Kevin Hearne - Trapped

“We should look for more,” I suggested. “I want to be sure no one else hears what we have to say.”

“That bad, eh?”

“Aye.”

“It might be better for us to leave the castle entirely, then,” Granuaile said. “Shift to somewhere isolated on earth, where we won’t be overheard.”

“I know just the place,” Manannan said. “Not another word until we’re there.”

We followed him out of the castle in silence to a tethered tree, and then we shifted, following his lead, to Emhain Ablach, the Isle of Apples. I’d never been to this particular Irish plane, but it was impossible to mistake it for anything else, with the ocean behind us and an orchard in front of us.

“All right, what is it?” Manannan asked.

“Pie!” Granuaile said, delighted with the scent filling her nostrils.

“Pie is the problem?” The Irish god of the sea looked lost.

“No, that’s not the problem,” I clarified. “Manannan, we were set upon by a band of assassins on Mount Olympus.”

“A band?”

“Yewmen and some others. They meant to kill us. They poisoned a steak and left it for my hound. They interrupted the binding of my apprentice. And they’re working with the Svartálfar.”

We recounted the whole harrowing tale and watched storms form on Manannan’s face.

“Ye can be sure I will investigate,” he said.

“That is kind of you,” I replied. “But mightn’t you have any ideas now about who’s responsible?”

Manannan sighed. “Ye haven’t been keeping up with the Court, that’s sure,” he said. “These days it could be almost any faery ye point to.”

I frowned. “Am I that out of favor?”

“I’m afraid ye are. And ye did yourself no favors a while back with your audience. Now that Aenghus Óg is dead and most of his lot have been cleared out, Brighid is living in brickshittin’ fear of a coup attempt by the Morrigan”—he suddenly balled his fist under my nose and shook it, his blue eyes promising pain—“and I’ll crush your scrotum if ye ever suggest I said that, am I clear?”

I gulped. “Very well. I shan’t speak a word of it.”

His fist returned to his side. “Good. Now, what ye have to understand is, there are plenty of Fae in Brighid’s camp that count ye on the side of the Morrigan because they can’t count ye on the side of Brighid. They have half the brains of a pickled herring, we all know it, and so ye can imagine how their fancies are runnin’ away with what little sense they have. To their way of thinkin’, eliminating you means eliminating the growing threat of the Morrigan. They figure she’ll never finish that amulet on her own. Will she?”

I shrugged. “I haven’t shown her the last part of the process. That doesn’t mean she needs to be shown. She knows the theory. She could finish it without me.”

“Huh. Well, regardless, the Pickled Herring—can we call ’em that?—think they’re going to score major points with Brighid if they can do anything to thwart the Morrigan. They’re probably right, if we’re honest. But o’ course none o’ them would have the spine to act directly against the battle crow. Wave and tide, I don’t think I would have the spine t’do that! So they’ve decided you’re a tad easier to kill. Nothin’ personal, y’see. It’s not your fault that your life is in the way of their personal ambition.”

“Silly of me to be offended, then.”

“Right. Now, there is one way I can think of to get the Pickled Herring off yer back for good.”

“What’s that?”

“Ye could become Brighid’s consort.”

“No way!” Granuaile, who’d been silently enjoying the smells of pie and cider up to this point and petting Oberon, clapped her hand over her mouth as Manannan and I turned to her.

“Sorry,” she said in a tiny voice. “Did I say that out loud?”

“She’s right, Manannan,” I said. “That’s not a viable option.”

“It isn’t?” He looked as if he was going to ask why not but then changed his mind. He shrugged. “Ah, well. We’ll have to do everything the Old Irish way, I suppose.”

“Aye. And speaking of fighting, I have another matter to discuss. Now that my existence is somewhat known again, would it be possible to exchange Moralltach for Fragarach?”

Manannan’s mouth formed a tiny black hole of surprise before he cleared his throat to mask it. “Well. That kind of thing takes some thinkin’ over.…”

I didn’t want that. Someone would talk him out of it. “Moralltach is the sword that killed Thor. Its fame has grown more than Fragarach’s. You’ll score bushels of points with the bloodthirsty lot.”

“Hmm. It’s good to have them on your side, no doubt,” Manannan said.

“I can guarantee I’ll make life more interesting with Fragarach.”

Manannan Mac Lir smirked. “Now, that’s a compelling argument, that is. All right. I’m not lookin’ forward to what Brighid will say when she finds out, but damn if it isn’t me own sword to do with as I please. A plague on these Pickled Herring, anyway. Follow me back. We’ll exchange ’em and be done. Don’t say a word while you’re in Tír na nÓg, lad. Whoever’s listening in on me won’t realize we made the switch for days. Then go get your apprentice bound properly.”

I beamed at him. “You’re my favorite sea god, you know.”

“Aw, get your nose out of me arse. Just make life interestin’ as ye promised.”

Once I shifted away from Tír na nÓg with Fragarach in my scabbard, I found it difficult not to grin like a geek at a Trekkie convention.

I had it back. After twelve long years, I had it back . Gifted to me this time by one of the Tuatha Dé Danann, not stolen from them!

Giddy euphoria seized me and I shivered with it. A squee welled up in my throat because I felt cool again—impossibly, inhumanly cool, like Laurence Fucking Fishburne—but I suppressed it savagely; if I squeed out loud, all the cool would be gone.

“Why are you shaking?” Granuaile asked. “Are you cold?”

“Oh. No. Um, excess energy. Excitement to get started again.” To calm myself, I told Granuaile about the odd origins of the dark elves and how we’d have to fight them if it ever came to that. Keep moving, flank attacks, and, damn it, keep your mouth shut.

“What about your nose or your ears?”

“I don’t think that would work for them. They become flesh and blood once they solidify; the bones of the skull would slice right through their arm. If they’re willing to do that to kill you, then, yeah, I guess you could worry about it. Down your throat, however, that’s all soft tissue. They’d unhinge the jaw, tear muscles, and rupture the esophagus just by solidifying, then when they pulled their arm free, your throat would come with it.”

Granuaile swallowed and put a hand up to her neck. “Thanks for the visual.”

We were once more on the billowing skirts of Olympus, but this time we were on the western side. There was no reason to search for an appropriate spot; now that Olympia knew of our need, she was only too happy to guide us to an appropriate place to continue Granuaile’s binding. Similar to the cave on the eastern slope in that the required thornbushes also provided cover for the entrance, it was situated a good thirty yards or so from a small creek that would provide us with water. The ceiling of the cave was lower, it wasn’t so deep or comfortable as the first one, and something small and furry had left pellets of shit scattered about, but it would serve. We scouted patrol routes for Oberon and plotted escapes before we cleaned out the cave as best we could. Connecting with Gaia didn’t take quite as long—less than a week, since she’d been expecting us—and soon I was stabbing Granuaile with a thorn as if we’d never been interrupted.