Druid Arcane: A New Adult Urban Fantasy Novel (The Colin McCool Paranormal Suspense Series Book 11)

by M. D. Massey

  Moreover, the noise from the explosion seemed to have attracted a number of the barrow’s other denizens. As the trap door slammed back into place with a sort of booming crunch, I noticed a handful of human figures running up the tunnel in my direction. The smoke and dust from the explosion made it difficult to make out many details, but it was clear they were different from the animated skeletons I’d just incinerated.

  Deciding it was best to hide and heal until I knew what I was up against, I ducked into an alcove to wait for them to pass. As they emerged from the rapidly dissipating plume of dust and smoke, my enhanced vision revealed their strange features in the near dark of the tomb.

  Rather than being made of dried up bones and flesh, the figures that ran up the tunnel were completely whole, and their flesh was entirely intact. However, their skin had taken on a sickly, blue-green hue, like that of a nasty bruise the day after an injury. In addition, their bodies were bloated and deformed, like corpses left in the sun to rot. Ugh, and the smell—it was the decaying stench of putrefied human flesh, a scent I’d become intimately familiar with in the Hellpocalypse.

  So, these must be the draugar.

  I’d expected them to be wearing armor and clothing appropriate for ancient Viking warriors, but instead they were mostly naked, save for the odd loincloth or leather skirt. Presumably, their bloated, malformed condition made it impossible to don such attire, but they did carry weapons of all kinds—axes, swords, maces, and the like. And based on the way they cast their hazy, bloodshot eyes this way and that, they intended to use them.

  The five of them had nearly passed when the last in line paused to sniff the air. Without warning, his hand shot out with superhuman speed, grabbing me around the neck to lift me off the floor. As the draugr’s hand closed like a vise, I felt tendons and ligaments pop in my neck, and the edges of my vision began to dim.

  The suddenness of the attack and the surprising strength of the draugr threw me for a loop. The last thing I’d expected was to be found out so quickly. I’d personally had a hell of a time locating Gunnarson when he wore this cloak, so I knew from personal experience that it was a bitch to detect someone wearing the thing.

  “Smoke gave ya’ away, drood.” the thing hissed in thickly-accented English, its breath a fog of putrid gases. “They told us ya’d come.”

  I wanted to ask him who said I’d be coming—really, I did. But he was choking the shit out of me, making it kind of difficult to speak. My first order of business was getting free, as his buddies had taken notice and were headed back our way. Since I was hanging from the draugr’s grasp, my feet were free to attack, so I gave him the mother of all drop kicks—both barrels, straight in the chest.

  The impact loosened his grip slightly, allowing me to gasp a single breath. However, the undead warrior wasn’t giving up that easily. Instead of running me through with the chipped, rusty sword he bore, he dropped it and clamped both hands around my neck. Then, he grew, expanding like the Hulk until he was half again his original size. No way was I getting out of his grip now.

  I don’t have time for this shit.

  My hand was already gripping Dyrnwyn’s hilt inside my Bag. As I slid it out, the blade blazed so hot it nearly burned off the rest of my hair. I whipped the sword around in a quick arc, landing a blow just above the draugr’s left elbow. But rather than the satisfying snikt of Tylwyth Teg steel separating flesh and bone, the blade struck the thing’s arm with a resounding thunk, bouncing off as if it had hit stone.

  The draugr chuckled. “Immune to weapons, drood. Benefits of Odin’s black curse.”

  He held me in one massive hand like a child, batting the sword from my grasp with the other. Then he shook me like you’d shake a dog, if you were a total asshole and thought it a deterrent to bad behavior. Laughing at my sword was one thing, but that really pissed me off.

  Let’s see if you’re immune to this, dick.

  “What’cha got there, Njal?” one of his companions said as they approached.

  “Got the drood,” my captor replied. “Tried cuttin’ me with his magic toothpick. Tickled.”

  They all had a good laugh at that. Meanwhile, I started prepping a spell inside my head. I worked through the finger forms and arcane gestures openly, since I knew he couldn’t see me. When it was ready, I began to grunt and struggle in earnest.

  “Aw, that’s cute,” one of the draugr exclaimed. “He’s makin’ puppy noises.”

