Trapped

Chapter 23

The proud grin on Goibhniu’s face could have lit up Broadway. He placed a work of art into Granuaile’s outstretched hands and said, “This is Scáthmhaide.”

Granuaile admired it in silence for a few moments, her mouth open and her eyes wide in shock. It was a beautifully wrought staff of oak, carved with knotwork beyond my ken.

Luchta, watching her over Goibhniu’s shoulder, asked, “Why doesn’t she say anything?”

“Silence is the perfectest herald of joy,” I said.

I was quoting Shakespeare, Oberon; therefore, it’s allowed.

A giggle blurted out of Granuaile before she could hold it in, and she blushed.

“Sorry. I was laughing at something the hound said.”

Goibhniu and Luchta nodded in understanding.

“It’s wonderful,” she added, and it was. Flush with the wood, the Celtic bindings for strength and speed were carved and inlaid with iron on one end and with silver on the other. The metal was not raised in a ridge or nestled in a valley; it would contact the target at the same time as the wood around it. In this way the craftsmen had created a weapon that would be lethal to Fae, Bacchants, and werewolves, and the bindings meant that Granuaile would enjoy enhanced strength and reflexes while wielding it—even when separated from the earth for a time. It functioned much like my bear charm did: It stored up magic while Granuaile was in contact with the earth and then shared it when she wasn’t.

“Unbreakable, o’ course,” Luchta said. “And waterproof.”

“The iron won’t rust and the silver won’t tarnish,” Goibhniu added.

“Amazing,” Granuaile said. “But what are all these bindings here along the length of the staff? Atticus, do you recognize them?”

“That’s actually Flidais’s work,” Luchta explained. “Or, rather, it’s my work but her bindings. They’re the reason for the name: Scáthmhaide means ‘shadow staff’ in modern Irish. Say the proper words and it’ll turn ye invisible. True invisibility, now, not camouflage. There’s some fine print, but I don’t know it all. I just carved it according to instructions. You’d best talk to Flidais about it.”

Granuaile was stunned. “Flidais did this for me?” The craftsmen nodded. “Why?”

“Wish I knew the answer to that meself,” Goibhniu said. “She hasn’t taught that binding to anyone else, ye know.”

“Aye, and everyone from Brighid to brownies a’beggin’ fer it,” Luchta said.

“But now you know it, right?” Granuaile pointed to the knots.

“Nope. She’s got all kinds o’ stuff going on there. I don’t know which part of it is invisibility and which is pure decoration. I imagine it all accomplishes something, but these aren’t standard bindings. They’re unique. Ye have something truly special there.”

Granuaile remembered not to thank them directly. “You do me great honor. I will do my best to live up to it.”

“Attagirl,” Luchta said.

“Shall we have a drink to celebrate?” Goibhniu asked. “I happened to bring a few bottles along.”

We were at Luchta’s studio, one of the most pleasant work spaces I have ever visited: sawdust on the floor, milled wood stacked against one wall along with shelves of burls and knots and branches, and polished finished pieces resting against another. We were near the workbenches, where lathes and chisels and peelers awaited the attention of Luchta’s expert hands. The smells of pine and cedar and aged oak filled the space, and these were much more agreeable to everyone’s nose than rhino shit.

We had made a brief stop at Manannan Mac Lir’s estate to clean up and get a fresh set of clothes. We looked more old-fashioned Irish now than modern American, wearing tunics and pants in his blue-gray color palette. Manannan gave Granuaile a silver belt of cockleshells and sea horses as a sort of graduation gift and made much ado about the strength of her animal forms. Fand gave her some silvery hair-clip thingies and some cookies that may have been magical. Oberon and I got ignored; they didn’t remember I was there until I said we had to get going to Luchta’s.

Granuaile had her hair all brushed out and shining with silver bits, and I wasn’t the only person at Luchta’s shop to think she looked like a goddess. A large shadow darkened the doorway and a deep voice called, “Flidais! You are even more fetching than usual today!”

