by M. D. Massey
Shit, but it’s coming up at me fast.
It’s weird, the things that go through your head when you think you might die. I wondered who would get Crowley’s car back to him. I wondered whether Maureen would be able to keep the junkyard going after my stipend stopped coming in, and whether Bells would miss me when I was gone. I thought about Jesse, and worried that her condition would continue to worsen, and I even momentarily considered whether Finnegas would try to claim the druid grove.
Gross.
It’d never happen, of course. Jesse was like a daughter to him, and he’d find the idea of coupling with her even more repulsive than I did. He might try to petition the Dagda to reverse what had been done, but I doubted the old man could muster enough magic to dimension-hop his way to Underhill. That meant he’d be left with only two options, and neither of them good.
He could let her live and hope she wouldn’t become a menace to both mundanes and the World Beneath. Fat chance of that. Or, he could join forces with Maeve to destroy Jess, before she became a minor deity in her own right.
Maeve would do it, no doubt about it. She’d happily annihilate anything that threatened her demesne. I knew this, because she’d used me to do just that—more than once, in fact. Maeve was manipulative and merciless that way.
A lot went through my head in the twenty seconds or so that it took me to shift. Once the process was complete, all that was left was the waiting, and that didn’t take long at all. Seconds before impact, I realized that I was falling toward Buescher State Park, near where that strange zombie outbreak had occurred.
Damn, I should have thought to check the area near the research labs—
The ground rushed up to meet me in a cruel, bloody, jarring embrace before I could complete that thought. Then, I thought no more.
When I came to, I was bound hand and foot in chains and shackles, hanging in midair three feet off the ground. The room was dark, but I could make out concrete walls that appeared to be new as well as a plethora of magic glyphs and runes. These had been marked in elaborate patterns, weaving an intricate web of anti-magic and talent-dampening wards designed to prevent the casting of spells—and the use of innate magical talents.
Like shifting, for example. Fucking hell, but I am starting to hate this person.
Weaving a levitation spell into an anti-magic field must’ve been crazy-hard to do, another indication that my captor was a magic-user of no small talent. Interestingly, I noticed an oval area on the wall ahead of me as my eyes adjusted to the light. It was roughly seven feet by three, completely devoid of symbols.
The purpose of that bare spot on the wall was apparent, as my cell lacked both doors and windows. I realized the only source of light came from the weak glow of the wards on the walls, which increased when I struggled to shift or use magic and faded almost to nothing between attempts.
As I hung there assessing my situation, I realized that I really needed to piss.
“Hey! Anyone out there? My eyeballs are floating—can you bring me a bucket or something?”
No answer. My hands were shackled, but I could move them as freely as my chains allowed. The cuffs around my wrists were connected to those around my ankles, so I couldn’t scratch my nose—but I could at least reach my junk.
I shrugged and unzipped my now shredded jeans. Then, I whipped it out and pissed all over the cell’s floor.
“Oh, man—what a relief,” I said, to myself as much as to my captors.
I was certain they were listening and monitoring me, if only to see if I could figure out a way to counter their spells. I couldn’t, of course, because it took magic to counter magic—and right now, I was completely cut off from every arcane skill I possessed.
“Wonder what I’m supposed to do when I have to take a shit?” I muttered.
At that, the empty oval on the wall in front of me sparked to life around the edges, pale silver magic dancing in an outline around the rapidly-forming portal. Then, the wall disappeared, opening like a window onto a decrepit office space. A hooded figure stood there, illuminated by the flickering fluorescent lights above. I couldn’t make out their identity, because my captor’s face was obscured in shadow deep within that hood.
“The thing awakes,” a raspy man’s voice said. “If only to soil its bed.”
The man was tall and skeletal, and hunched slightly like an aged person. Dark, voluminous robes covered him head to foot, made from some sort of rough material that reminded me of Obi-Wan’s robes in Episode IV. The sleeves were long enough to hide his hands as they draped at his sides, and the length of the hem was such that it nearly touched the floor. I could make out the toes of a pair of sensible tan work boots beneath the robe, but nothing more.
