by Kevin Hearne
I turned my back on him, pulled up a chair next to Malina, and plastered an attentive look on my face. “You were telling me why you tolerate Emily in your coven.”
Scruffy Weed Man interrupted before she could answer. “You have really beautiful hair,” he said to Malina. She looked annoyed and told him curtly to go away, and he promptly turned and exited the store. Pretending to be self-conscious, she pulled at a lock of her hair near her shoulder and muttered something under her breath, no doubt dispelling the charm. She’d forgotten she had it on. I pretended not to notice.
She arched an eyebrow at me. “So. I was telling you all that? What if one of your customers hears us talking about covens and such things?”
“We’re in the perfect place to talk of them. They’ll assume you’re Wiccan. And if you’re going to go way back in history and anyone is rude enough to interrupt and ask you about it, like that guy who just left, we’ll say we’re part of the SCA.”
Her brow crinkled in confusion. “The Society for Cruelty to Animals?”
“No, I think you mean the SPCA, where the P stands for Prevention.”
“Ah. Of course.”
I shot a quick thought to Oberon. See? Witches.
Trying not to laugh at Oberon’s one-track mind, I said, “Yes, well, the SCA is the Society for Creative Anachronism. People get together and dress in medieval garb and actually have battles in armor and everything. Lots of these modern folk romanticize the old days and enjoy role-playing. It’s the perfect cover for talking about magic in front of average people.”
She scrutinized me closely for a moment, trying to decide whether I was lying or not. Apparently satisfied, she took a breath and said, “Very well. The short version of the long story is that she came with me to America. We were living in the city of Krzepice in Poland when the Blitzkrieg arrived in September 1939. I saved her from being raped, and she sort of became my responsibility after that. I couldn’t just leave her. Her parents were dead.”
“Ah. Your parents as well?”
“Yes, but the Nazis had nothing to do with that.” She smiled grimly. “I was already seventy-two in 1939.”
You hear that? The nice blonde in her thirties is actually more than 140 years old.
“Impressive. And Emily was how old?”
“She was only sixteen.”
“She still acts like she’s sixteen. Is everyone in your coven from Krzepice?”
“No, only Emily and me. We all came to America together, however, once we found one another in Poland.”
“And you came straight to Tempe?”
“No, we have lived in several cities. But we have stayed here the longest.”
“Why, may I ask?”
“No doubt for the same reason you have stayed here. Few old gods, few old ghosts, and, until recently, no Fae at all. Now, I have answered five questions truthfully. Will you answer five of mine in the same fashion?”
“Truthfully, yes. Not necessarily completely.”
She accepted my qualification without comment. “How old are you?” she asked.
That’s one of the most probing questions you can ask someone who isn’t a standard human anymore. It was one way to gauge power and intelligence, and if she didn’t already know my age, then I would rather keep it that way. I prefer to be underestimated; fights go better for me when my enemies do not know what they’re truly dealing with. There is an opposing school of thought that says if you display your power, you avoid getting into fights in the first place—but that is true only in the short term. Enemies may not confront you openly or as often if they know you’re powerful, but they will still plot against you and be more likely to try something sneaky. Now, Malina had been very forthcoming with me about her age, but I didn’t feel comfortable responding with the same level of candor, because telling her would be telling the whole coven. So I settled for a dodge.
“At least as old as Radomila.”
That set her back a bit. She was wondering if she should ask how I knew Radomila’s age or let it slide. I didn’t know Radomila’s age, but I knew damn well I was older than she was. Malina was smart, though, and decided to ask other things instead of following up on a line of query that wouldn’t get her anything more specific.
“Aenghus Óg told Emily you have a sword that belongs to him. Is this true?”
I chose to answer only part of the question. Sloppy of her. “No. It does not belong to him.”
She hissed in frustration, seeing her mistake. “Do you still have this sword he believes is his?”
“Yes, I do.” It occurred to me that it was odd of her to be asking me about it, because Radomila had been the one to slap a magical cloak on it. Did Malina not talk to her coven leader?
“Is it here on the premises?” Oh, now that was a good one. Much better than asking where it was, which would allow me to be vague. This was a yes or no, and unfortunately, since the answer was yes and I had promised to answer truthfully … Well, I could lie. Except that I thought she would know it, and it would be the same as saying yes while giving her just cause to swerve off the high road.
“Yes,” I admitted. She beamed at me.
“Thank you for not lying. Last question: Which member of the Tuatha Dé Danann have you most recently seen in corporeal form?”
Whoa. Why did she want to know that? “The Morrigan,” I replied.
Her eyes widened. “The Morrigan?” she squeaked. Oh, now I got it. She had expected me to say Bres, and then she could surmise that I had killed him with the sword that I still had on the premises. But now she couldn’t surmise that at all. She could surmise, instead, that since I’d seen the Morrigan and lived, I had a death goddess in my Five or My Circle or whatever. And maybe the reason Bres didn’t “come home” last night was because of the Morrigan, and not because of me. But this line of reasoning implied that she knew about Bres coming to see me yesterday.