Granuaile turned toward the voice and discovered Ogma there, who blanched once he realized his mistake.

“Oh! I beg your pardon,” he said, a flush coloring his cheeks. “I meant no offense.”

“No offense taken, sir,” Granuaile said, casting her eyes sideways at me with a tiny smirk. “There are worse fates than to be mistaken for a renowned beauty.”

Ogma smiled. “I see you are now bound to the earth. Congratulations. And you have a new weapon—congratulations on that also. Are you anxious to try it out?”

“I am, actually,” Granuaile replied, casting an admiring glance at Scáthmhaide.

“Shall we have a friendly sparring match, then?”

“How friendly?”

“Say, two falls out of three. Winner takes clothing.”

Granuaile raised an eyebrow and replied, “Done,” before I could counsel her not to. Ogma was a famed champion of the Tuatha Dé Danann, brother to the Dagda, half-brother to Lugh, and grandfather of the Three Craftsmen. He used to take care of the king’s problems; the rumors of his demise in some tales were greatly exaggerated. He was too much of a badass to die. Nuada Silver-Hand, the old king of the Tuatha Dé Danann, used to point at this unbeatable monster or that unstoppable atrocity and tell Ogma to wreck it, and it would be wrecked. One day he said, damn it, Ogma, the Irish need a writing system, and Ogma came up with Ogham script. Granuaile probably knew all this, however, and had decided to accept anyway. The time for me to offer unsolicited advice was over.

Ogma, again dressed only in a kilt, muscles rippling with every movement, asked Luchta if he could borrow a staff. He was much taller than anyone, and his reach far exceeded Granuaile’s. Granuaile moved to the far side of the workshop, choosing her spot in the sawdust. She twirled it about experimentally, getting used to its weight and length. These twirls gradually grew faster until the staff blurred like a propeller blade.

Ogma stepped through some of his own warm-up exercises, twirling his staff in one hand at such speeds that Granuaile’s hair was blown back a bit. He wasn’t one to be psyched out.

Well, not with words, anyway.

As part of Granuaile’s training in martial arts, I taught her to take advantage of men’s weaknesses prior to the first strike.

If her opponent was a patriarchal, misogynist asshole, she could taunt him into a rash attack by the simple expedient of calling him a bitch; the same man could be set off his guard by feigned displays of fear.

Ogma wasn’t that type, and indeed it would have been difficult to find any of that sort amongst the Tuatha Dé Danann, who had comfortably accepted Brighid’s dominance for centuries.

If her opponent was a younger, inexperienced man or perhaps unattractive, loud speculation about the diminutive size of his penis would take him out of the cool, quiet place required for martial discipline.

Ogma wasn’t that guy either. Ogma was the third kind of guy, like me, who would find Granuaile’s skill not uppity or challenging but rather madly attractive.

As long as Ogma didn’t check her out in the magical spectrum and discover that Granuaile and I were bound together rather tightly, some part of his brain—perhaps a large part—would fantasize about seducing her, and he wouldn’t want to hurt her because of it. Granuaile’s job was to make him think he had a chance.

So she smiled at him. She complimented him on his earrings, and then on his six-pack, and stared pointedly at his kilt while she waited for him to respond.

“Thank you,” he said, smiling.

“Begin,” Granuaile replied, and then she spun and leapt twice to add gravity and centrifugal force to her first blow, aimed at his head. It was an aggressive attack—perhaps too aggressive. Ogma met it with his staff held crosswise, and, once Scáthmhaide rebounded, he extended his arms to knock it back again, preventing a graceful redirection. She was on the defensive now and off balance. Ogma took long strides, lunging with his staff and forcing Granuaile into a series of desperate parries.

