Hunted tidc-6

by Kevin Hearne

  I was a physical wreck, so I wouldn’t escape through acrobatics of any kind. I had to come up with a magical solution.

  That red couch deserved my eternal gratitude. I loved that couch and promised it in a fit of sentimentality that, if I survived, I would buy one just like it and build a memorial. Perhaps I could move it along with me through a series of bindings, screening my slow crawl?

  It was risky. There was no such thing as a kinda-sorta binding. Either you bound something or you didn’t. So if I bound the leather on the end of the couch to the far wall to make it move, there was no telling how fast it would travel—or how far it would continue to move on after I broke the binding. If I didn’t break the binding at precisely the right time, it could wind up leaving me exposed to more fire from the manticore.

  I looked down at my right hand, still resting in the hole and clutching a handful of crumbled stone, and it occurred to me that a wall of marble would protect me far better than a floor. If we were back on earth on bare ground, I could ask an elemental to create a wall for me, but elementals always remain on earth even though their magic can be tapped, and they wouldn’t be able to help me with dead, quarried stone anyway. Despite the time it would take me, the wall was a much safer option than gambling with the couch. And it would give me something to do while my body continued to purge the manticore’s toxins. I rolled myself over so that I was facedown again, in the original position of my fall.

  Beginning with the hole in front of me, I modified the unbinding spell so that the affected area would be a thin sliver of stone, only as wide as the thickness of a fingernail; the length was about six inches, starting from the ragged, crumbled edge of my hole and extending toward the pillar. I repeated it twice more, at ninety-degree angles, so that when I was finished I had “cut” a rough square of marble, with the hole side looking chewed up. Those three cuts I bundled together in a macro and then proceeded to the second operation.

  Looking at the flat surface of what was now a marble tile, I mentally selected the right third of it and then bound it to the inside edge of the cut floor facing the manticore. The effect, when I completed it, was that the tile wiggled up off the ground and then flipped so that it stood facing the center of the room, but the newly bottom portion of it was bound to the rest of the floor. It left a small crater of exposed earth—they pour no cement foundations in Tír na nÓg, since it’s tectonically stable, lacking actual tectonics. As more marble left the floor and became my shield wall, I would be left with an easy source of magic to tap.

  I tacked the tile binding onto the end of the slicing macro and then cast the whole thing as a new macro. It executed much faster, and I grinned when the next tile cut itself and clacked into place. I repeated it again and again, creating a trough of earth and the tiniest of walls, only four inches high above the surface of the floor.

  Once this self-erecting wall appeared beyond the edge of the couch, however, toxic thorns fired into the upper lip of the wall—Ahriman’s reflexive response to movement, perhaps. The barbs bounced off in a wholly satisfying manner. A few more sailed high, presumably in case I was trying to get across using camouflage. The manticore waited for me to scream, but when I didn’t and the marble squares kept rising and clicking into place all the way to the pillar, his voice pressed into my brain as his growls filled the room.

  ~Hrrr. What nonsense is this?

  “It’s a modified Cask of Amontillado. Treat your foe like Poe.”

  ~Explain, Werner Drasche.

  “Call me Montresor if you like. Explanation won’t be necessary if you will be patient.”

  In response, several thorns thunked into the ceiling above. Ahriman had tried to ricochet them down on top of me, but they were too sharp and plunged deep into the sexy fresco, pumping their venom into hapless plaster fornicators. Ahriman roared his frustration—impotent rage in the Hall-O-Love.

  My base completed to the first pillar, it was time to practice masonry without mortar. First I unbound some more of the marble around my hand so that I would have a squared edge near me, adjacent to the side that had just been sheared off. I began on a new set of macros for what I supposed must be thought of as skinny bricks, or perhaps really beefy tiles. Since I now had two sides of the squares exposed, I needed only two cuts for squares in this row, and then I had to bind the bottom of each square to the top of the foundation. When that binding executed, the tiles flew off the ground to land on top of the wall, adding six inches of height. As the row passed the couch and proceeded to the pillar, Ahriman divined my purpose and moved. Cables stretched and slithered across fur, and squelching noises from the mud reminded me of gastrointestinal discomfort. He did not bother announcing his intention; he merely fired more of his poison barbs over the couch at as steep an angle as he could manage. He had raised himself to improve his chances—and they weren’t bad. The thorns landed mere inches beyond my mangled left side. There was no need to inform him how close he had come. Continuing to build the wall and simply not screaming in agony would let him know that he failed.

