Kevin Hearne - Hunted

Oberon and I run much faster now that we have a destination and a purpose, even though the Netherlands has proven to be something of an obstacle course. We have had many more roads to cross, and skirting the population is a challenge, but it’s aided by the night; millions of Dutch folk slumber in peace—spooning, perhaps, with someone they love, snoring the snores of the unhunted—and remain blissfully unaware that magic is real and a very old branch of it is doomed to perish in their borders.

As the sky broadcasts a pale gray warning of an incipient sunrise, I spy a sign welcoming me to Veluwezoom National Park, except that the Dutch spell it Nationaal —which I kind of like. The bonus vowel suggests abundance, as if their country is stuffed with a surpassing bounty of natural gifts. It is a not unreasonable conclusion. Veluwezoom is a serene stretch of heath and assorted trees, the latter huddled together around the perimeter of the park and giving shelter to innumerable critters that Oberon, were he not so forlorn, would have loved to harass. The leaves on the trees fly flags of red and orange and yellow, heralding with the brightest pageantry the decline of their vigor. Seeing that, Atticus would be smiling and starting to talk about celebrating Samhain soon. If he were here.

Missing people in our lives are like wounds we reopen with thoughts.

Our destination lay at the far end of a field of grass and heather that sloped ever so gently up to it. Once there, at the base of the small tree-topped cliffside the elemental had shown me, I shifted to human and turned to survey our trail. I beheld a vista of fading green and pale lavender, contoured slopes of plants crouching patiently in the predawn gray, waiting for the first blazon of the sun to light their edges with fire and joy. Oberon turned with me, nose in the air, sampling its scent, and ears twitching at the sound of birds waking up for the morning’s natter. They were located in small handfuls of trees on either side of the cliff that constricted our view of the periphery. Perhaps they found the prospect of the heath as stunning as we did; it was a shy, muted beauty ready to be seen and applauded.

“This is the place. Backs to the wall like I promised.”

“That’s right, no choppah.”

The great hound gave a sigh and stretched himself out on the grass, paws in front, sphinxlike, and kept his eyes scanning the horizon.

Much worse, I agreed, though this time I spoke mind-to-mind. If this was to be my final sunrise, I wanted to appreciate the soundtrack without my voice stomping on it.

I petted Oberon and he let me do it, but I noted that he didn’t wag his tail even a little bit.

Oberon said as we waited.

What would be pie?

What are you talking about?

Shakespeare had a hog-mounted monkey cavalry? In which play?

You mean, “Cry havoc and let slip the dogs of war” from Julius Caesar ?

I think you might have been hungry when you heard it, Oberon.

A clipped puff of wind was echoed by another, and in another few seconds these could be recognized as the distant barking of hounds. A horn, much clearer than before, rode the air behind it. The huntresses were approaching the bounds of the park, with their pack leading the way. I wasn’t looking forward to meeting the pack, but it was necessary if we wanted to have a shot at Artemis and Diana. And these weren’t going to be cute little snuggly-wuggly puppies. They’d be trained killers. If I didn’t treat them as such, I’d be dinner.

If I had my druthers, I wouldn’t have minded some help either—some more modern, realistic help than what Oberon wanted. U.S. Marines, for example. I’d say, “Sorry, fellas, but these enemy combatants, Artemis and Diana, happen to be immortal. They can’t be killed.” The Marines would exchange glances, and then their platoon leader—who would be a nice young gentleman from the South, totally polite and unable to drink legally—would say, “Well, miss, we respectfully doubt their immortality, because they have yet to meet the applied force we can bring to bear. Semper Fi.”

I sighed and banished the nice deadly Marines from my head. Atticus told me once that people never survive battle because they wish it. They survive because of their actions, the actions of their allies, or the inaction of their enemies. That is all.

I cast camouflage on Oberon and invisibility on myself. I gave us both the same speed and strength bindings. Oberon took point and I set myself up behind him, back against the tiny cliff. He’d break the charge, and if any of them got past and tried to turn and snap at him from behind, I’d be there to brain them with my staff. I had a throwing knife ready, though, and two more resting in the holster I’d strapped to my thigh. That would do for some of them.

I’m not very knowledgeable when it comes to dog breeds. The hounds given to Artemis and Diana in ancient days would probably not conform to any modern breed anyway. I wondered if these were the original hounds, kept eternally youthful like Oberon, or if they were descendants of the originals. When they appeared, I saw that they weren’t bloodhounds with big floppy ears. They were more like big spaniels or retrievers and of varying coat colors. They were all smaller than Oberon, anyway, but there were fourteen of them and two of us.

Their inability to see us gave us a significant advantage, I must admit. All they could do was smell us. The first one ran into Oberon, and it went about as well for him as charging into a brick wall. All forward momentum ceased abruptly as Oberon batted him down with a paw and then followed up with his jaws. I threw two knives and they found their marks, then the pack flowed around us and it was all teeth and a whirling staff until they were still and we remained.

You okay, Oberon? I asked.

The same. We need to move to one side now, away from the bodies, and keep low until it’s time to pounce. They’re going to be mad and pour some arrows in here, I bet.

I guess so. Pick one and jump on her back. I’ll try to make sure she stays down, as much as any of the Olympians can stay down. You have to watch out. They’ll have knives and they’re going to be super-fast.

Gods, Oberon. This time, when the tears came, I had proper eyes to let them loose, and I wiped them furiously from my cheeks. You need to think strategically instead of suicidally. If Atticus were here, he’d kill me for even allowing you to risk yourself this much.

Oberon gave a soft whine.

I reached for something positive to say but couldn’t lay hold of a single word. I knew exactly what he meant. For all its manifold beauties, the world is never so fine once someone you love leaves it; instead, there is only the bleak prospect of loneliness and might-have-beens.

Look, the killer virgins are going to live through this and we won’t, I said, but I want them to feel ambushed. When it’s over, I want them to shudder and realize that we would have owned them if they were mortal.

We didn’t have long to wait. Two golden chariots pulled by teams of stags glided over the heather as the sun crested the horizon in the east. Once they saw the bodies of their hounds, the goddesses reined the stags in and leapt out, each with a bow in hand and an arrow nocked and ready to go.