Manannan Mac Lir’s instruction about the political situation in Tír na nÓg burst through the door of my frontal lobe and plopped itself down on the couch. Ogma was definitely on Brighid’s side, and if he, however erroneously, thought Granuaile was in the Morrigan’s camp, this friendly sparring match might not be so friendly. Could Ogma be behind the attacks on us? He certainly had the connections to pursue us if he wished.

I almost dismissed the thought, because it didn’t jibe with the perfectly civil and generous behavior of his grandsons, Luchta and Goibhniu—if anyone was on Brighid’s side, it was them, and yet they’d been nothing but kind to us.

Still, Ogma could have his own agenda, independent of theirs. There was no monolithic thought police in Tír na nÓg, and nothing was what it seemed. Even combat.

Granuaile anticipated a strike and caught it as it was still coming up; she had the leverage and should have been able to force Ogma’s staff down, since she was already over the top. Instead, Ogma’s upswing halted and held. He was too strong to be driven down, despite his disadvantage. She lifted and whipped her staff to whack at his head, when the smarter move would have been to shift down and sweep at his legs; he was pretty firmly set, however, his balance impeccable, so perhaps the wild strike at his head was the slightly wiser move to rattle him—it would certainly have rattled him had it connected. However, Ogma leaned back and turned his cheek, avoiding the blow, while extending his arms and striking down with his staff. It cracked painfully against Granuaile’s kneecap—it numbed her for a second—and that was all Ogma needed. He pushed, she was off balance and couldn’t keep up with the flurry of strikes he unleashed, and he was able to sneak past her guard and buckle her knees from behind.

She knew she was going down and shouted, “Damn it!” as she fell.

“Ha! Excellent.” Ogma grinned. “You have been well trained.” He shot out his hand to help her up and Granuaile glowered at him. I smiled, recognizing that expression. Oberon recognized it too.

Yes, I saw it, I said, but careful what you say here. Remember, people can hear you. Luchta and Goibhniu had cast a couple of amused glances at Oberon when he’d spoken up, but thankfully Ogma hadn’t been tuning in.

I’m not sure if Ogma’s patronizing tone had been intentional or not—whether he had meant to goad her, in other words—but, regardless, Granuaile was well and truly goaded. She had a fascinating tendency to access another level of ability when she was angry—not rage-fueled barbarism but rather a hyperawareness and clarity that one needs for combat. I had tried to make her access it without the emotion, because the very peak of her abilities should not be dependent on such, but I’d failed miserably. Emotion could motivate her like nothing else; her long-simmering anger at her stepfather had pushed her to become a Druid in the first place.

She was squaring off for round two when Flidais entered the shop. She had abandoned her court apparel and returned to the greens and browns of her leathers.

“What is this?” she asked. “A contest?”

“A friendly one,” Ogma answered. Granuaile did not affirm this. Perun lumbered in behind Flidais. He looked pleasantly exhausted, and he had found a tailor somewhere to fashion him a new set of clothes. Apparently Perun had given instructions that his abundant chest hair should be displayed to best advantage, for it was, bursting forth in coppery curls from a deeply cut V-neck tunic of walnut brown.

“Contest is good,” he said. “I like to see.” He sauntered in my general direction, pulling out a flask of vodka from his belt as he did so.

Flidais raised a hand. “A moment, if you will, Ogma? Our newest Druid is likely unfamiliar with how her weapon works.”

“She is familiar,” he assured her. “She is quite skilled.” He smiled again, and Granuaile scowled. She wasn’t trying to flirt with him anymore.

I know. It’s great.

“You won’t give her any unfair advantage?” Ogma said. “My staff has no bindings. It’s just wood.”

This drew a few chuckles, and Flidais elicited a few more when she said, “We know, Ogma.”

Flidais reassured Ogma that Granuaile wouldn’t turn invisible or anything like that and it would just be a moment, and he relaxed.

Seeing Flidais speak in hushed tones to Granuaile, however, I tensed up.

