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

by M. D. Massey

  Let’s hope all that practice inside the Grove pays off.

  Hob spoke, snapping my thoughts back to my present and most pressing concern. “Or ya’ could concede, an’ give the sorcerer up. Let his mam take him, an’ wash yer’ hands o’ the whole affair. You live, I don’t have ta’ kill ya’, an’ the rest o’ yer’ friends walk away.”

  I thrust the point of my blade into the ground, leaning on it heavily as if I were more wounded than I was. In reality, I wasn’t that badly injured, but a half-dozen more thrusts like that and I’d be a goner. Even so, I’d need both hands for the spell I was about to cast. I just prayed I could pull it off before Hob caught on.

  “That sounds tempting,” I said, laying both hands on Orna’s pommel so I could rest my forehead on top, to hide the intricate finger positions and gestures I was working through. “But there’s just one problem with that plan.”

  “An’ what would that be, laddie?”

  “You see,” I said, lifting my head as I made circular motions with both of my hands, “I don’t think you’ll be around to follow through on your end. Hairicín!”

  Cathbad’s Planetary Maelstrom was a very advanced spell, and perhaps the pinnacle of battle druid magic. In fact, it was the spell Finnegas had cast when he had his stroke, but whether his illness was caused by magical strain or by Badb’s meddling, I couldn’t say. Regardless, it was a spell that could only be cast properly by a master druid. I wasn’t quite there yet—no way could I manage to levitate hundreds of stones and boulders in the air at once like the old man did—but I was good enough now to fuck someone’s day up royal.

  Crowley’s parking lot was full of gravel, including some golf ball- to fist-sized stones that made perfect missiles. When I uttered the trigger word, a dozen or so of those rocks flew into the air, immediately spinning into seemingly random orbits around my person. Some flew around me at a range of just a few feet, while others orbited at ten, fifteen, and twenty feet out. They picked up speed rather quickly because my control over the spell was limited, and casting it was an all or nothing affair.

  Thankfully, I caught Hob by surprise. Maybe Fuamnach hadn’t told him about what he’d be facing going up against me, or perhaps she didn’t know I’d be here. Either way, the self-described goblin king found himself standing in a literal whirlwind of flying debris, and soon he began teleporting from place to place in order to avoid the effects of my spell.

  Interestingly, it seemed that his “talent” could only teleport him a short distance, maybe ten feet max in one jump. So, each time he disappeared in a cloud of smoke, I took a step forward to keep him inside the spell. This had the effect of forcing him to teleport almost non-stop, and that gave me an idea.

  With a supreme act of will, I channeled more energy into the spell until the stones surrounding me were nothing more than a blur. Meanwhile Hob kept ’porting here, there, and everywhere, and I kept advancing to keep him doing so. Before long, he wasn’t even materializing anymore, not really—and based on what I knew about magic, he couldn’t keep that up forever.

  Wait for it…

  Finally, Hob’s magical reserves petered out and his talent initiated a teleport just a second too late. Before he could dematerialize, my stones hit him in multiple places, punching holes through him until he looked like one big bloody piece of Swiss cheese. I kept the spell going, increasing the radius of the orbit while decreasing the speed slightly, as it was easier to keep the spell going that way.

  Sword in hand, with just a trickle of blood coming from that hole in my side, I approached Hob’s mutilated body. He lay mostly still, quivering now and again as his wounds leaked black blood all over the tan-colored gravel below. I stopped beside him, waiting for him to turn his single remaining red and yellow eye on me before I spoke.

  “Word of advice, Hob,” I said as I raised Orna over his chest, point down. “Next time you face a Fomorian, don’t offer parley. We don’t negotiate for surrender.”

  Once I’d dispatched Hob, I widened the orbit of the stones I controlled further, dealing with the single remaining giant and a dozen fae assassins all in one fell swoop. Exhausted and near the end of my own magical reserves, I let the spell go, sending stones flying in every direction, including Crowley’s house, garage, and tower. The sound of glass shattering, wood smashing, and galvanized steel being punctured echoed all around us, but I barely noticed as I shifted into my half-human form.