“Not exactly like you’re putting me up at the Sheraton,” I quipped. “I mean, there’s no mini-fridge to raid, no chocolate left on my pillow, no ice water by my bed—what kind of half-assed operation are you running here, anyway?”
The man stood silent for a moment before answering. “Playing the fool, as ever,” he croaked in that same strained voice. “What a waste of space you are—the epitome of human detritus. It never ceases to amaze, how the gods love gifting power to those who have no idea what to do with it.”
He coughed, making a wheezing, racking sound. As he raised his hand to cover his mouth with a handkerchief, I noticed he wore black doeskin gloves. My attention was drawn to his right hand, as it appeared to be twisted and deformed—claw-like, even. Such was the deformity that it was readily apparent, even though his hands were fully concealed.
“I take it you’re the person on the Council who’s working with the vamps.”
“I am using them, yes, just as I’m using the vast resources of the Circle.”
Well, that’s interesting. He doesn’t identify as one of them. “But to what end, if you don’t mind me asking? I mean, I’ll be dead soon anyway, right?”
The man laughed, causing another fit of coughing and wheezing. “Kill you? Hardly. I intend to let you rot here, slowly, while I watch. I can access this viewing portal from anywhere, you see. It works both ways, so you can witness the destruction I’m about to unleash, and I can enjoy your misery as you remain locked in your prison, helpless to intervene.”
“No torture? No electric shock, hot wax on the nipples, or plucking out my pubes one by one?”
“Crude, as always,” he remarked with disdain. “No—although I’d enjoy torturing you, of that you can be certain. However, I can’t run the risk of triggering your ri—your change.”
Little Freudian slip there. Damn, but he does know a lot about me.
“Ooo-kay,” I said with a frown. “Seems like you’ve really gone out of your way to make this happen. Why all the hate?”
My mysterious captor harrumphed. “In due time, boy. In due time. Now, I’m off to kill someone you love. I’ll leave you to guess who it is.”
The portal winked out, and again I was left alone in the near dark, wondering if he’d make good on his threat.
Sometime later, I heard scratching noises. The sounds continued for a while, only to be replaced by a faint knocking on the walls of my cell. Although my hearing wasn’t quite as sharp in my fully human form, I still retained all the benefits of being a born human champion. That meant that while I couldn’t hear as well as, say, a ’thrope, my ears were still pretty damned sharp.
As I strained to detect who or what was making the noise, I could barely make out a man’s voice, mumbling and cursing in English and French.
“Fait chier! No, that’s not it. Bordel de merde, but this bastard knew what he was doing.”
“Germain? Germain, is that you?” I shouted.
“Colin? Thank goodness. The tracking spell brought me to the middle of nowhere, then the signal disappeared. If it wasn’t for accidentally stumbling across that ugly bag of yours, I’d never have known you were here.”
Accidentally—if he only knew. “And just where is ‘here’?” I asked.
&nb
sp; “A moment, please. I must concentrate if I’m to get you out.”
I waited for what seemed like an interminable period of time, all while listening to Saint Germain’s cursing and mumbling as he puzzled a way to get me out of my prison. Finally, after who knows how long, he said something in French that I assumed meant “eureka!” Then, there was a boom that shook the walls followed by a sizzling noise that gradually grew louder—and closer.
“Close your eyes. I’m using acid to break through the walls.”
“Acid? What the fuck? Germain—”
“Just a moment!” he replied in a polite voice, ever the gentleman.
Thankfully, alchemical acid did not start dripping from the ceiling overhead. Instead, the barren oval on the wall in front of me began to melt away, starting in the middle and working out toward the edges. As soon as the stuff had done its work, Germain’s head appeared upside down outside the hole in the wall.
“Est-ce que tu me fais confiance maintenant, druid?” he asked.
“If you’re asking if I trust you now, the answer is yes. Now, if you don’t mind, could you please help me down from here?”