  “I think he wants ta’ say somethin’,” another said.

  “Should I let ’em?” Njal asked.

  “Why not?” one of his companions said. “Jerrik’s going to hand him over anyway. May as well have some sport while he’s here.”

  “Oh, alright,” Njal replied, loosening his grip. “What say you, drood?”

  “Grrmrrph,” I croaked.

  “What’s he sayin’? I can’t make it out,” one of the draugr complained.

  “Hang on,” Njal responded, loosening his grip more. “Come again now, little one? What’s yer’ complaint?”

  Finally able to take a breathe, I inhaled the foul, stale air that had been even further tainted while they spoke. Despite how nasty it smelled, it was the sweetest breath I’d ever taken. Extending my hands and spreading my fingers wide toward Njal and his buddies, I spoke.

  “I said, gearradh,” I growled as I unleashed Mogh’s Scythe.

  When Click and I first arrived on Icelandic soil, I’d struggled to cast the spell with any level of consistency. But after months spent here and the equivalent of years spent inside the Grove in practice, it was now one of my most potent weapons. The spell triggered instantly, sending a molecule-thin sheet of super-compressed air hurtling through the five draugr.

  Since he was supporting my weight, Njal fell first, his arms, shoulders, and head tilting off his torso and sliding to the stone below as my feet hit the floor. A millisecond later, his friends suffered a similar fate, each of them bisected horizontally by my spell at the shoulders or neck, depending on how tall they were. Heads literally rolled, yet their bodies remained upright, as did Njal’s legs and lower abdomen, which had been neatly sliced just above his nipple line.

  The most disgusting smell was released from inside Njal’s body, easily ten times as gut-churning as his breath. I gagged and dry-heaved as I peeled his hands from my throat. He was still animated, however, as were his companions, who were now bumping into each other as they stumbled around in an attempt to find their heads.

  Not wasting any time, I grabbed Dyrnwyn and backed away quickly, leaping over the trap door to land on the other side. Allowing myself a brief backward glance to enjoy the scene I’d left behind, I snuck off down the corridor with Njal rasping curses behind me.

  “Ya’ll pay for that, drood. Just as soon as I get my body back together, I’m gonna find ya’ and rip ya’ limb from limb!”

  “Get in line,” I muttered as I headed deeper into the darkness.

  By the time I found the chieftain’s burial chamber, Ásgeir and Bryn were already there. But instead of being locked in a heated battle with Jerrik, they sat on upturned barrels around a stone sarcophagus, using the tomb as a table for a game of cards. My companions sat on one side, and a tall, gaunt draugr sat on the other. Based on the piles of gold, gems, and jewelry each player had in front of them, the troll was ahead by a vast margin.

  Jerrik—or the draugr I assumed to be Jerrik, due to the gold jewelry he wore—had a huge stogie in his mouth that he puffed on as he looked at his hand. Ásgeir took a long drink from a silver mug, again somehow managing to do so despite the scarf covering his face. Meanwhile Bryn also puffed away on a cigar, flicking ash on the floor as she reached for a half-full bottle of vodka.

  Needless to say, I was a little pissed that my companions were sitting around drinking and gambling while I was fighting draugars. I walked into the chamber, pulling off the invisibility cloak and stuffing it in my Bag. When no one noticed, I cleared my throat loudly.

  “Druid, glad
to see you made it,” Ásgeir said as he gave me a sideways glance. “You look like hell.”

  “What the fuck are you two doing here, playing cards and shit while I was falling into pits and fighting the undead?”

  Bryn examined her cards, scowling before she set them down on the makeshift table. “After the commotion you caused, we assumed that you’d taken on the task of distracting Jerrik’s guards. We likewise assumed that you wished for us to approach the chieftain to negotiate his assistance in getting us to Jotunheimr.”

  “Brilliant idea, that explosion,” Ásgeir added. “That really got their attention. Left us a clear path to Jerrik’s tomb.”