  As soon as her foes fell, Bryn spun around to face me, sword raised high with blood spattered all over her face. Her expression was somewhere between extreme rage and unbridled glee. Her eyes were wide and wild, her nostrils flared, and her mouth was spread in a rictus of laughter that seemed to have frozen on her lips. I thought she might charge me, but instead she shivered slightly and lowered her sword. Finally, the crazed aspect faded from her face to be replaced with a disappointed, sneering frown.

  “We’d have had them,” she said, slinging blood from her blade.

  “Yeah, well—shit, where’s Ásgeir?” I panted as I slipped Orna back into my Bag.

  The troll grunted as he pushed out from beneath a pile of corpses, sitting up where he’d been buried beneath them a few feet away. Interestingly, his scarf and hat were already back in place. The guy was serious about hiding his face, that was for certain.

  “Speak for yourself, valkyrie,” Ásgeir said. “Once you entered your blood fury, I was left to deal with their leader and a half-dozen fae alone.”

  “You’re still alive,” she replied in a neutral voice. “Be thankful I was here at all.”

  Ásgeir was about to say something else, but I cut them both off, pointing into the distance with a shaky, human-looking hand. “I don’t mean to break up your lover’s spat before the make-up sex, but we need to get the fuck out of here, pronto.”

  They each turned their heads to follow my gaze. A quarter-mile away or so, Fuamnach floated in the air, gliding toward us from the far edge of Crowley’s fields. She wore fitted, wide-leg black slacks, strappy heels, and a white silk blouse. Combined with the string of pearls around her neck, she might’ve been headed to a high society dinner party or a formal work function.

  That was, except for the fact that she looked like a demoness on a mission from hell. Her long, black hair twisted and snapped around her head in a Medusa-like fashion, and crackles of ghostly yellow energy shot from her extended hands. Her eyes were aglow with a sickly, yellowish light, and the vegetation beneath her withered and browned in her wake.

  “Death magic,” Bryn hissed.

  “Impressive,” Ásgeir added.

  “Run,” I shouted, “to the tower, now!”

  They were in better shape than I was, so I was the last to duck inside the front door, slamming it and locking it tight. As I’d suspected, I felt the whoomp of powerful magic wards snapping into place as I set the deadbolt. Just as I did, something struck the door from the other side, shaking it in its frame and sending shock waves through the entire structure.

  “Crowley!” I shouted up the stairs. “Whatever you’re doing, I hope you’re nearly finished, because your foster-monster is pissed.”

  “Did you lock the front door?” he yelled back.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “That’ll only hold her for a short while,” he replied.

  “Ya’ think?” I hollered back in a slightly high-pitched voice as another attack shook the tower. “Let’s go, man, before she busts through.”

  “Just a moment,” he said as Bells came bouncing down the stairs.

  “And where was she while we were fighting all of Underhill?” Bryn asked.

  Belladonna tossed her hair over her shoulder as she gave Bryn a bored look. “Crowley needed someone to hold his grimoires for him,” she replied in a flat, unconcerned voice.

  “Crowley, we gotta’ go, dude,” I shouted again as the tower shook for a third time. This time, cracks began to show in the walls, and drywall dust fell all around our heads.

  “Ready,
” he said as he strolled down the stairs with a single, expensive-looking briefcase in hand.

  “What happened to the night raven?”

  “I sent him to tidy up my new place. Hopefully he won’t steal any children along the way.”

  “I seriously hope you’re kidding about that,” I said, pointing at his satchel. “Is that all you’re taking?”

  “Yes, it is,” he replied while examining his fingernails. “I’ve been planning for this moment for a long, long time. Now, if you’ll be so kind as to portal us out of here, I’ll trigger my doomsday spells.”

  “Doomsday spells?” I asked. “Will there be anything left of Austin after you’re done?”

  “Stop playing the faux-naif, druid,” he said. “I wouldn’t want to anger Maeve, after all, as I do intend to return to this city once Mother leaves.”

  “Oh, right—we wouldn’t want that,” I said in a mocking tone. “Hang on to your panties, everyone, ’cause we’re about to go for a ride.”