Flidais was most definitely on Brighid’s side of politics. If anything, she was much more Brighid’s right hand than Ogma or anyone else. I could never forget that when Aenghus Óg was out to get me, it was Flidais who kidnapped Oberon to force me to confront the god of love directly. She had done so at Brighid’s command. She was also the one who had convinced me to accept the exploded Lord Grundlebeard theory.

And, I realized with a chill, she might also be the one speaking to vampires.

Two events, months apart, that I had not connected until now: Flidais leaping out of my bed, ready to fight because I “consorted” with a vampire named Leif Helgarson; and then Leif Helgarson, on a cold stretch of Siberian tundra, telling me that it was Flidais who had suggested to him centuries ago that he wait for me in some desert, and eventually I would flee there in my attempt to hide from Aenghus Óg and the Fae.

One of them had lied to me about knowing the other. On the one hand, it was far more likely that Flidais would unbind a vampire on sight than give him advice on how to find the world’s last Druid, but, then again, if Flidais was truly on speaking terms with vampires, she might do much to hide the fact. She might even give my apprentice an enchanted weapon with bindings no one else could properly read.

That made me wonder. What else was carved into the grain of Granuaile’s staff besides a spell for invisibility? Was there a way to trace her, perhaps? A dinner bell for vampires? I know it is rude to question gifts, but this might be of the Trojan horse variety. Even if it were legit, invisibility would not be the devastating advantage that it would be against humans. Vampires could use their other senses to track her movements reliably.

Conspiracies are fun, I’ve noticed, only when you’re the one conspiring. Or if you’re one of those guys who live in trailers and believe the government is hiding aliens—they must have fun fantasizing about how badly the nation is being deceived. But to know, for certain, that you are the target of a conspiracy—that’s not entertaining. It’s a recipe for acid reflux.

I need a TUMS.

It was high time that I did some conspiring of my own. I called to Goibhniu and asked if we could have a quick word. The brewer grinned in good spirits and offered one of those greetings where you grip forearms instead of hands.

“What’s on your mind, most ancient Druid?”

“Can you make one of those cone-of-silence thingies so we can’t be overheard?” I asked. “I never quite learned that trick.”

“Sure,” Goibhniu said. “You kind of have to learn it if you’re going to have a serious talk in Tír na nÓg. Faeries everywhere.” He mumbled a few words in Old Irish and rolled his eyes up and it was done. It was less graceful than the way Manannan had done it, and I didn’t quite catch all the words. “There,” he said. “I’ll teach it to you later if you like.”

“Thanks. What’s the coin of the realm in Tír na nÓg these days?”

“Gold and silver are still acceptable everywhere.”

“Excellent. I was wondering if you had any pods of yewmen frequenting your pub?”

“Yewmen?” Goibhniu’s affable expression disappeared. “Who are you wanting to kill, Atticus?”

I shrugged. “No one important here. Just some vampires on earth.”

Goibhniu frowned. “That battle was fought long ago, Atticus, and the Druids lost.”

“I didn’t lose. I just took a very long time-out. The vampires are after me now. Granuaile too. I’m not going to sit back and let them call all the shots this time. I have resources now—the Fae have resources—and we should use them.”

Goibhniu considered this and nodded once. “All right, but why yewmen?”

“Vampires can’t sense them. No heartbeats. No blood. But the yewmen do have magical sight, so they can see a vampire’s aura and figure out where to stick them, pun intended. They’re made of wood, so, duh, a quick branch through the chest and we’re done. Cut off the head, bring it to you for bounty, keep a tab running, I’ll pay monthly.”

“Whoa—bring the heads to me? And a tab?”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t want to be involved when the vampires start wondering who’s offing them. They can reach us here, you know. They have contacts, and they can hire yewmen or anyone else.”

“Do you know who their contacts are?”

“No.”

“Well, I’m sure you have contacts too and can conduct business as cleverly as they can. Don’t you have a barfly who conducts such shady doings anyway?”