  He gave up after a short while and I could hear him pacing, wet splortches mixed with the clank and rattle of his confinement. I continued to cannibalize the floor to build the wall, a bit higher than I had originally intended to cut off the manticore’s field of fire. I didn’t want him to be able to nail me from afar once I started moving toward the kitchen door.

  Gods below, I hoped there was something edible in there.

  The last of the poison had been broken down and a modest skin covering had closed the wound on my shoulder, but my tattoo wouldn’t heal up all on its own, and I was running on fumes. Once the wall was completed to my satisfaction, I began to drag myself along the ground, using my right arm and leg. Ahriman heard me moving and he lost it. He didn’t speak; instead, he roared and attempted to pull free of his chains, though he had doubtless tested their strength long before and found them sufficient to restrain him. He made quite a ruckus back there, but it didn’t stop my long slog to the kitchen. After picking up Fragarach and realizing how profoundly unable I was to use it right then, I had occasion to reflect that crawling away was not my most heroic moment.

  Ahriman spoke one last time, as I pushed open the kitchen door and hauled my body out of the sex hall. That half-human voice slithered into my head, menace in every syllable.

  ~I may die here, Werner Drasche. But if I am freed, I will hunt you.

  “Okay!” I called back, and let the door close behind my feet. I hoped that, if he did escape somehow and found me instead of the arcane lifeleech, it would be far enough in the future that I would be in better condition to fight him.

  An important step to improving my condition would be to eat something. Magic could boost my base strength, which was barely keeping me moving, but it couldn’t boost low blood sugar or stop the growling in my belly, and since the kitchen had been tiled, I was now subsisting on my bear charm until I could find some other source of energy.

  The kitchen appeared to be well stocked, and should it prove to be the case, I silently swore to give Brighid a fruit basket and no explanation whatsoever.

  Since Tír na nÓg lacked electricity, food was kept safe in iceboxes—the enchanted sort one could find at the goblin market. Midhir had three huge ones and a prep area made entirely of wood; his faery servants wouldn’t have appreciated the modernity of stainless steel. The cutlery and cookware were bronze, copper, and glass.

  In the first icebox, I found a cold roasted chicken with only a single drumstick missing, so I counted it as a major score. I pulled it off the shelf, laid it out on the tile floor, and tore into it.

  Finally able to think of the future, now that I had something on which to chew, I tried to salvage some useful information from my debacle of a shortcut. Whoever had rolled through here was an utter boss. Judging by the bodies and ash piles and by the fact that I still hadn’t heard a sound beyond those made by Ahriman or myself, it was quite likely that we were the only living creatures in the
compound. If that was true, then I could have walked in the front gate and avoided becoming a chew toy for the pieholes. I would have had to face Ahriman no matter what, though, if I wanted to learn what happened to Midhir.

  I knew how the Tuatha Dé Danann tended to think, and this slaughterhouse probably didn’t even count as a massacre to my adversary’s way of thinking. No, this was self-preservation. A strategic retreat, even. Bagging the Druids hadn’t worked out, so it was time to withdraw and tie up loose ends like Midhir and Lord Grundlebeard. Now that we had the help of the Olympians, Granuaile and I couldn’t be confined to earth anymore through pandemonium. So far as I knew, no other pantheons possessed that particular power. Whoever was behind all this would plot something else, for sure, and we’d have to remain paranoid, but at least the vampires were getting some payback, the dark elves had much to fear from the Ljósálfar, and our freedom of movement was restored. Or would be, once I healed.

