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

by M. D. Massey

  “Not necessarily kill it,” a male elder said. “If you could just chase it away, we’d be happy.”

  Everyone in the circle nodded in unison.

  I sighed. “And just what do I get in return for this monumental task?”

  “If you can rid us of this menace, your reward will be in accordance with such a deed.” Despite the chief’s pretty words, the almost apologetic tone in his voice spoke volumes. In his mind, he was looking at a dead man walking. Great. “I am not only our chief, but also serve as our tribe’s tohunga ta moko. Do this for us, and I will restore your facial tattoos—and imbue them with the magic of my people.”

  “I dunno,” I said, and meant it. “Once Rūaumoko finds out I have my ink back, he’ll just burn it off again.”

  “I assure you, son of Hine-nui-te-po, neither man nor god can remove the markings my hands make,” the old faery chief replied. “Moreover, I can make it so he can never harm you in that way again.”

  “How?”

  The sorceress winked at me. “Chief Ue-tonga is Rūaumoko’s grandson. He knows the secret to his grandfather’s fire—and he can make you immune to it.”

  That threw me for a loop. I was standing in the presence of the Maori god of tattooing. As my good friend Colin would exclaim at a time like this, hole-lee shit.

  “Won’t that piss your grandad off, you helping me?”

  The chief frowned. “He shows little interest in his descendants. Besides, Waima is our primary concern at this time. And if it comes to it, I can deal with Rūaumoko.”

  I held my tongue for several seconds, mulling the situation over—both what was offered, and what could be lost. The potential gain for me was immeasurable. Once I had my moko restored by Ue-Tonga, my turd of a stepdad could never harm me again. Well, at least not by fire. And that meant he couldn’t burn my moko off, which was how he managed to steal it the first time around. The prick.

  The downside was that I’d be fighting one of the meanest creatures ever to menace land or sea in Aotearoa. Waima was no pushover, that was certain. If I was hesitant to square off with Rangi-hore, I was downright troubled about the prospect of facing Waima.

  And if I died now, I’d be gone forever. No coming back for me, no having Mum resurrect me from the grave, no going back to life as I once knew it.

  No more Hemi, period.

  I scratched the stubble on my cheek with a yawn.

  “Sure, why not? I’m in.”

  31

  Mākutu was ahead of me, deftly picking a path through the swamp. Waima had been searching high and low for the faery village, and subsequently washed out the path in places. Thankfully the sorceress knew the way, and I gladly let her take the lead so I could suss out my strategy. And if I allowed my eyes to wander her way every now and again, I didn’t mean any harm by it.

  “So, can I expect any assistance at all when I’m fighting this thing?” I asked.

  She held a hand up, wobbling it from side to side. “Yes, but it’s questionable how much help I’ll be. I don’t need to tell you what water does to a witch’s powers. So long as Waima is partially-submerged, it’ll be hard for me to help.”

  At least Mākutu’s people loaned me the tools I needed to finish my weapon.

  Rohe’s cane had been a straight length of matai roughly five feet long, with a large burled knot on the thicker end. This had made it the perfect piece of stock for a tewhatewha—an axe-shaped, long-handled war club that could be used for bludgeoning or as a stabbing weapon. The night before, I had spent hours polishing it smooth and bringing its surface to a sheen by rubbing shark oil into the wood.

  The weapon would do well against most mortal and some supernatural enemies, but it was hardly enough to take down a giant sea serpent. I clucked my tongue and rubbed the war club with my thumb. Like a worry rock, it gave me something to do with my hands so my mind could wander.

  As I thought about it more and more, I admitted to myself that I couldn’t fight Waima. To do so would be suicide—quick, painful, and permanent.

  However, I knew someone who could easily take the creature down. “Mākutu, are there any fissure vents or hot springs around here?”

  She nodded. “I know of a place. Why?”

  “How far is it from the lake where Waima lives?”

  She shrugged. “A mile, perhaps.”

  Perfect. “Okay, here’s what we’re going to do…”

  I stood several yards away from the sulfurous, bubbling pools that represented a gateway to Rūamoko’s realm. “Rūamoko! Coward! Thief! I got my moko back. Haere mai! Come see if you can burn it off!”

  “I hope you know what you’re doing,” the sorceress whispered from the bushes behind me.

  “Ssshh, he’ll hear!” I whispered back. “Rūamoko!” I yelled even louder. “God with no honor—face the one you wronged!”

  I knew I’d attracted his attention when the ground began to rumble and shake beneath our feet. The hot springs shot up like a geyser, and a face appeared in the steam they left behind. Then, the god of volcanoes and earthquakes spoke.

  “Like a piece of shit stuck to my foot, you follow me around like a bad smell.” His voice was overwhelmingly loud, a combination of thunder and escaping gasses. “What do you want this time, little half-breed? Isn’t it enough that I put you in your place already?”

