Kevin Hearne - Trapped

Oberon asked.

“Yes, I did. It is.”

“Vampires are a bit more discreet than that these days, Oberon.”

“Feel what?”

No sooner had I asked him than I felt it: a trembling in the earth—a building one. I shot a hello and query to the Apuseni elemental. //Greetings / Harmony / Query: Plate event?//

//Greetings / Druids welcome / Advice: Run / Not plate event / God event through me//

“We need to get out of here,” I said, as the ground bucked beneath us. We heard loud cracking reports of stone shattering to our rear: The cavern from which we had just emerged was crumbling and filling in with stone that had been stable for centuries. We scrambled down the hill, across boulders and shale, into the forest below. A minor landslide followed us.

“Someone’s after us,” I explained to Granuaile, who probably hadn’t heard my quick conversation with Apuseni. “Some god is causing this through the elemental. Let’s shift to Colorado.”

“Got it,” she said.

Once down to the friendly forest we’d spied from above, we put our hands to a tethered tree, but it wouldn’t respond; the paths to Tír na nÓg were cut off somehow.

“Pandemonium,” a voice croaked from the branches above. We sought the source and found it: A crow with red eyes stared back at us. It was the Morrigan.

“You won’t find anyplace on the continent that will let you shift away,” she said, and I shuddered involuntarily. It was always disconcerting to hear the crow speak English. “They’ve trapped you here. That earthquake was Neptune’s work, and Faunus will deny you every tether to the Summer Lands. You’ll find the old ways collapsed or guarded. You’re going to need to run for the British Isles, Siodhachan—and I mean literally run all the way there. It’s the only path I’ve seen where you live through this.”

“Live through what?”

“You’ll see. The ankle-winged boys are coming to tell you now.” The crow tossed its beak at something behind us. We turned and looked up.

Hermes and Mercury descended from the sky, pale savage beauty paired with golden pomposity, and the Roman demanded to know what I had done with Bacchus.

“Ask the Fates,” I said, shrugging.

A bolt of lightning lanced down from the heavens to strike Oberon, who first yelped, then barked at the sky.

Oberon was unharmed because of Perun’s fulgurite on his collar, but one of the Olympian sky gods had clearly intended for him to die. It was a message meant to put me in my place, to reduce me to quivering obeisance.

I looked up and spoke loudly: “That was damn rude, Jupiter. The last god of Olympus who was rude to me was Bacchus.”

“Where is he?” Mercury demanded again.

“Why do you wish to know? Have the Roman wine cellars run dry?”

“You will return him or suffer the consequences.”

I shifted my gaze to Hermes and asked, “What is the Greek interest in this?”

Hermes shrugged and spoke in his taut melodious tones: “Olympian solidarity, officially. But, in truth, Artemis was extremely vexed about the kidnapping of the dryads. As was Diana. All nymphs of the wood are sacred to them. This Bacchus affair is their chance to exact revenge for what they promised to forgive.”

I could almost hear Granuaile saying, “I told you we shouldn’t have touched the dryads.” I carefully kept my gaze on the Olympians so I wouldn’t have to see it in her face.

“Well, Bacchus and Faunus should be blamed for it, not I. They forced me to do it, and, besides, I returned the dryads unharmed as promised.”

Mercury said, “We won’t let you do to the Olympians what you did to the Norse, Druid. Return Bacchus or die.”

“Return him or die? That’s not much of a choice. If I bring Bacchus back, he will kill me.”

The messenger gods didn’t even bother to shrug. They merely raised their eyebrows as if to say, “So?”

“Haven’t you ever heard of Catch-22 ? Throw me a bone here, guys. If I’m going to die either way, what’s the point of giving Bacchus back?”

They ignored my question completely and Mercury said, “Choose, mortal. Will you return Bacchus or no?”

Fuck these guys. “No,” I said. “He’s a dick.”

“Then so be it.” They flew straight up and away, revealing two floating chariots behind them in the distance, almost hidden against the hillside. Two helmeted figures with bows released arrows at us—Artemis and Diana. They knew I would say no. They’d planned for it.

The Morrigan crunched down in front of us in her human form, now fully armored, and took the arrows in a massive ebony shield. I had never seen her bother with armor before.

“I am here to fulfill my oath to you, Siodhachan Ó Suileabháin. Run now,” she said, “for England. You have two immortal goddesses of the hunt on your trail. I shall hold them as long as I can, but it won’t be forever.” She drew a sword from a scabbard at her waist.

“Morrigan?”

Artemis and Diana goaded their chariots forward. The Morrigan turned and pointed west, her red eyes blazing through an ebony helmet. “Go, Siodhachan! They come!”

I grabbed Granuaile’s arm to pull her away and we ran, Oberon at our side, into a forest we suddenly found foreboding rather than friendly.

To those who have glimpsed divinity in beauty

or

to anyone who’s ever had to think about baseball

To my family, friends, and all my wonderful readers: Much love and a raised flagon to you!

As always, the keen insights of my alpha reader, Alan O’Bryan, helped me tremendously in the process of writing. He also got me playing Magic: The Gathering again and smooshed me with a Boneyard Wurm. Friends are rad like that.

I am so blessed to have editors at Del Rey who are capable of both geeking out and rocking out—often at the same time. Thanks to Tricia Narwani and Mike Braff for throwin’ up the horns and encouraging all the world-building.

I recently discovered that my agent, Evan Goldfried, knows more about beer than I do. In my eyes, this makes him An Authority on Just About Everything. I respect his authori-tah!

Amalia Dillin (@AmaliaTD) knows more about Norse mythology than most humans. I’ve enjoyed chatting with her, bouncing ideas off her, and occasionally pleading for her help. If you find my representation of Norse mythology heinous, please don’t blame her; I’m the guy who wrote the heinous stuff.

For those who may be interested, the Poetic Edda in its entirety can be found online for free. You’ll see where all the dwarf names come from, discover the circumstances of Loki’s binding, and so much more. If you keep reading different sources of Norse mythology, you’ll also discover that they contradict one another in myriad ways. (And that is nothing to be ashamed of; it’s an endearing feature of most belief systems.) One point of confusion is naming the Nine Realms of Yggdrasil and deciding where they’re located. The map I’ve included at the front of the book (drawn by Priscilla Spencer) is organized according to various sources and a few core beliefs o’ mine regarding Norse mythology: 1) Three is a magic number, so there are three realms on each of three levels; 2) dwarfs and elves are not the same thing. No, they are not the same thing at all, and as for all those sources that say they are, well, I think the dark elves must have gotten to them; and 3) given number 2, the dwarfs live in Nidavellir, and the Svartálfs live in Svartálfheim, and they’re not the same place either.