“How many people in your coven are helping Aenghus Óg to take the sword from me?”
A veil fell across her features. “I am sorry, but I cannot answer that.”
Bingo, as they say in church halls on Wednesday nights. “That’s a shame. And we were being so candid with each other.”
“We can still be candid about other subjects.”
“I doubt that. It sounds to me like you are allied with Aenghus Óg.”
“Please.” The witch rolled her eyes. “As I said on the phone yesterday, if that were true, then why would we want to humiliate him?”
“You tell me, Malina Sokolowski.”
“Fine. We do not want anything to do with the Tuatha Dé Danann. Mortals who have dealings with them rarely end happily, and while we are not your average mortals, we still are not in their weight class, if you will allow me to use a boxing metaphor.”
“I will allow it this once. I would find it more amusing if you would use gamer jargon from now on, like, ‘If we fought the Tuatha Dé Danann, we’d get so pwned.’ ”
She smiled at me, understanding that I had made a joke even if she had no clue what being pwned meant. “We would actually like to help you, Mr. O’Sullivan. We think Aenghus Óg will be displeased if he discovers why he is unable to perform, and he may turn his wrath against us as well as you. So if you two are to fight, we would like to ensure that you are the winner. To that end, is there anything we can do to help?”
There was no way I was going to let them “help.” I was sure it would backfire on me. But this was a golden opportunity to fish for information.
“I’m not sure,” I said. “Tell me about the Zoryas you mentioned. Are they the source of your power?”
“When did I mention the Zoryas?”
“You swore by them when you threatened Emily.”
“Ah. Well, yes, the Zoryas are star go
ddesses known throughout the Slavic world. The midnight star, Zorya Polunochnaya, is a goddess of death and rebirth, and, as you might expect, she has quite a bit to do with magic and wisdom. It is she who gives us much of our knowledge and power, though the other two Zoryas are helpful as well.”
“Fascinating,” I said, and I was being serious. I hadn’t heard much about the Zoryas before—old Slavic deities had rarely come up as a topic of conversation in my travels. I’d need to do some research. “You don’t do any mucking about with the moon, then?”
“No.” She shook her head. “That’s another kind of craft.”
“Then I’m at a loss as to how you can help me. What sort of thing did you have in mind?”
“Well, since you seem to be fairly accomplished at wards”—she gestured around at the store to the spells she could sense—“perhaps we could help you with some offensive capabilities. How were you planning to attack Aenghus Óg?”
Did she really think I would answer that? “I think I’ll just improvise.”
“Well, we could increase your speed.”
“Unnecessary, but thank you.”
Malina frowned. “I get the feeling that you do not really want our help.”
“You are correct. I am very grateful for the offer, however. It is kind of you.”
“Why would you refuse our aid?”
“Look, I understand you would like to expiate the debt your coven owes me for Emily’s treatment, but this is not the sort of service I am interested in.”
“You think you are a match for Aenghus Óg?”
I shrugged. “That remains to be seen. He has not exerted himself overmuch to fight me. Perhaps he thinks I am.”
Malina looked incredulous. “Are you anything more than a Druid?”
“Of course I am. I own this shop and I play a mean game of chess, and I’ve been told that I’m a frakkin’ Cylon.”
“What’s a frakkin’ Cylon?”
“I don’t know, but it sounds really scary when you say it with a Polish accent.”
Her brows drew together and her accent thickened. “You are being flippant with me now, and I do not appreciate it. You have implied that a member of the Tuatha Dé Danann is afraid of you, and yet you offer no credible reason why this may be true.”
“It doesn’t matter to me whether you believe it or not.”
Malina’s eyes turned icy as she glared at me. “It seems we have some trust issues to work out between us.”
“Ya think? Tell me your coven isn’t plotting with Aenghus Óg against me.”
“My coven isn’t plotting against you with Aenghus Óg.”
“Now make me believe it.”
“That appears impossible. But you have a document with Radomila’s blood on it. I think that indicates that she trusts you, at least. I was under the impression that you and Radomila had exchanged favors in the past and were very cordial to each other.”
“Yes, that’s true. That was before members of her coven began sleeping with my mortal enemy.”
“Well, I do not know how to allay your suspicions,” she said, and pushed her chair back from the table. “So I will take my leave for now.”
“Thank you for controlling Emily. I really did appreciate that,” I said. “And I was pleased to have met you.”
“Good day,” she said, apparently not as pleased to have met me, and tossed her mane of luxurious hair over her red shoulder as she exited, prim and stately and Polish and oh so witchy.
I clearly need to get you some new videos to watch while I’m at work.
At that moment, the door opened on its own and the Morrigan sailed through it, squawking loudly in her battle-crow form and scaring the bejesus out of my customers—again. Sigh.
When all had exited except for Perry, I told him to take a lunch break.
