by M. D. Massey
Dian Cécht leaned forward with one elbow on his knee, gesturing at Finnegas as he spoke. “The Seer witnessed our mistake and swore to avoid making the same. Once you walk down that path, you can never go back. Death will elude you, and you’re doomed to travel back and forth across the Veil for all time. Unless—”
“Unless you cease to exist completely,” I said as I chewed on my thumb.
“I see that Fionn’s supernatural cunning still lives on in his heir.” He smiled sadly. “Yes, one can choose to end their life in such a manner, and many have over the millennia. Immortality takes its toll, often driving our kind mad.”
“Like Click.”
“Exactly. Gwydion chose the path of godhood when he was relatively young, and some would say that he had not matured enough to bear that burden. As you’ve seen, his madness comes and goes, mostly evidencing itself in harmless manic episodes. He is fortunate in that regard. More often, we are overcome by delusions of grandeur and extreme paranoia. Thus, the cruel and capricious nature of the gods.”
“That explains a lot, and I appreciate that you shared that info with me.” I clasped my fingers together, resting my forehead on my knuckles. “But it still doesn’t tell me what I should do with Finnegas.”
He laid a firm, bony hand on my arm. “You have to let him go.”
Tears came to my eyes again, flowing in streams down my cheeks. “There’s nothing I can do? I mean, there’s really no hope?”
“Certainly, Gwydion can keep him frozen in this stasis field, perhaps for centuries. But that is no way for a druid of his stature to pass from this existence. I cannot heal him, Colin, but I can allow you to speak with him while he remains in stasis so you can receive his final wishes and say your goodbyes.”
“I—I’m not sure.”
Meaning, I don’t know if I can trust you.
“If I were in your position, I wouldn’t take my advice either. For that reason, I’ve summoned someone you know and trust.” He cleared his throat nervously. “I, uh, hope you do not mind, but he’s also the only god who can come and go as he pleases here.”
A deep, mellow voice spoke up behind me. “Dian Cécht tells the truth, lad. It’s for the best.”
I stood and spun, reaching for my sword, only to find that my caution was unnecessary. There by my Oak tree stood none other than The Dagda himself.
He was much as I remembered him—a nine-foot-tall, hairy, brutish-looking man with a huge bushy beard, a wild mane of hair, and kind eyes. His club leaned against a tree nearby, and he stood with his hands clasped in front of him like an usher at a wedding—or a funeral. His smile was kind, but sad, and he approached with careful steps despite his bulk, as if afraid to disturb the old man’s rest.
“I don’t know if I can let him go,” I whispered. “I don’t think I’m strong enough.”
The Dagda exhaled heavily, as if he were carrying a tremendous weight on his massive shoulders. “It’s never easy, letting go of those we care for the most. But in this case, hanging on would be the cruelest choice you could make. The Seer was ever a proud man who walked his own path, head held high even when it seemed the whole world stood against him. Tell me, would you have him suffer a prolonged death, enfeebled and unable to move, just because you lack the stones to let him pass as he intended—as a warrior and master druid?”
Despite his kind tone, his words cut me deep. I raised my head and glared at him. “Are you saying I should’ve let him die in New Orleans? Or in Mag Mell?”
“Lad, no one is blaming you for doing your best to save him,” Dian Cécht said. “But you’ve done all you can, and it’s time to give the man his final rest.”
“Nothing more can be done, Colin,” The Dagda added. “Keeping him alive only prolongs his agony. Allow Dian Cécht to connect your minds, then speak with him and say your goodbyes. It is time.”
I nodded once, choking back tears. Then, I stood. “I understand.”
The Dagda gave a grunt of approval. “There’s the man we’ve all placed our trust in, and Finnegas most of all. Now, lad, once Dian Cécht creates the link, we’ll leave the Grove so you can say farewell in peace. But before we go, I have one final word of advice—you must return to Mag Mell and claim your due. And after it is finished, seek me out at my home.”
I honestly had no idea what he was talking about, and frankly I didn’t care. The gods were forever scheming, and they always had a ball in play. All I could think of was what I was about to do. There’d be time to consider The Dagda’s words later, after—
Yes, after.