Germain wrinkled his nose and sniffed. “Do you smell that?”
“Sorry, the wards on the walls are blocking my enhanced senses. I can’t cast or shift. What is it you smell?”
“Besides your urine? Blood. Those spells were painted in blood. They’ve been there a while, apparently, because the smell is very faint, but quite unmistakable.”
“Which tells us that whoever did this has been planning it for a long time.”
“Indeed.” Germain rubbed his chin, which was weird since he was still hanging upside down. “I wonder…”
He stuck his index finger through the opening, slowly and gingerly. As soon as his flesh crossed the invisible barrier made by the opening, it turned to ash. The vampire snagged his hand back, minus the tip of his finger.
“Bon sang!” he declared. “It seems these spells negate all forms of magic, even that which sustains the second life. I’ll have to get you out some other way. A moment, please.”
Germain disappeared, and I yelled after him. “You keep saying that, yet I’m still cuffed and dangling in midair!”
The vampire returned shortly with a long length of loblolly pine. “I had to borrow this from a tree. I hope that doesn’t insult your druid sensibilities,” he said as he extended the branch to me from outside the cube.
“I’ve never been much of a tree-hugger. So long as you get me out, we’re good.”
I grabbed the end of the tree limb with both hands. Germain began pulling me out, angling the limb so he could pull it up and out of the hole he’d dug to reach me. As soon as my head and arms were out, gravity took over and I dropped, my legs and rear end flopping over the edge of the hole. The vamp grabbed me by the arms and pulled me the rest of the way out, then he snapped my shackles off me like they were made of cheap plastic.
After we’d both climbed on top of the concrete cell—a cube roughly ten feet square that had been buried two feet below ground—I brushed the dirt off and stretched.
“Ah, that’s better. I was staring to worry about what I was going to do when I had to take a crap.”
Germain eyed me with distaste as he tossed me my Craneskin Bag. “How rude. Now, we should be going. Dawn is coming, and I had to kill a half-dozen Circle operatives on my way here. The woods are crawling with them, and I assume when their dead are discovered, more will be on their way.”
“We can’t go back to your place, because that hideout has been blown. And if we go back to the junkyard, they’re just going to attack during the daytime when I’m on my own. Sorry, but I can’t put my people in jeopardy for your sake.” I paused and held my hands up. “No offense.”
“None taken. Let me reach out to Luther. He’ll certainly provide us with refuge until we can plan our next steps.”
“Scratch that. I don’t want to get Luther involved. Not yet, anyway.”
Germain looked at me askance. “I see.”
“It’s not like that.” Why am I explaining myself to a vamp? “Anyway, I have someplace we can go. Did you bring a car?”
The old vampire crossed his arms. “Do you think I turned into a bat and flew here?”
“Right. Give me the keys—I’ll drive. Just in case the sun comes up before we get there.”
16
We arrived at Crowley’s farmhouse just before sunrise. Germain indicated that while he didn’t necessarily need to rest during the day, doing so allowed him to operate at peak effectiveness. I assured the old vamp that my friend would be able to accommodate his particular needs.
As we drove down the long driveway that led to the farmhouse and silo, Germain let out a low whistle. To all appearances, the grain silo was still toppled on its side, and the barn looked like it was nothing but ashes and memories.
“Sacredieu, what happened here?”
“I sort of got into a fight with Crowley’s pet giant.”
Germain’s eyebrow shot up as he looked at me. “And you’re still friends?”
“It’s a long story. Although the place looks trashed, in reality Crowley fixed it up good as new. He maintains an illusion to hide it all, says it keeps the Circle from poking around.”
“The Circle? Why would they be interested in him?”
“He used to work for them. I think they might want him back. Not many of their wizards can hold a candle to Crowley, after all.”
“You have interesting friends, druid.”
“Tell me about it,” I said as I parked the car and got out.
A “door” through the illusion was waiting for us, just as it had been the last time I visited. I motioned for Germain to follow and walked through.
