, pushing my hair back and squeezing the moisture from it in the
same motion. Lugh was sitting on a large root a few feet away, smoking his pipe with a wry grin on his face. He looked much the same as the last time I’d seen him—like an actor from a light beer commercial.

  He was a handsome deity, thin yet muscular, with curly blonde hair that fell in locks around his fair, almost boyish face. The Celtic god wore the same outfit as before, an embroidered blue tunic over loose tan pants tucked into supple leather boots. But this time he’d come armed, with a short sword in a tooled brass and leather scabbard that hung from a thick leather belt. A round hammered shield leaned against the tree’s roots nearby.

  He’s expecting trouble. Damn, that can’t be good.

  “Lugh, if you’re the one who pulled me from the ground…”

  He scowled. “Pfah! Weren’t me that did it, but the oak. Damned thing can’t be made to harm its master, now can it? Not that I’d wish to see you come to harm or an early demise, not at all. But no, t’wasn’t me who saved you from your own clumsiness.”

  “How was I supposed to know it’d do that? It’s not like the Dagda put a warning label on the acorn he gave me.”

  Lugh puffed on his pipe and frowned. “All this time dealing with my kind and our progeny, and you still expect a gift of the Tuatha to be benign? If that’s the case, you’re not as sharp as I thought, not by half.”