  17

  When we landed in Iceland at Jerrik’s barrow, everyone took a moment to recover from the battle. Well, almost everyone. Crowley marched right over while I was still catching my breath. He tossed me a quart-sized mason jar that was nearly filled to the brim with a dark, viscous substance that quivered as if it were alive.

  “Put that in your magical bag, and do not lose it,” he said. “Someone’s life may depend on it.”

  “Crowley, this stuff isn’t going to leak out and release a shadow demon inside the Bag’s pocket dimension, is it?”

  “Unlikely, but not out of the realm of possibility,” he deadpanned. “I suggest you place it somewhere safe.”

  Reluctantly, I did as Crowley asked, wondering how I got myself into these situations. Once his goop was safely stored away, I did a quick head count to make sure everyone had made it back alive. Bryn tended to a few minor battle wounds, while Ásgeir stood near the barrow entrance, scanning for enemies, without and within.

  Nearby, Bells rubbed her arms and stamped her feet, cursing up a storm in Spanish. “¡Me cago en tus muertos, Colin!” she said, glaring at me from a few feet away. “I’m not exactly dressed for this weather. Couldn’t you have dropped me off at my apartment, tonto?”

  “Sorry, Bells—couldn’t risk it. If I sent you anywhere else, Fuamnach would’ve tracked you down and held you ransom to get at me or Crowley.”

  “¡Pendejo! I can take care of myself,” she replied. “But what I can’t do is warm myself up with magic like you and el otro tonto.”

  “Sorry,” I said, rummaging around in my Bag. I found an old winter coat and tossed it to her. “Here.”

  She snatched it out of the air, sniffing it suspiciously. “Great. It smells like werewolf.”

  “Um, yeah—Fallyn might’ve been the last one to wear it.”

  “¡Carajo!” she muttered, slipping the coat on as she stormed off.

  “Wow, you’re like the woman whisperer or something,” the valkyrie teased from where she sat on a boulder a few feet away.

  “Oh, shit, Bryn,” I said, smacking my forehead. “I forgot about your horse.”

  “He’ll be fine,” she replied. “I sent Tordenvejr home shortly after I entered the battle.”

  “Phew, good to know.”

  “I do appreciate the concern.” The valkyrie tilted her head at the barrow entrance. “We’d better get moving. I’ll take the troll into the tomb to let Jerrik know we’re here.”

  “Good call. I wouldn’t want them to mistake Crowley and Bells for grave robbers.”

  “That could be awkward,” she said. “And messy.”

  “You have no idea,” I muttered.

  As Bryn headed to the barrow, I sent a message to the Oak, thanking it and asking if there was any sign of Fuamnach or the other Celtic gods. According to the Oak, it appeared we’d escaped scot-free. Sooner or later, however, the huldufólk would rat us out.

  They didn’t know our exact location, but it was a small island and they had eyes everywhere. Eventually they’d find us, and then we’d be royally screwed. That’s why I’d had the Oak take us directly back to the tomb. Considering recent events, there was no better time than the present to fulfill my promise to Jerrik and get on the road to Jotunheim.

  While I pondered our current situation, Crowley was examining a line of runes carved around the entrance to the tomb.

  “Interesting,” he said, rubbing his chin.

  “Does it say anything about how to break the curse?” I asked.

  “No, but it does include a rather promising recipe for bear stew.”

  “Holy shit, Crowley has a sense of humor.” His expression remained somewhere between polite disinterest and go fuck yourself, so I decided I’d better see if we were cool. “Sure you’re not pissed at me for leading Fuamnach to your doorstep?”

  He gave me a resigned, slightly annoyed look. “It was only a matter of time before she located that hideout. Although I took pains to avoid revealing where I lived, it became common knowledge among the Cold Iron Circle after your alter-ego leveled my tower. Mother or one of her lackeys would’ve figured it out eventually, and in this case, your presence afforded me time to leave her a parting gift.”

  “It almost sounds like you’re thanking me,” I said.

  “Hardly,” he scoffed. “And you will owe me for helping you lift this curse. Speaking of which, the sooner you lead me to these draugar, the better. I’d like to return to my new lair to continue my research.”

  “‘Lair’? Cliché much?”