“Yes,” he admitted.

“Employ him, then.”

Goibhniu shook his head. “You’re asking me to start a war.”

“No, it’s already started. I’m asking you to help me win it. And honestly it doesn’t have to be yewmen only. It could be a standing bounty for anyone seeking fortune. Let the vampires relearn what it feels like to be hunted again. They have had their own way for far too long.”

“Any vampire is okay?”

“Yes. As long as it’s from Italy. Start with Rome and spread out from there. Follow the path of the Roman conquest, in fact. That will take out the oldest vampires first, and the hunting will get easier as you go.” Theophilus was in Greece presently, but so was Leif. I didn’t quite want him dead yet, in case he proved useful. The world’s vampires marched to orders from Rome, however, and it was time to hit them where it would hurt most. Theophilus would probably have to move to Italy to take over personally if the yewmen were successful.

“How do we know a vampire’s head is from Italy?” Goibhniu asked.

“Have them document the proceedings with a cell phone camera equipped with GPS.”

“You know they’ll just make new vampires to replace the ones they lost.”

“I know. But they’ll be younger, weaker, stupider, and unclear on why Druids should be feared and hunted if it’s a bunch of wee faeries killing them.”

Goibhniu’s face split in a wide grin, and he laughed. “It’s been a merry few months around here now that you’re back. No one could call you tedious.”

We spoke for a few moments more on bounties and such, and during this time Flidais completed her instructions to Granuaile. I was well pleased and looking forward to the results of my little chat with Goibhniu; when Leif had supposedly died after the Thor business, the news caused vampires from all over the world to fight one another for the right to rule a piece of his territory. Freeing up territory in Rome itself would cause the world’s vampires to flail like Muppets in their eagerness to be the next bloodsuckers in chief; and in their wakes, other, smaller power vacuums would open up and consume even more of them. Hunting two Druids would cease to be important. Mwah-ha-ha-ha.

When Ogma and Granuaile set themselves for the second round, I could tell she would win it by following her eyes. She was watching her opponent. She would play the defensive, letting him commit, and then she’d counterattack—decisively. I’d been on the receiving end of it too many times to count. Ogma was watching his opponent as well, but in the wrong way. He was admiring Granuaile’s legs and the curve of her breasts, already anticipating what he’d see once he won her clothes. An arrogance had crept into his manner, an overconfidence, and he didn’t see that the second round would be much different from the first.

Once it began, Ogma was on the ground in less than thirty seconds, much to the astonishment of everyone but Oberon and me. Granuaile thrust out her hand in his face and said, “Excellent! You are well trained.”

The workshop quieted. To have a new Druid, scarcely into her third decade, speak to a god centuries old like that? Throwing his own words back at him? I was so proud.

Ogma, to his credit, did not take offense. He rose without her help, dusted off his kilt, and grinned ruefully. “Okay, I deserved that.”

He should have apologized. It would have cooled her down and she would have lost focus; she’d pay attention to the fact that she was sparring with a legend and was being watched by gods. But his admission of guilt without apology kept her focused.

The third round was intense and much longer. It was an outstanding showcase of skill from both combatants. Granuaile wanted to win, and against almost any other opponent she would have, but Ogma was roused now, and he did, after all, have centuries more experience than she.

When Ogma finally got through her defense and dropped her for the second time, he was clearly sweating and his face showed relief. The applause was loud—thunderous, even, thanks to Perun clapping next to me.

“I am liking your peoples more all the times,” he bellowed over the noise.

Once it had died down, Ogma leered at Granuaile and said, “Your clothes, please.”

“Certainly,” she replied, then disappeared.

A few confused noises filled the workshop, then laughter, as everyone realized that she had activated the enchantment on her staff.

“Atticus, will you come hold this for me, please?” her voice called.

“Sure.” I walked toward the place where she had been standing and stopped when her hand grabbed my shirt. She pulled me close and then guided my hand to Scáthmhaide. Once I touched it, I could see her.