“You’re just, uh, gonna take care of that giant freakin’ bird all by yourself, then?” he asked, never taking his eyes from it. “The one with the razor-sharp beak and the spooky eyes that look like they’re lit with the fires of hell?”
“Yeah, don’t worry about it,” I said casually. “Enjoy yourself. Take your time.”
“Well, okay, if you’re sure. I’ll see you later, then.” He circled around to the door cautiously, never taking his eyes off the bird, and then slipped out. I went to the door and locked it behind him, flipping the reversible sign around to say CLOSED.
“Okay, Morrigan, what’s on your mind?”
She shifted into her human form and remembered this time to clothe herself in black. She was upset, though; her eyes were still glowing red.
“Brighid is on her way to see you. She will be here in moments.”
I jumped up and down and swore violently in seventeen languages.
“I feel the same,” the Morrigan said. “I do not know what she intends. I told her I had taken Bres and the manner of his death, as you suggested, and she merely listened. When I finished speaking, she thanked me and said she would be coming to see you. Then she asked me for privacy, so I know nothing of her true feelings. She has been traveling across the desert this morning on this plane. She is alone.”
“Great. What if she decides to kill me?”
“That will test our bargain quite severely,” the Morrigan replied with a smirk.
“Morrigan?”
“Relax. We have a bargain. But have the good grace to pretend to be dead if she decides to kill you.”
“What if she decides to set me on fire and watch me burn?”
“Then that’s going to hurt. Scream all you want, but turn it off at some point and she’ll figure you for dead. I’ll help you once she’s gone.”
“That makes me feel so much better. Hey,” I said, suddenly remembering, “were you aware that Flidais came to see me and warn me about Aenghus Óg as well?”
“No.” The Morrigan frowned. “When was this?”
“The same day you came to warn me here. When I went home, she was waiting for me there.”
“I do not know why she would suddenly be interested in your welfare.”
“I was thinking the same thing. Especially since she got me and my hound into some trouble with the local authorities.”
“What sort of trouble?”
“My wolfhound is wanted for murder. He killed a park ranger who surprised us during a hunt. And this ranger was wearing an earring enchanted with Fae stealth spells.”
The Morrigan’s eyes flashed even redder. “There are clearly machinations going on in Tír na nÓg of which I am unaware. I dislike being left out; it gives me the feeling that I may be a target.” She huffed and shook her head. “I must investigate. I will linger on this plane awhile to see what Brighid does—but after that, I am going back to Tír na nÓg to get some answers.”
Her eyes cooled down abruptly and she turned toward the door. “She comes,” the Morrigan said. “It would not do for her to see me here. Farewell for now, Siodhachan Ó Suileabháin.”
She melted back into a crow and flapped her wings toward the door, which unlocked and opened for her as she flew through, leaving me alone with Oberon, who was enjoying all the comings and goings from his position behind the counter.
“Hush, Oberon,” I said. “Brighid is coming. You need to be polite. Keep yourself still back there and don’t come out unless I give you express permission. Sh
e can fry us to bacon as easily as breathing.”
I’d no sooner finished speaking than a ball of flame blew through my door, breaking the glass and melting my door chimes. It extinguished itself in front of me, leaving a tall, majestic, fully armored goddess in its place. It was Brighid, goddess of poetry, fire, and the forge.
“Old Druid,” she said in a voice of music and dread, “I must speak with you about the death of my husband.”
Chapter 14
Brighid was a vision. I don’t think there’s ever been a hotter widow in history. Even though she was in full armor and all I could see of her actual person were her eyes and her lips, well, I felt like a horny teenager again. I really, really wanted to flirt, but seeing as I was the guy who widowed her, I thought perhaps there was a line somewhere I shouldn’t cross.
I cleared my throat and licked my lips nervously. “You’d just like to speak about his death?” I asked. “No summary incinerations or anything like that?”
“We will speak first,” she said severely. “What comes afterward depends on what you say. Tell me of his death.”
I told her everything. One doesn’t even attempt to lie to Brighid. I sort of left out precisely how I had seen Bres pull his sword on me—I was rather hoping she wouldn’t notice my necklace or how much power it held—but I told no untruths.
“The Morrigan told me the same story,” she said.
“It was purely self-defense, Brighid,” I said.
“I realize that.” Her manner softened. “And in truth, Druid, I owe you my thanks. You have relieved me of an odious task.”
Gadzooks! Brighid just said she owed me. That was a huge admission, and not what I had expected at all. “I beg your pardon? I do not understand.”
Brighid removed her helmet, and her red hair spilled out across her pauldrons like one of those self-inflating life rafts. It wasn’t sweaty or tangled from being confined in a helmet across miles of desert. It was glorious, shining, Age of Aquarius hair that would make Malina Sokolowski envious, a full-blown movie star ’do that a team of stylists would spend three hours teasing before the cameras rolled. It smelled of lavender and holly. I remembered to breathe only with some effort.