Kevin Hearne - Hunted

Warn Granuaile to look for more booby traps. They’re too comfortable there. Take them out from the maximum distance possible.

Oberon said.

I beckoned the elves to come forward, but once they saw this—which proved they had excellent night vision—they remained solid and copied the motion, white smiles splitting their faces. I smiled back and watched one on the far side of the road take a throwing knife in the side of his neck. So nice of him to remain still and present a target like that for Granuaile. His partner immediately went smoky, but the remaining dark elf on my side didn’t see it happen, because he was facing me. I kept smiling at him and gesturing, and in another couple of seconds he went down too. The last dark elf had to turn solid after his five seconds were up, but he tried to be clever about it and solidified in a crouch, presenting a smaller target. Granuaile anticipated it and nailed him anyway. It wasn’t a fatal shot, catching him in the shoulder, but my theory proved true: They couldn’t dissolve their substance once their skin was broken. He clutched the knife and cursed in Old Norse, remaining crouched on the ground.

Tell Granuaile to head back to you and leave the knives. We’ll get her some more. He’s neutralized now, and I don’t want to risk walking into a trap we can’t see.

After a pause, Oberon replied,

I grinned and sprinted back up the hill, leaving the lone dark elf behind to watch the bodies of his comrades melt to black tar. A regular infusion of Immortali-Tea might be keeping my body from aging, but Granuaile made me feel young again.

The only way dark elves and a vampire could have been waiting at that particular spot long enough to plant land mines was if somebody had known we’d be running through there. That suggested a couple of things: Either the Olympians tipped them off—which I thought unlikely because they wouldn’t achieve their measure of glory if they let someone else kill me—or someone was following the Morrigan’s movements and made an educated guess about our route. That someone was most likely Fae. Few others would have a chance to move around the Irish planes without being seen.

Guessing our route wouldn’t have been that difficult if one assumed we were headed north; there were few passes through the Carpathians, and following a river was one of the easiest ways to shake a tail—you cross it, you cross it again, you pretend to cross but really you just run in the shallow water until you reemerge a bit upstream on the same side. Sitting on a river that led more or less straight to the pass was a fair gamble.

I said to Granuaile, “We may have a faery tail.”

“No, Oberon, I said we might have a faery tail, as in a faery who is tailing us.”

My hound whined.

“Look up once in a while. It’s clearly not only the goddesses hunting us. We still have vampires and dark elves to worry about, and I think they’re getting help from someone in Tír na nÓg.”

“Does anyone like us?” Granuaile asked, an edge of bitterness to her voice. “Because I’m thinking maybe we should go hang out with them if we survive this.”

“Yeah. We should probably get out of Europe for a while if we can.”

Grauaile exhaled quickly, banishing wishful thinking and returning to practical matters. “But first things first, right? We have to get out of this fix. Would it be ridiculous to booby-trap our trail?”

“No, I don’t think so. In fact, I think it’s strategically necessary.”

“Agreed. Even a failed trap will cause them to slow down and be wary for more. We should make a pit trap with spikes in the bottom. You make the pit and I’ll make the spikes.”

I grinned at her. “A cold suggestion of mayhem? That’s hot.”

Granuaile dropped her staff, stepped forward, and placed her hands flat against my chest. Her face darted toward mine for a quick kiss but then pulled back at the last instant, leaving me with the heat of her breath and the scent of strawberry lip gloss. I don’t think she was wearing any—beauty products tend not to survive the rigors of shape-shifting—but I always smelled it now, regardless; the memory of it was indelibly linked with the sight of her lips. She pushed me away, hard, and shape-shifted to a horse. She picked up her staff in her mouth and galloped north at full speed, leaving me bewildered and more than a little wistful. Oberon’s mental groan came a few seconds later.

I broke into a wide smile before dropping Fragarach’s scabbard on the ground and shape-shifting to a stag. I said to him, picking the sword up in my mouth.

The race, I eventually discerned, was in earnest. I spent half of it like a cockfident waffle dolphin, thinking she would slow down and let me win. But then I tried to close the gap and found that she hadn’t been going full speed after all; she had a sixth and seventh gear.

Oberon asked.

The horse in front of me whinnied in amusement—Granuaile could of course hear Oberon too—but I wasn’t gaining on her, so I didn’t think it was funny. We were running either in or near the trees on the east side of Highway E371 to keep from drawing the attention of drivers crossing the border between Slovakia and Poland. This was Dukla Pass, site of one of the bloodiest battles of the eastern front during World War II. Farmhouses and memorials for the dead sat like squat chess pieces on squares of pasture framed by stands of timber.

Once past the border and safely on the other side of the pass, Granuaile paused to gloat at the edge of an alfalfa field. “Guess you’ll have to rechannel all your sexual energy into making a death trap for immortals,” she said.

A nap sounded like a great idea to me, but we couldn’t afford the time. If we slept now we might never wake up, so we concentrated on our task.

Normally a pit trap would take many hours and a handy tool like a shovel or a backhoe—or at least a spade—with which to move the earth. But it doesn’t take that long and requires no tools at all when the earth is willing to do all the work for you. The trick is to be smart about it when you have two expert huntresses on your tail.

“We can’t have you cutting down branches here and sharpening stakes,” I said. “If they have night vision or they come through here after dawn, there’s too much chance that they’ll see it and be wary. Let’s cross the pasture on the hoof and leave a clear trail. Once we get to the other side, we pull a wascally wabbit and tunnel back, you see?”

“I surely do.” She shifted to a horse, took up her staff, and galloped across.

“Not here, anyway. Across the field of joy. Here. Take Fragarach with you too. Tell Granuaile to get started and I’ll be there soon. I need to snag some flashlights from the border station.” Oberon opened his mouth extra wide to carry both my scabbard and Granuaile’s knives.

he said.

“Enough complaining.”

I doubled back in camouflage, not caring if the huntresses saw the footprints. Let them follow me to the guard station at the border and wonder what I did there.

What I did was throw a couple of rocks at the guardhouse windows. Two guards obligingly came out with flashlights shining into the night, resting their hands on the butts of their guns and calling out warnings to the dark. I snatched their flashlights away, turned them off, and then cast camouflage on them. From the guards’ point of view, the flashlights had leapt out of their hands and disappeared. They drew their guns but they couldn’t find a target in the dark. I was already running back to the alfalfa field, chased by Polish curses that seemed to Doppler-shift bizarrely into “Never Gonna Give You Up,” and after I thought of it I couldn’t believe I’d just rickrolled myself.