  “Speaking of which,” Bryn said, “allow me to introduce you to Jerrik the Betrayer, formerly king of the Norwegian Westland, now banished to the cold reaches of Iceland for complicit acts of treachery against Odin One-Eye.” She turned to face the draugr before continuing. “Jerrik, meet Colin McCool, itinerant druid, descendant of Fionn mac Cumhaill, justiciar, giant-killer, god-slayer, fae-deceiver, ruler of the Junkyard Realms, and last of his line.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Jerrik rumbled in a deep, dry voice as he turned his cloudy gaze on me. “Enough with the horse shit introductions—I already know who he is. The Hidden Folk told us all about you, drood. Asked us to kill you. Lucky for you, they offered little in return.”

  “Little enough for Jerrik to entertain the proposition I presented,” Bryn said. “And he has agreed to our—rather, your—terms.”

  I stood there for several moments, digesting the info while I tried to pretend I wasn’t confused as all hell. “Um, great. So, you’ll get us to Jotunheim?”

  “He will assist us in finding the portal door to the realm of the jötnar, yes,” Bryn replied. “On condition that you lift the curse Odin has placed on them, so they might find rest in death until Ragnorak comes.”

  “I—say what?” Flustered, I walked up to the table, snagging the vodka and taking a long slug. “You want me to lift a curse that was placed by a god—and not just any god, but Odin himself?”

  Jerrik threw a card in the discard pile, drawing another card from the deck as he spoke. “The valkyrie has confidence you can complete this task. You don’t look like much, but magicians never do. I have chosen to put faith in her judgement. Complete this task, and we will show you the doorway that leads to Býleistr’s lands in Jotunheimr.”

  Oh, what the hell. The old man’s life depends on it.

  “I can try,” I said. “That’s the best I can promise.”

  About that time, Njal and his cronies ran into the burial chamber. Except for a thin scar across his chest, Njal looked none the worse for the wear, but two of his buddies held their heads under their arms. When he spotted me, he roared in anger at the top of his lungs. Spittle flew everywhere as his jaws stretched unnaturally wide, as if he meant to consume me whole where I stood.

  “I will fucking kill you, Drooood!”

  “Friends of yours?” Ásgeir asked as he plucked a card from the deck.

  “I ran into them on my way here,” I replied.

  “Prepare to meet your gods,” Njal said as he stormed across the chamber at me.

  “No one will be meeting any gods today,” Jerrik said, glancing at his cards and tossing them on the sarcophagus in disgust. “Cool your heels, Njal. If the drood bested you, that merely serves as proof that he’s the man we need.”

  Njal skidded to a stop, his chest heaving as he glared at me. “What do you mean, Jerrik? He trespassed here, so his life is forfeit. That is our way.”

  Jerrik stood to his full height, leaning forward with his knuckles on his makeshift card table. He was considerably tall, seven feet if I guessed right, although I wasn’t certain if that was due to his ability to alter his size or just his natural stature. He gave his underling a put-upon look, as if Njal was too stupid to comprehend what Jerrik was about to say.

  “How long have we lived under the All-Father’s curse, Njal? A thousand years or more. All because we chose to help one of the jötnar, who happened to be a chieftain among their people. For this we were branded traitors, cast out and cursed with the ‘gift’ of undeath.”

  “It was Odin’s will, Jerrik,” Njal said. “We got the fate we deserved.”

  “Bullshit,” I said. “So you helped a giant. Big deal. Does that mean you deserve to suffer for a thousand years? Look, I’ve had plenty of dealings with the gods, and from what I’ve seen, the only thing that separates them from us is the power they wield. They use that power to make us suffer for their own amusement and whims, and frankly, I am fucking tired of it.”

  “What do you know of suffering, whelp?” Njal asked.

  “The aetheling has good reason to hate the gods,” Bryn said. “As do all who are present.”

  Njal crossed his arms over his chest. “I fail to see what this has to do with our clan, Jerrik.”

  “The arseling needs our help. In exchange, he has promised to lift Odin’s curse from the clan.”

  “If I can,” I interjected. “Lifting a god’s curse is no easy task, so no promises. But if I do, then Jerrik has agreed to help us get to Jotunheim.”

  Njal looked back and forth between his chieftain and me, a smile slowly forming on his lips that turned into a full-blown belly laugh. “So, he helps us, and then we help him commit suicide?”

  “Yes,” Jerrik said.

