Kevin Hearne - Hunted

In the first icebox, I found a cold roasted chicken with only a single drumstick missing, so I counted it as a major score. I pulled it off the shelf, laid it out on the tile floor, and tore into it.

Finally able to think of the future, now that I had something on which to chew, I tried to salvage some useful information from my debacle of a shortcut. Whoever had rolled through here was an utter boss. Judging by the bodies and ash piles and by the fact that I still hadn’t heard a sound beyond those made by Ahriman or myself, it was quite likely that we were the only living creatures in the compound. If that was true, then I could have walked in the front gate and avoided becoming a chew toy for the pieholes. I would have had to face Ahriman no matter what, though, if I wanted to learn what happened to Midhir.

I knew how the Tuatha Dé Danann tended to think, and this slaughterhouse probably didn’t even count as a massacre to my adversary’s way of thinking. No, this was self-preservation. A strategic retreat, even. Bagging the Druids hadn’t worked out, so it was time to withdraw and tie up loose ends like Midhir and Lord Grundlebeard. Now that we had the help of the Olympians, Granuaile and I couldn’t be confined to earth anymore through pandemonium. So far as I knew, no other pantheons possessed that particular power. Whoever was behind all this would plot something else, for sure, and we’d have to remain paranoid, but at least the vampires were getting some payback, the dark elves had much to fear from the Ljósálfar, and our freedom of movement was restored. Or would be, once I healed.

A slow smile spread across my face, past a cheek full of chicken. As messed up as I was, it felt good to be alive. I didn’t want to stop living anytime soon.

I wolfed down the entire chicken and most of a leftover ham before my stomach issued a cease-and-desist order. Bloated but already feeling a bit better, I thought it was time to try standing again. Wedging Fragarach into the handle of an icebox, I hauled myself to an upright position and hoped that no other mortal surprises awaited me as I searched for an exit.

Midhir’s palace sprawled extensively, but I didn’t bother to explore it all. My errand had already been completed and I didn’t have the strength, so it was time to take my leave. I spied more ash piles as I moved through rooms; someone had made sure there would be no Fae witnesses to Midhir’s demise. There was a lush courtyard in the center of the estate, with a tall ash tree casting much of it in shadow. It was tethered to the network but only outward bound; no one could shift directly into the center of Midhir’s world. I didn’t want to shift anywhere in Tír na nÓg, because I didn’t want to appear crippled in front of all Faerie and because whoever was behind it all might be encouraged to finish me off. I needed a few days of food and healing—and some new clothes—before anyone laid eyes on me. So I shifted to my cabin above Ouray, Colorado, which had a stash of food and extra duds, in addition to a very strong elemental. Granuaile and Oberon would be worried about me being gone so long—especially since I’d promised them I’d be right back—but I wasn’t anxious to see them while I was so messed up.

Unfortunately, I didn’t have any choice in the matter. They weren’t waiting for me back at Goibhniu’s place but rather pelting out of the cabin toward me.

“Gods, Atticus, where have you been?” Granuaile cried.

“Why are you here?” I asked.

“You said you were going to the cabin and you’d be right back. Where did you go?” She ducked underneath my right arm and draped it over her shoulders so that I could lean on her for support. Her hair smelled like honey and vanilla, and she was wearing strawberry lip gloss. I probably smelled unspeakably bad and felt acutely embarrassed. She was wearing a pale-blue blouse and some jeans that looked new—definitely different clothes since I’d last seen her stretched out and healing from an arrow wound.

“Wait. How long has it been?”

Her jaw dropped in shock and she searched my face to see if I was joking. My question worried her more than the sight of my injuries.

“Atticus, it’s been two freaking days. Freaking as in I was freaking out.”

“That explains why I was so hungry.” And no wonder that they’d left Goibhniu’s taproom. He would have told them to bugger off eventually and promised to let them know if I showed up.

“I want to know where you went,” Granuaile said, helping me hop through the cabin door, “but first tell me what you need.”

My eyes welled a bit, a harbinger of impending schmaltz. I did my best to control it and said, “Actually, I think I’m all right. Or I will be. I’m glad you’re here. We’re safe now.”

“We are?”

“Well, for a little while, yeah. Still up for Japan?”

“Are you?”

“It’s as good a place to heal as any.”

We spent five days in Japan, not being hunted. It was blissful—or at least as blissful as five days could be when you’re waiting around for your muscles to rebuild. We weren’t bothered by vampires or dark elves or Fae, giving additional weight to my theory that our mysterious enemy in Tír na nÓg had been using Old Ways to ferry assassins around. And it was there, on the third day, in a rock garden with a fountain gurgling the eternal poetry of the elements, that I found time to tell Granuaile what had truly happened with the Morrigan, how she had discovered the limits of godhood and had chosen to slough them off; how she had kept her word and found a way for us to survive while giving the middle finger to convention, which said she could behave only in prescribed fashions; and how she had never truly been defeated.

On the fourth day, after I appeared to be at least cosmetically okay, I summoned the west wind using Fragarach. Shortly thereafter we were paid a visit by Hermes, who informed us that Bacchus was under control and that all the Olympians would swear to leave us alone, whenever I was free to hear their oath. Both Flidais and Perun had survived their fit of madness, and Flidais had pledged herself to find some way to restore or replace Herne’s hunters. In nautical news, Poseidon and Neptune had reached out to Manannan Mac Lir in a new spirit of brotherhood to search the sea together for Jörmungandr, in hopes of giving us an advantage before the onset of Ragnarok.

That was so hopeful and so much better than the way things could have turned out that I allowed myself to feel a smidgen of hope. Yes, Loki and Hel were probably plotting some intensely evil shit now where we couldn’t get to them, hiding themselves from the eye of Odin, but it wasn’t just me trying to fill Thor’s shoes anymore. The Olympians could be counted on to jump in with gusto.

Aside from that visit, we spent our days either in Zen-like calm in natural surroundings, healing and relaxing, or else baffled by Japanese television at night, which offered more “what the fuck?” per hour than anything in the United States.

“I don’t understand a word they’re saying, but I can’t look away,” Granuaile said as we lounged in a very tiny hotel room on the fifth day, a Tuesday morning. There was space to sleep and little else. “What are they going to do with that badger and the shaving cream?”

“I don’t know,” I replied, shaking my head. Even though I could speak Japanese, I didn’t quite understand what the two fast-talking young men in skinny jeans and Muppet T-shirts intended. “Something crazy.”