“Impressive,” the vamp said from behind me. “I haven’t seen anyone cast an illusion this substantive and convincing since—well, ever.”
I looked over my shoulder. “He was trained in Underhill, if that tells you anything.”
“Changeling?”
I nodded. “It’s a bit of a sore spot, so avoid bringing it up if you can.”
“Mon dieu, druid. ‘Interesting’ might have been an understatement.”
I chuffed as I stopped short at the entry. Turning my attention back to the tower, I cupped my hands to yell at the upper-story windows.
“Yo, Crowley! Got a vampire here—are your wards going to fry him when we walk in?”
A disembodied voice spoke at a conversational level right next to me. “Already taken care of, Colin. Please, come in and make yourselves comfortable. I’ll be down shortly.”
“He must be in his lab.” A small explosion echoed from an open window three stories above us. “Yep. C’mon, I’ll find you a place to sack out.”
Crowley’s voice replied again, this time from the entry. “There’s a trap door under the rug in the sitting room. It leads to the cellar, where I grow certain varieties of rare mushrooms. The place is a bit damp, but you’ll find a cot and some blankets in the corner. Mr. Germain can sleep there undisturbed until nightfall.”
Germain’s brow furrowed, and I shrugged. “I didn’t tell him, honest. But if I had to guess, he’s been scrying on me. Crowley has a thing for my girlfriend.”
“Ex-girlfriend,” Crowley’s voice replied from somewhere nearby.
“Yeah, yeah. Rub it in, why don’t you,” I muttered. Germain chuckled at my reaction. I was exhausted and irritated, so I called him to task over it. “A bit childish for someone of your vintage, isn’t it? Finding humor in another person’s discomfort, I mean.”
He bowed his head in apology, although the smile on his face lingered. “It’s just that you’ve seemed so unflappable to this point. It is amusing to me that this friend of yours can get under your skin.”
“I’m glad someone finds it funny, ’cause I sure don’t. I’d trust Crowley with my mother’s life, but hell if the guy doesn’t get on my nerves. Anyway, let’s get you settled in. I still have a
few phone calls to make.”
“Sunrise is upon us anyway, so I will take my leave until the evening hours.”
“See ya in a few, Germain. Oh, and thanks for bailing my ass out. Not many would’ve risked it for someone who just tried to kill them.”
Saint Germain cocked his head. “I’ve been around a long time, Monsieur McCool. I know when someone is worth saving.”
I didn’t know what to say to that, so I said nothing as the old vamp headed down to the cellar. Once he pulled the door closed behind him, I pulled out my phone and hit one of my speed-dial numbers. The call went to voicemail, so I ended the call and dialed again. I repeated that cycle three times until someone picked up on the other end.
“You must have balls the size of bowling balls, to be calling me right now,” Bells said.
“You’d know,” I quipped, regretting it immediately. “Wait, don’t hang up! I’m sorry for that—for everything, really.”
Bells sighed. “If you’re trying to make up with me, it’s not going to work.”
“I’m…” I felt low as hell for doing it, but I figured I may as well spit it out. “I need your help.”
Long pause. “Of course you do.”
“It’s majorly important, Bells. Like, world-ending important.”
“It always is with you, Colin. And while you’re out saving the world, the people you care about suffer. What’s sad is you’re too blind to see it.”
I could’ve said a lot in response to that. I could’ve said she was a jealous lover, that it wasn’t my fault the Dagda’s druid oak had reincarnated my ex, and that I didn’t deserve the way she’d treated me over Jesse. I could’ve said that I’d never cheated on her, and never would. I might have said that my loyalty was complete and unquestioning, and when I committed, I meant it—so it was unfair of her to question my fidelity.
I also might have said that I’d never asked to be Colin McCool, pawn and puppet in the machinations of fae, gods, and immortals. I could’ve protested that I’d never asked to have a vampire dwarf try to kill me, or be the sole remaining direct descendent of Fionn MacCumhaill, or to have been chosen by the world’s greatest—and only surviving—“good” druid to become a scion of justice in the fight against evil.