“I’m invisible to them right now, aren’t I?” she whispered.

“Yes. We both should be now.”

“Let me try something. Hold this against my belly.” She raised her tunic, I touched her belly with the staff, and she let go with her hands. “How about now?”

I checked with Oberon. Can you see us?

“Okay,” Granuaile said. “Keep it there.” She quickly took off her clothes, always keeping contact with the staff, and tossed her tunic and pants toward Ogma. They became visible as soon as they left her hand. There was much laughter at Ogma’s disappointed face. I saw that this could not have turned out any better; though Ogma had technically won, Granuaile had lost nothing and had, in a sense, outmaneuvered him. And no one would patronize her after this.

A familiar faery in Brighid’s livery appeared in the doorway to the shop and cleared his throat pompously. Recognizing the herald, everyone stopped and stared at him. His voice, like a foghorn, projected certain doom.

“All of the Tuatha Dé Danann are called to the Court immediately to hear a message from the Olympians.”

Luchta frowned at the herald. “From the Greeks or the Romans?”

“From both. Hermes and Mercury have come together to deliver the message.”

Granuaile tilted her head toward me and whispered, “How did they get here?”

“As messengers of the gods, they have the ability to walk the planes like we do,” I explained. “Just not in the same way.”

“Any idea what they’re on about?” Goibhniu asked the herald.

The faery coughed softly into his fist and paused, as if considering his answer deeply. “While I cannot say for sure, my speculation would be that it has something to do with the Iron Druid.”

Several heads started to turn in our direction, but they caught themselves and none spoke a word about our silent, invisible presence.

“We’d best go, then,” Ogma said. Everyone nodded and murmured agreement and began to file out of the shop. Granuaile and I followed; we asked Oberon to wait for us in the workshop. I gave her my tunic so that she’d be covered up in case we were forced to show ourselves, but I fully intended to behave like the proverbial fly on the wall—the one that always gets away and never gets swatted.

When we got to the great wide meadow of the Fae Court, Granuaile found it interesting that there were far fewer Fae assembled to witness the audience of the Olympians. There were hardly any, in fact, aside from the assembled lords, and even they were not fully in attendance. All the Tuatha Dé Danann appeared, however, shifting themselves on short notice to the Court on Brighid’s command.

The Olympian messenger gods floated three feet above the ground, perhaps ten yards from the small hillock on which sat Brighid’s throne. She was dressed far more formally for this occasion, draped in flat silken panels of royal and powder blue. She affected boredom as she waited for the Tuatha Dé Danann to assemble. When all seats had been filled, she turned her head to the gods in a dilatory manner and said, “All are present. You may proceed, sirs.”

There are teachers out there who like to tell their students that the only difference between the Greek and the Roman gods is their names. This is patently untrue. Apart from the wings on their ankles, Hermes and Mercury have very little in common—and the same is true of every Olympian pair. The Greeks and Romans were different people, after all, and imagined their gods differently.

Hermes lacked body fat to a rather indiscreet degree, and I desperately wanted to lob a cheeseburger in his general direction to see if he’d let it fall. There were ribs and veins showing, and some of the veins also appeared to have whipcord muscles of their own. His eyes were red-rimmed, haunted, and supported by baggage that wouldn’t fit easily in the overhead bin, but they were fixed professionally on Brighid’s defenses, unless I missed my guess. If the shit went down, Hermes would be ready. His hands were large, with square-cut, chunky fingers, like those in Frank Miller sketches, and his bare feet were also oversize. He had the skin tone of a mime and spoke like one too—that is, he let Mercury do all the talking. He held his caduceus in his right hand as if ready to brain someone with it.

Mercury looked as if he’d just been shat out of a Milanese day spa. In modern popular imagination, his was the silhouette that delivered flowers quickly to your loved ones. Bronzed skin and whitened teeth made me suspect abnormally high levels of asshattery. His feet were sandaled, and he steepled his fingers together in front of his stomach before he spoke.