  A slow smile spread across my face, past a cheek full of chicken. As messed up as I was, it felt good to be alive. I didn’t want to stop living anytime soon.

  I wolfed down the entire chicken and most of a leftover ham before my stomach issued a cease-and-desist order. Bloated but already feeling a bit better, I thought it was time to try standing again. Wedging Fragarach into the handle of an icebox, I hauled myself to an upright position and hoped that no other mortal surprises awaited me as I searched for an exit.

  Midhir’s palace sprawled extensively, but I didn’t bother to explore it all. My errand had already been completed and I didn’t have the strength, so it was time to take my leave. I spied more ash piles as I moved through rooms; someone had made sure there would be no Fae witnesses to Midhir’s demise. There was a lush courtyard in the center of the estate, with a tall ash tree casting much of it in shadow. It was tethered to the network but only outward bound; no one could shift directly into the center of Midhir’s world. I didn’t want to shift anywhere in Tír na nÓg, because I didn’t want to appear crippled in front of all Faerie and because whoever was behind it all might be encouraged to finish me off. I needed a few days of food and healing—and some new clothes—before anyone laid eyes on me. So I shifted to my cabin above Ouray, Colorado, which had a stash of food and extra duds, in addition to a very strong elemental. Granuaile and Oberon would be worried about me being gone so long—especially since I’d promised them I’d be right back—but I wasn’t anxious to see them while I was so messed up.

  Unfortunately, I didn’t have any choice in the matter. They weren’t waiting for me back at Goibhniu’s place but rather pelting out of the cabin toward me.

  “Gods, Atticus, where have you been?” Granuaile cried.

 

  “Why are you here?” I asked.

  “You said you were going to the cabin and you’d be right back. Where did you go?” She ducked underneath my right arm and draped it over her shoulders so that I could lean on her for support. Her hair smelled like honey and vanilla, and she was wearing strawberry lip gloss. I probably smelled unspeakably bad and felt acutely embarrassed. She was wearing a pale-blue blouse and some jeans that looked new—definitely different clothes since I’d last seen her stretched out and healing from an arrow wound.

  “Wait. How long has it been?”

  Her jaw dropped in shock and she searched my face to see if I was joking. My question worried her more than the sight of my injuries.

  “Atticus, it’s been two freaking days. Freaking as in I was freaking out.”

  “That explains why I was so hungry.” And no wonder that they’d left Goibhniu’s taproom. He would have told them to bugger off eventually and promised to let them know if I showed up.

 

  “I want to know where you went,” Granuaile said, helping me hop through the cabin door, “but first tell me what you need.”

  My eyes welled a bit, a harbinger of impending schmaltz. I did my best to control it and said, “Actually, I think I’m all right. Or I will be. I’m glad you’re here. We’re safe now.”

  “We are?”

  “Well, for a little while, yeah. Still up for Japan?”

  “Are you?”

  “It’s as good a place to heal as any.”

  Chapter 30

  We spent five days in Japan, not being hunted. It was blissful—or at least as blissful as five days could be when you’re waiting around for your muscles to rebuild. We weren’t bothered by vampires or dark elves or Fae, giving additional weight to my theory that our mysterious enemy in Tír na nÓg had been using Old Ways to ferry assassins around. And it was there, on the third day, in a rock garden with a fountain gurgling the eternal poetry of the elements, that I found time to tell Granuaile what had truly happened with the Morrigan, how she had discovered the limits of godhood and had chosen to slough them off; how she had kept her word and found a way for us to survive while giving the middle finger to convention, which said she could behave only in prescribed fashions; and how she had never truly been defeated.

  On the fourth day, after I appeared to be at least cosmetically okay, I summoned the west wind using Fragarach. Shortly thereafter we were paid a visit by Hermes, who informed us that Bacchus was under control and that all the Olympians would swear to leave us alone, whenever I was free to hear their oath. Both Flidais and Perun had survived their fit of madness, and Flidais had pledged herself to find some way to restore or replace Herne’s hunters. In nautical news, Poseidon and Neptune had reached out to Manannan Mac Lir in a new spirit of brotherhood to search the sea together for Jörmungandr, in hopes of giving us an advantage before the onset of Ragnarok.