  The ground shook just a bit, causing me to stumble slightly. I caught my balance and laughed. “The joke’s on you, Ru. Look!” I pointed at my face. “I got my moko back. And I brought a friend with me, to show you what’s what.”

  The eyes that had appeared in the steam above the pool appeared to squint. “Who gave you those markings? I forbade anyone in my hapū to replace what I took from you. Come closer, so I can burn them off a second time!”

  The markings on my face were nothing more than a little of the witch’s magic mixed with pine sap and ash, but he wouldn’t know that. Rūamoko had notoriously poor eyesight, the result of having to create eyes from steam and lava on the fly whenever he manifested an avatar aboveground. I just hoped the lines Mākutu had painted on my face wouldn’t run due to the heat and humidity Ru threw off, or we’d be done for.

  Time to put this crazy plan in motion.

  “I don’t think so, ya’ prick. Come see if you can take on my bro Waima! He hooked it up with the ink.”

  The hot spring exploded in a cloud of steam and gas as my stepfather released a great deal of pent up rage and frustration. It rankled him that he couldn’t kill me, so taking my facial tattoos had been the next best thing. And now, for his plans to have been foiled… well… he wasn’t exactly known for his calm demeanor in the face of defeat.

  I took off at a sprint, hoping that Mākutu was as good as her word and could pull off this next bit well enough to fool Rūamoko. I realized all at once that she could leave me hanging right now and still achieve at least part of her goals. Please don’t let her be that evil. I felt a bit of magic wash over me, then a mirror image of me went running off toward Waima’s lake. Thank goodness.

  The illusion wouldn’t fool Ru if he got too close, but with his poor eyesight he’d never realize he’d been fooled until he was tussling with Waima. As soon as my doppelgänger sprang off into the distance, I took a sharp right and hid in the tall grass of the nearby swamp.

  The only sign that Rūamoko followed my twin was a rumbling beneath the ground. It grew louder as Ru approached, gradually petering out as he passed. Thankfully, the god followed the illusory version of me as it led him to Waima’s roost.

  “Are you sure this is going to work?” the witch asked.

  I chuckled. “Trust me, by the time he gets to the lake, he’ll be so pissed he’ll boil off half the water on his first pass. Once Waima figures out he can’t fight a volcano, he’ll move on to greener, wetter pastures—or he’ll head back up topside and eat some tourists.”

  We heard a roar in the distance that was distinctly draconian in nature. Taniwha were basically dragonkind, a long-distan
ce cousin to wyverns, basilisks, Asian water dragons, and the like. So, it was easy to tell when my stepdad arrived at Waima’s watery abode. I stood up and looked off into the distance, where a cloud of steam was rising above the wetlands. It obscured the view, while at the same time serving as a signal that Rūamoko had taken my challenge to heart.

  “Poor Waima,” Mākutu said with a giggle. “He must be so confused right now, wondering how he pissed off a greater god.”

  “Eh, sucks for him. Shouldn’t have been abducting maidens and whatnot. You sure they’ll be okay, what with Ru making such a fuss?”

  She nodded. “If any are alive, they’ll be fine. One of the first things Ue-Tonga does for newborn children in the village is protect them from fire. Besides, that old man has been around for a long, long time. Many of the girls are his descendants, and they share a portion of his powers.”

  The ground suddenly shook, an earthquake that emanated from where Waima’s lake used to be. More steam arose in the distance, then a loud screeching roar sounded from afar. The rumbling and roars continued, but they grew farther and farther away with the passage of time.

  Once the tumult caused by Rūamoko and Waima had faded into the distance, I nodded in that direction. “Alright, then. Let’s see if there are any maidens to rescue, and then we’ll go talk an old man about a tattoo.”

  32

  We’d found many of the tribe’s missing wāhine on an island that now stood like a mesa in the middle of the dry lake bed Rūamoko had left. Of course, they’d hidden when the fighting began, but when the girls heard Mākutu singing a Karanga welcoming them back home, they came right out. Sadly, more than a few of the young women had been eaten. Waima was a monster, after all.

  Still, I’d earned my reward.

  My tattoos took more than a week to apply. Eight grueling days, in fact. I’d heard stories from old-timers about how painful traditional tattooing methods were, but nothing had prepared me for the agony. However, Ue-Tonga was a practiced and skilled tohunga, and he knew how far to push me each day. Just when I thought I could take no more, he’d stop and tell me to rest, and we’d take it up again the next morning.

  I spent the remainder of my time among the patupaiarehe doing just that—resting, healing, and enjoying their music, food, and company. Mākutu stayed with me every day, attending to me and using her magic to help heal the chief’s work faster. In the evenings, we took long walks, often not speaking or even needing to—instead simply enjoying each other’s presence.

  After a few days, I realized I was beginning to believe what she’d said. She wasn’t at all what I had thought her to be.