“The gods Pan and Faunus and the goddesses Artemis and Diana demand the immediate return of the dryads kidnapped from the slopes of Mount Olympus.”

Holy shit. I’d thought that Brighid’s herald was pompous, but Mercury was schooling him on that with every word. Oil and contempt practically dripped from his lips.

“If they are harmed,” Mercury continued, “the life of the Druid Siodhachan Ó Suileabháin is forfeit, and blood price will be required of the Tuatha Dé Danann for not controlling him. His life may be forfeit anyway,” he added, “because the god Bacchus has sworn to slay him.”

“Your gods and goddesses address their suit to the wrong party,” Brighid replied, “for we are not the Druid of whom you speak. Nor do we have any control over him. He is not our subject and we cannot be held responsible for his actions.” She turned to her assembled kin. “Do any of you have any knowledge whatsoever about these kidnapped dryads?”

She let the silence linger for the space of ten heartbeats, then regarded the Olympians again. “There is your answer.”

“We hear you and will deliver your message even so to Olympus.”

“Before you go, a question,” Brighid said. “In case I am able to contact the Druid, is there any guarantee of his safe conduct if he returns the dryads?”

The Olympians exchanged a glance, and Hermes gave Mercury the barest of nods.

“He will be safe from all save Bacchus if he returns the dryads within the night,” Mercury said.

Hermes finally chose to speak after all. His voice was a melodic aria struggling to break free of base speech, as if someone had shoved a wee creative genius into a gray suit and a grayer cubicle and told him to just fucking stay there forever. It was odd how the impeccably groomed Mercury could say “hello” and inspire visions of a quick strike to the sack, yet when Hermes spoke—the much rougher-looking of the pair—it was beautiful and sad and I wanted to buy him a beer so I could help him weep into it. “All the members of my pantheon are willing to forgive the trespass if the dryads are returned immediately,” he said.

Well, that was it for me. I wanted to return the dryads immediately. So did Granuaile.

“Atticus, let’s go,” she whispered.

“Yeah, let’s.”

We turned our backs on the Court as Brighid exchanged farewells with the Olympian messengers. We had a mission.

“The faster we do this, the better off we’ll be,” I said to Granuaile once we were out of earshot. “While all the Olympians wait around for Hermes and Mercury to talk things over and send messages back and forth, we’ll get this done.”

“I’m all for it,” Granuaile said, “but I’d like a fresh set of clothes first.”

“Oh. Right.”

We returned first to the workshop to pick up Oberon, then we shifted to a safe house of sorts in the Uncompahgre Wilderness in southwestern Colorado. It was a cabin located near the old Camp Bird Mine, some ten miles west of Ouray, and I had bought it under an alias six years ago to conduct some business with Odin. Surrounded by a forest tethered to Tír na nÓg, it was an ideal rendezvous point and a place to store changes of clothes for times like these. It was also out of Coyote’s territory and a safe place for Oberon to spend some time by himself if necessary, since it was equipped with a large doggie door and plenty of food and water—not to mention squirrels and deer galore.

Granuaile and I changed clothes quickly and told Oberon he’d be on his own for a while.

“Hopefully only a few hours. Less than three months. You are terrible with time anyway. Now, listen, you are absolutely forbidden to go into any mine shafts around here. They’re off limits, you understand? If a squirrel runs inside, you count him dead; you don’t go after him. And you don’t get to pretend that they are Batcaves either. You can’t save Gotham from here.”

“Have fun hunting, buddy.” I petted him and he wagged his tail. Granuaile finished strapping on a replacement set of throwing knives and kissed his head.

“I hope we’ll get to go hunting with you soon,” she said.

“That’s very considerate of you,” she said, smiling.

The Fellowship of the Ring before you go? I need a refresher on the mines of Moria.>