I looked Dian Cécht in his weird silver eyes. “Do it.”
The immortal Physician hovered a hand over Finn’s forehead outside the stasis field, then he brushed his other hand over my eyes. A sort of fog fell over me, and everything got really bright until the whole world whited out. Then, I opened my eyes and I was back in the Grove with Finnegas.
But instead of a body lying in a coffin inside a stasis field, he stood in front of me in his faded jeans, scuffed cowboy boots, black western shirt, and battered straw hat. He looked as hale and whole as ever, and for a moment, I felt a spark of hope. But the look on his face told me it was just an illusion, a vision inside whatever shared mental space Dian Cécht had created for this meeting.
“This isn’t real, is it?” I asked.
“Why ask a question if you already know the answer?” He smiled, causing his gray eyes to crinkle at the corners. “At some point, you’re going to have to start trusting your own gut. Now, sit.”
I took a seat on the same bench I’d sat on moments before, and he sat opposite me on a stool that hadn’t existed in the real world. The old man leaned forward on his knees, clasping his hands as he watched me with the critical eye of a potter pulling his work from the kiln. I felt both exposed and comforted, because it was exactly the way he’d looked at me a thousand times before.
“Finn, I’m sorry—”
He scowled. “Stop that. You’ve no reason to be sorry, not for me, not for Jesse, not for anything. You’ve never given me any reason to regret taking you on as a student, and the only person who let anyone down was me.”
“But if I hadn’t gone up against those vamps in New Orleans, we wouldn’t be here right now.”
“Maybe, but I’ve been dying for a long time. And hell if I was going to let you meet your end at the hands of a bunch of half-witted undead. You’d have stood your ground, if only because you’d given your word, and they’d have kept coming by the dozens due to Badb’s influence. You weren’t ready to face those odds then, so I made my choice.”
“So, you knew she was there that day,” I said.
“Of course. Her talon marks were all over that situation. The way Saint Germain planned things out, we should’ve had an easy getaway. Instead, every vamp in NOLA came down on our heads.” He patted his pockets, giving up after a few seconds with a disappointed frown. “Fecking doctors. Figures that Dian Cécht wouldn’t let me have one final smoke.”
I laughed, despite myself. “Finnegas, I don’t know if I can do this alone.”
He spat to one side and stabbed a finger at me. “First off, you’re not alone. I’ve spent the better part of a decade making sure of that. Second, you’re the only one who can do this, and by ‘this’ I mean take on those evil, immortal pricks. Believe me when I say you have everything you need to prevail. And third, I’m tired, son. I’ve spent way too many centuries on this Earth, and my magic simply cannot sustain me any longer. You have to let me go.”
“Somewhere deep inside of me, I get that. But first Dad, then Jesse, Uncle Ed, and now you—I can’t help but feel like I failed you all.”
He stood and crossed the distance between us in two steps, then he grabbed my face in his rough, nicotine-stained hands. The old man looked me in the eye from inches away. While his expression was fierce, there were tears running down his cheeks.
“You listen to me, boy, and listen good. In all my years on this Earth, never have
I been prouder of a pupil than I am of you.”
“Finn—”
“Son, for once in your life, close that smart-assed trap and listen, because I have something important to say.” He took a deep breath, and silver light shone from within his steel-gray eyes. “I, Finnegas of Assaroe, also known as Finn Éces and Finn the Seer, do hereby release you from my geas. Furthermore, I bequeath on you the title and responsibilities of Master Druid of the Mortal Realms, and duly transfer all my remaining power and authority as the reigning High Druid to you in full. Now, leave with my blessing, let me rest in peace, and go see your mother.”
He kissed me lightly on the forehead, and suddenly it felt like a cold wind rushed into me from all directions. I heard a bell ring in the distance, but also inside my head, and a fog lifted from my mind as all sorts of memories came rushing back to me. Then, everything faded into white, and I fell into a deep, mindless sleep.