  That was so hopeful and so much better than the way things could have turned out that I allowed myself to feel a smidgen of hope. Yes, Loki and Hel were probably plotting some intensely evil shit now where we couldn’t get to them, hiding themselves from the eye of Odin, but it wasn’t just me trying to fill Thor’s shoes anymore. The Olympians could be counted on to jump in with gusto.

  Aside from that visit, we spent our days either in Zen-like calm in natural surroundings, healing and relaxing, or else baffled by Japanese television at night, which offered more “what the fuck?” per hour than anything in the United States.

  “I don’t understand a word they’re saying, but I can’t look away,” Granuaile said as we lounged in a very tiny hotel room on the fifth day, a Tuesday morning. There was space to sleep and little else. “What are they going to do with that badger and the shaving cream?”

  “I don’t know,” I replied, shaking my head. Even though I could speak Japanese, I didn’t quite understand what the two fast-talking young men in skinny jeans and Muppet T-shirts intended. “Something crazy.”

  “Forget French. I need to learn Japanese next.”

  Oberon yawned at the foot of the bed and said,

  I blinked repeatedly to break the spell of the show. “Oberon’s right. We need to get out of here.”

 

  Granuaile’s eyes hadn’t moved from the TV screen. “Wait, what’s happening? Is that a baby? That’s a baby! Atticus, what the fuck are they doing with a baby?”

  “Come on, let’s go.” I thumbed the power switch, and Granuaile flinched as the picture winked out.

  “No! They had a badger and a baby! I need to know what happens!”

  “Listen to yourself. It’s already happened and it’s pointless. We have more important things to do.”

 

  “What Oberon said,” I agreed. “You’re all healed now, and I’m probably eighty percent. Le
t’s get some exercise.”

  We escaped our cubicle room, checked out, and fled Tokyo for Mount Fuji, hiking along one of several well-trod paths to the summit. Though there were plenty of other hikers making the trek with us, birdsong wafted amongst the leaves of maple and beech trees in the broadleaf zone near the base, and we discovered that we were smiling without knowing precisely why. Oberon’s tail wagged and his tongue drooped out to the side as he loped alongside and occasionally paused to sniff something next to the trail.

  We climbed all the way to the top, thinking we could use a stunning vista to banish the effects of ultra-urban Tokyo. The trees thinned out after a while, then disappeared altogether, leaving a rocky ascent to the summit. Once we were there, a stone post carved with kanji informed us that we had made it to the top, as if we could not figure it out from the fact that there was no more mountain to climb. But that post made me drop my jaw anyway.

  Granuaile noticed. “Atticus, what is it?”

  “The Morrigan’s parting gift,” I said. “I forgot about it until now.”

  “What? You never mentioned that before.”

  “Because I forgot about it. There’s something—or someone—waiting for us on one of the Time Islands in Tír na nÓg.”

  “Well, if they’re stuck there, then they can probably just wait longer, can’t they?”

  “I’m sure they can. Not so sure about me, though. Aren’t you curious? Who does the Morrigan have stashed away there?”

  Granuaile sighed. “We’re going to run downhill and shift away right now, aren’t we?”

  “Yep. Well, I’ll kind of limp and stagger instead of run. But we’ll go as fast as we can.”

  Granuaile insisted that we take a few moments to enjoy the view first, since we’d spent so long climbing to appreciate it. The Pacific Ocean caressed the green curves of Honshu’s coast and sparkled with reflected sunlight. As long as I didn’t look toward the cities, I could glimpse the Japan of long ago, still dangerous and beautiful, where the serenity of Zen and Shinto always had an edge to it—the blade of a katana or wakizashi, usually. Often only a single person’s will decided whether the day would be washed in blood or the tranquil ink of calligraphy.