  Once my ta moko was complete, it was time for me to leave. True to his word, the magic Ue-Tonga had woven into the ink held protection against fire of all kinds, natural and otherwise. If Rūamoko wanted to harm me now, he’d have to find another way to do it. I wondered aloud whether my tattoos would transfer to the body that awaited me aboveground, and the chief assured me the magic would bond with my corporeal skin once my spirit re-entered my body.

  The night before I planned to depart, I found myself strolling through the jungle with Mākutu at my side.

  “Will you return with me, now that everything’s settled?” I asked, trying hard to prevent any eagerness from showing in my voice.

  She smiled demurely and looked up to the sky. There were no stars in the underworld, but giant fireflies flew high above, like slow-moving comets crossing the canopy overhead. I’d learned that Mākutu enjoyed watching them. They reminded her of the night sky above Aotearoa.

  “No, I can’t. Not until you provide the way.” She reached into the air, pulling something from a pocket of nothingness. It was a bundle of twigs and grass, wrapped in flax cord. She held it out to me, pulling part of the bundle back to reveal a burning ember deep within.

  “What’s this for?”

  She placed the bundle in my hands, cupping hers over mine. “When you return to your home, light a fire in your hearth using this ember. When you do, it’ll provide me the means to cross over into your world once more.”

  I reluctantly placed the fire bundle into the woven flax kete I wore strapped over my shoulder. The village girls had gifted it to me, along with many other fine presents. A few of the girls we’d rescued had suggested showing their appreciation in other ways, but I’d pretended not to notice. My behavior hadn’t escaped Mākutu’s attention, however, and she’d chided me relentlessly for being shy. Coming from her, I didn’t mind being teased so much.

  “Mākutu, I—”

  “Sshh, you’ll ruin it,” she said.

  Mākutu reached for my hands, grabbing them in hers as she leaned into me. On impulse, I leaned in as well, lowering my head until our foreheads and noses touched.

  “You wouldn’t have gotten this close to me a week ago,” she whispered.

  “I didn’t know you a week ago,” I replied. “Thankfully you didn’t turn me into a toad for my rudeness, else I’d never have gotten the opportunity to see who you really are.”

  She closed her eyes and gently pulled away. “You still haven’t seen who I truly am. Not really. Consider that fact on the long journey back to your home.”

  Ignoring the reticence in her voice, I held on to her hands. “I’ve seen what I needed to see. I’ve witnessed how you are with these people, looking after them, and how you’ve been toward me these last few days. That’s all that matters.”

  Mākutu shook her head. “I have responsibilities, Hemi. There’s more to being what I am than who I would like to be.”

  I thought about it for a moment, about what she was trying to tell me. “You know, I was also brought into being under strange circumstances, and by powers beyond my control. You try being the son of the goddess of night and death, and see how you like it.”

  She laughed softly. “You were born a demigod. I was cursed with this. It’s not the same thing.”

  “As if being the offspring of a goddess and a mortal isn’t a curse. I’m forever caught between two worlds, not fitting completely in either, and always looking over my shoulder for one god or another to do me in. It’s no picnic, Maki.”

  Her thumbs rubbed my palms. “I like it when you call me that.”

  “It fits.”

  Blue eyes that sparkled with the light of fireflies looked up at me. “Perhaps we’re not so different after all, Hemi Waara.”

  I leaned in to steal a kiss, and the immortal incarnation of black magic and sorcery didn’t bother to stop me.

  “Not in any way that matters,” I whispered, just before my lips met hers. “Not in any way that matters at all.”

  This ends Blood Ties, a Junkyard Druid urban fantasy short story collection! If you want more urban fantasy mayhem featuring Colin and his friends, click here to check out the complete Colin McCool Junkyard Druid series.

  Afterword

  No story is written without the help of others, and I certainly wouldn’t have completed this collection without outside assistance. As this volume marks the fifteenth fiction title I’ve released since I wrote Colin McCool and the Vampire Dwarf (a.k.a., Druid Blood), I figured I’d better recognize a few people who have helped me along the way.

  Please note that I’ve omitted the last names of anyone who isn’t a public figure, out of respect for their privacy.

  First, thanks go out to Jared Wihongi for sharing the Maori warrior culture with me. I’d also like to thank Tyrell G. for helping me with Hemi’s dialogue, and for fact-checking all the mythological details as well. Whakawhetai ki a kōrua, gentlemen.

  To my editor, Elizabeth B., thank you for fine-tuning my prose, and for helping me deal with my addiction to commas. And thanks to Lori D. for cleaning up my daily output while I was hammering these stories out.

  Kudos to my cover designers, Clarissa and Christian, to my graphic designer Raisa, and to my VA, Nathelle. If I look like a pro, it’s due at least in part to their help.

  Thanks as well to my readers for supporting
me through fifteen books. I’ll keep writing them, as long as you keep reading them.

  Finally, thanks to my family for supporting my decision to become a fiction author. You’re my whole reason for doing this, and don’t you ever forget it.

  Of course, any mistakes in this book are my own, and when asked I will always blame it on the whiskey.

  ~M.D. Massey