  “You should talk, McCool. When it comes to wizard-detective clichés, the only thing you lack is a trench coat and a magic staff.”

  “Hey, now—”

  Just then, Bryn’s alarmed voice drew my attention. “Druid, I hate to interrupt your male bonding moment, but there’s something you should see.”

  Inside, the place was a slaughterhouse. Only, the ones who’d been slaughtered were the former undead inhabitants of the crypt. Some were nothing more than ash and a few bone fragments, while others had been hacked up so thoroughly as to be unrecognizable.

  “Bryn, who could’ve done this?” I asked.

  She knelt next to a pile of ash, rubbing a bit between her fingers as she took a sniff. “This wasn’t the work of the gods—at least, not any I’d know. My best guess is that a band of fire giants came through and cleared the place out, not long after we’d left.”

  “Yeah, but how’d they wipe Jerrik and his clan out so easily? Jerrik’s draugar clan seemed to be fairly formidable.”

  She wiped her hand on her jeans and stood. “I suspect they were caught unawares. Jerrik’s people once had a friendly relationship with the jötnar—it was the reason they were punished by Odin, in fact. Perhaps they arrived under false pretenses and attacked when the draugar least expected it.”

  “Great.” Ásgeir jogged into the chamber just then. “Any sign of Jerrik?”

  “None, druid,” the troll said. All I found in his tomb was ash and gold slag.”

  “Damn it,” I said to no one in particular. “How’d they know we were here?”

  Bryn gave Ásgeir an accusing look. “I’d say we have a traitor in our midst.”

  Ásgeir ignored her, but I stepped between them just the same. “Hang on. Before we start leveling accusations, let’s think about who knew we were headed here.”

  “We three, obviously,” Ásgeir said.

  “Plus Click and Loki,” I added, looking at Bryn, who suddenly grew silent. “Bryn?”

  “Look to the troll for your traitor, druid, not to my sisters. Valkyries do not betray one another, for any reason.”

  “That’s not exactly a straight answer,” I replied. “Don’t you have to report to Gwen?”

  “She works for Odin, and none other,” Ásgeir said. “Although their relationship has been strained for some time.”

  “Hold that snake tongue of yours, troll,” she hissed, “or I’ll cut it from your mouth.”

 
“I’m pretty sure all the Valkyries answer to Odin,” I said. “And I doubt Odin is working with the giants. So, that just leaves the huldufólk. Question is, how’d they know we were here?”

  “This one would do almost anything to get back in The All-Father’s good graces,” Ásgeir said, his voice taking on an edge for the first time since I’d met him. “Perhaps she curries favor with the Hidden People as a way of pleasing her god.”

  “Liar!” Bryn exclaimed, leaping at the troll and knocking me on my ass to do it.

  The valkyrie caught me by surprise, otherwise I’d have stopped her. Still, I needn’t have worried. Ásgeir extended an arm, palm-outward, stiff-arming her in the chest while she was in mid-leap. Bryn went flying across the chamber, bouncing off a wall and falling awkwardly to the floor.

  “That’ll be the last time you lay hands on me, troll,” the valkyrie spat as she slowly pushed herself back to her feet. When she reached behind her back to draw steel, I knew I had to act before I had a full-on brawl on my hands.

  “Claochlaigh,” I said, gesturing at the cavern floor beneath Bryn’s feet. Instantly, the solid stone surface turned into a sort of muddy quicksand. When the valkyrie had been swallowed up to her waist, I caused the stone to harden again, trapping her in place.

  “Ásgeir, if you could give us a moment,” I said.

  “Certainly,” he replied. “I’ll be outside.”

  I walked over to Bryn, squatting down just out of her reach. “I think it’s time you and I had a talk.”

  Bryn slammed her fists down on the now solid surface of the floor while cursing in old Norse. “Druid, if you don’t release me immediately, I swear—”

  “Stop,” I said, letting a bit of my Fomorian side into my voice. “Threaten me all you want, but I’m going to leave you right where you are until you settle down. I’ve had a really shitty year, my mentor is about to die, and I need to get to Jotunheim to rescue the only guy who can save him. So, I really don’t have time to referee your squabbles with Ásgeir.”