Epilogue
I awoke inside the Grove, in the soft grass right next to Finnegas. He was already gone, but whether I’d lifted the stasis field or The Dagda had, I couldn’t say. The first thing I did was to bury Finn, right there next to the maple tree in the exact same spot where he’d rested all this time.
I didn’t leave him in Saint Germain’s coffin, as it didn’t seem at all proper. Instead, I had the Grove help me clean him up, then I crafted a new coffin by shaping and forming wood that the Grove provided, using druid magic. Once it was finished, I laid him carefully inside, then I sealed it and dug the hole for his grave by hand. His final resting place didn’t require a marker—the maple tree would serve in that regard.
By the time I’d covered the grave and grown some grass over it, I was spent. Later, I’d gather all his friends and everyone who knew him, and we’d have a proper funeral. But right now, I needed to rest and recharge, because I had people to see and gods to kill. Thus, I slept.
After I awoke, I put on some decent clothes and packed and arranged my Craneskin Bag so I’d be prepared for any encounter. I armed myself thoroughly, because I was headed back to Austin. Not Austin proper, but I’d still be in Maeve’s demesne, and I didn’t know how she’d react if I ran into her. Plus, I had to worry about Aengus, Badb, and possibly Fuamnach.
One thing I wasn’t concerned with, however, was being attacked at my old house. I had all this new information floating around in my head, and one tidbit that stood out about the house I grew up in was that it was a sanctuary, like a foreign embassy in hostile territory. The house and grounds were sacrosanct, and neither Maeve, nor any of the other Celtic gods, nor their agents would set foot there, on pain of death.
Finn had seen to that.
When the Oak dropped me in front of my house, everything was familiar, but different. I’d been here recently, hadn’t I? No, actually, I hadn’t. The old man’s geas had kept me from recalling a shitload of things I knew about my house, my childhood, and, most importantly, my mother.
Mom—holy shit, this is weird.
I’d stayed here after Jesse’s death, true, but the whole time I’d lived in my mom’s basement, I hadn’t interacted with her once. Why? Because it wasn’t allowed. Seeing her could trigger memories that would interfere with the geas, and that would’ve fucked the old man’s grand plan to keep me safe all to hell.
Appear harmless, or at least, average. Obscurity and flying under the wire, that was the plan. All while preparing me for a future where I was 99 percent likely to die before the age of twenty-five. Shit.
I didn’t have the whole picture yet, not all of it, because the memories only clicked into place a little at a time. Standing in front of my old house, click. Walking up the front walk, click, click. Seeing all the photos on the walls and shelves as I strolled through my own house like a stranger, click, click, click, click.
Finding my mother sitting at the kitchen table, sharpening a huge-ass battle axe, click, click, infinity click.
Here was the woman who raised me alone after my dad had passed, with Finnegas and Maureen stepping in when it became too dangerous for me to know who she really was. This wasn’t the woman who’d bandaged my knee when I fell, who tucked me in at night, or who consoled me when my dog died. Mom hadn’t done those things, because those memories had all been manufactured when Finnegas had cast his geas. And she damned sure wasn’t the addle-brained woman I remembered, who was more than a little loopy from being mind-wiped so many times. Nope.
This was the woman who put a dagger in my hand when I was three, a sword when I was five, and a spear not long after. This was the woman who’d made me drill and spar and drill some more, for hours and hours every day after school, in an effort to turn her sensitive, pudgy little boy into a warrior. This was the woman who had never nurtured me as a mother should, because by her very nature, she was incapable of doing so.
That just isn’t our way. Fomorians don’t coddle their children, even when they’re half-human mutts who haven’t evidenced a lick of Fomori DNA from the time they were born. Because ability doesn’t matter to Fomorians, nor genetics, nor lineage. All that matters is this: You fight until you die. That is the way of the Fomori.
When I walked in, Mother didn’t even look up from dragging that whetstone across the edge of her favorite battle axe. “Sit down, son,” she said in an easy, confident voice that brooked no argument. “We have a lot to discuss.”
This ends Book 11 in the Colin McCool Paranormal Suspense Series. But never fear, because Colin will return for more urban fantasy mayhem in Book 12, Druid Master…
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