  Njal chuckled as he looked at the large pile of money in front of the troll, and the comparably minuscule piles that sat before Jerrik and Bryn. “You might be shit at games of chance, Jerrik, but this time I think you got the better deal.”

  14

  Truth be told, I had no idea how to lift Odin’s curse. When I asked Loki and Click for their assistance, they both claimed they couldn’t help me. Loki said it was due to his current diminished state. Click simply stated that he was already being hunted by a powerful god, and he didn’t need to piss off another.

  I didn’t bother pursuing that line of questioning further. I’d already tried to get Click to divulge his reasons for hiding out in Maeve’s demesne—but, strangely, the quasi-god was atypically mum on that topic. Instead, I focused on the problem at hand, which was lifting the curse Odin placed on Jerrik and his clan.

  “Are you sure they’re the only ones who can get us to Jotunheim?” I asked.

  “For the hundredth time, Bro Diddly, yes,” Loki said. He lay prone on his kitchen island, covering his eyes with one arm while he treated his hangover with a bottle of Screaming Eagle ’92. “No giant will take a mortal there—willingly—and that’s if you can find one to do so. Jerrik and his clan are the only mortals left who know how to navigate the paths that lead to Jotunheimr.”

  “Wait a minute,” I said. “I thought we just had to find the portal and then, boom, we’re there.”

  Bryn stuck her head out of Loki’s fridge, where she’d been busy scrounging for food. “The gateways merely guard the way to the paths beyond—the pathways being the real Yggdrasil,” she said as she took a bite of cold pizza. “We’ll need to traverse the paths to get to Jotunheimr. The gods did this so that the jötnar, álfar, and duergar could not easily invade the other realms.”

  I walked around the kitchen island, snagging a slice from the pizza box Bryn had set on the counter. “Explain to me again what’s so hard about finding a way through these magic paths?”

  “They’re a maze to those who don’t know the way,” Loki replied. “Not only that, but take one wrong turn and you’ll end up in Álfheim or Svartálfheim—or even worse, Niflheim or Muspelheim.” Loki gave an involuntary shiver. “Hard pass on that one, broski.”

  “Loki, aren’t you one of them? I mean, why can’t you take us there?” A collective gasp rose from the others in the room, and Click, Bryn, and Ásgeir suddenly averted their eyes. “What?”

  Loki sat up, swinging his legs off the side of the counter. He paused to massage his left temple, shutting his eyes tightly against the bright lights overhead. “It’s alright
. I’m a lot less sensitive about the topic since dear old dad disowned me.” He turned to me, fixing me with a squinty-eyed, bloodshot stare. “I used to know the way, but that’s one of the things they took from me when Odin had Váli punish me for Baldur’s death. I guess those douchebags didn’t want me rallying my kin and starting Ragnarok early.”

  “Which begs the question,” Ásgeir said, “what will the god of mischief do, should he be reunited with his jötnar brethren?”

  Loki waved off the troll’s question with a belch. “Believe it or not, I like this new, modern Earth too much to go starting an apocalypse. But a little good old-fashioned vengeance is never out of the question, eh?”

  Click set aside the newspaper comics he’d been reading, folding them neatly and placing them on the dining room table. “So, lad, what’s yer plan? How do ya’ intend ta’ lift the curse?”

  “First off, what type of curse is it, anyway?” I asked.

  “Dark magic,” Loki replied. “Odin loves to dabble in those arts he forbids others to practice. That’s how he maintains his position of power.”

  “He means necromancy,” Bryn said between bites of pizza.

  “Hmm,” I said, rubbing my stubble with my knuckles. “If anyone knows anything about that topic, it’s Crowley.”

  Click scowled. “I’d prefer it if ya’ didn’t involve that one,” he said. “He’s no friend o’ yers, lad.”

  “True, but he’s no enemy, either. And he hates the gods as much as any of us.” I pushed off the counter, addressing Bryn and Ásgeir. “Pack your bags, you two. We’re going to Texas.”

  “Seriously?” Bryn said as her eyes lit up. “I’ve always wanted to meet a real cowboy.”

  “Um, not to disappoint you, but good luck finding one of those in Austin,” I said. “Besides, we won’t have time for sightseeing. I’m being hunted, remember?”