Kevin Hearne - Hounded

“You say the thieves are coming here?”

“Any moment now.”

“Then I should continue my journey,” I said. I’d originally come to the Marketplace to try out the Irish pub near the movie theatre, so it wasn’t technically a lie. But the gnome would be left with the impression that I didn’t live here, should he choose to share with others our visit. “May harmony find you and all of Clan Rathskeller. As I am even more endangered than you are, I would appreciate it if you would keep my presence here a secret.”

The gnome nodded and turned back to the stage without another word. He didn’t say he’d Facebook me or anything.

Oberon asked.

We have to hide. I’m going to camouflage you .

A god, a faery, and whatever Kohleherz is .

Because I’m curious . I cast camouflage on Oberon and he melted from sight as the spell bound the pigments of his surroundings to his own. It wasn’t perfect invisibility, especially when he moved, but it was good enough. I then cast it on myself and looked around to see if anyone had noticed. A couple of passersby did a double take in my direction, but they shook it off quickly, consumed as they were with consumerism. Convinced that Oberon and I were out of sight, I walked slowly across the cobbled intersection to the building catercorner to San Felipe’s. Finding a low-traffic area, I stripped and asked Oberon to guard my clothes. I placed them under his front paws.

Right above you on the roof. We’re going to people-watch for a while. Let me know if you smell anything else that isn’t human .

Try to bear it with patience, Oberon. I’ll buy you a steak when we’re finished .

No fooling. You did a great job alerting me to the gnomes, so you can have a filet wrapped in bacon if you want .

I smiled and bound myself to the form of a great horned owl. It was one of four animal shapes I could take, and ideal for surreptitiously observing skulduggery on a late-autumn night. I don’t think the gnome-filet exchange rate is one-to-one .

Oberon said as I took wing. Since I was still camouflaged, my flight was almost as invisible as it was silent. A couple of people caught flickers of movement and turned their heads my way, but gave up when their eyes failed to lock on anything but the visual noise of the mall. I’d have to be careful with my magic from here on out until I could reconnect with the earth. I had a charm on my necklace—one of ten—that served as magic storage, and it was half empty now thanks to those spells. The necklace was a neat piece of work I’d crafted over many centuries that would shrink or grow depending on the form I took. Shape-shifting took quite a bit of energy, and maintaining camouflage would be a small but continuous drain on the remainder. This completely paved environment was just the sort of place where I was most at a disadvantage, and without any weapons at hand I really needed to avoid a scrap. I felt one coming anyway.

Less than five minutes after establishing a perch on the roof, I saw Goibhniu stride into the square from the west. His hair wasn’t as red as mine; it was more of a burnt auburn shade, and he wore it down to his shoulders, parted in the middle. He was dressed in jeans and an Irish sweater that covered up most of his tattoos. He paused in front of the stage, smiled wryly, and nodded at the gnomes, and they nodded back, visibly relieved to see him. He carried a stainless-steel thermos in his left hand and kept his right hand in his pocket as he headed for the entrance to San Felipe’s. He disappeared for a few moments, but reappeared soon on the periphery across from the stage, except inside the fence. All the tables along the edge were occupied because they afforded the best chance to see and be seen. Goibhniu strode confidently to one table of four, pulled something out of his pocket, and laid it down. It was four Benjamins. He offered one each to the patrons; they immediately took their drinks and left.

Now in sole possession of a prime table, he sat on a high stool and set his thermos prominently in the center. A svelte waitress appeared to ask his pleasure, and he ordered a drink that he would probably never touch.

Shortly thereafter, I could sense tension build in the area like a subwoofer crescendo, seismic and inescapable. I’ll admit that it ruffled my feathers. Someone down there was causing it, but I couldn’t tell who. It was time to look at things a bit differently. I activated the charm on my necklace that bound my sight to the magical spectrum. I try not to use it too often, because seeing how all things are bound together is a recipe for sensory overload. Still, it’s invaluable for seeing through the glamours of faeries, and it’s for that reason that I call the spell “faery specs.”

The source of the magical mojo was indeed a faery, or rather it was something he carried on his back. The faery was posing as a dark-haired emo boy, with a shaggy haircut obscuring half his face and what looked like extremely uncomfortable skinny jeans. In reality he was blond and athletic and a bit taller. A large burlap sack was slung over his back, the size of those garbage bags used for lawn clippings. The drawstring had nearly closed the contents away from my sight, but inside I could tell there was a dark and roiling magic waiting to get out, magic of the deep earth that was better left buried.

Because something wicked this way comes .

The faery spied Goibhniu and moved to the entrance of San Felipe’s to join him. The gnomes saw the faery and went about their business, but it was clear they were all distracted now.

The waitress returned to Goibhniu’s table and deposited a pint of beer and two empty shot glasses. He thanked her and she left. The faery slouched into view afterward and nodded once to Goibhniu, making no move to sit down or lay down his burden. Goibhniu nodded back solemnly. I wondered if they were related, and if he’d brought that steel thermos purposely to taunt the faery.

All faeries—I mean the real Irish ones, not the cute winged horrors of Disney—are descendants of the Tuatha Dé Danann, born in Tír na nÓg. Unlike their sires, faeries are beings of pure magic, and as such cannot stand the touch of iron. Steel is very bad. Wrought iron is worse. And cold iron—or rather iron from meteorites, unbound from the world’s magic—is the worst. That’s why I wear a cold iron amulet in the center of my necklace: It’s Grade-A faery repellent.

Without speaking, Goibhniu reached for the steel thermos and unscrewed the lid. He poured a measure of amber liquid into one of the shot glasses, then screwed the lid back on and set it down on the table. At this point my vision began to show me two different things.

What the human eye could see remained the same: The dark-haired emo boy just stood there, looking at the shot glasses and the table, and the bag hung motionless across his back. But in the magical spectrum—a better reflection of reality that appeared like a green overlay in my sight—the blond faery picked up the empty shot glass and held it near the top of his right shoulder. A thin black arm, its skin like chiseled charcoal, snaked out of the burlap bag and reached for the glass with a three-fingered hand. The drawstring loosened, the bag rippled, and an ugly black head and shoulders emerged, a cruel grin of teeth like cooled lava rocks splitting the face. The gnomes saw this, too, their magical sight as good as mine, and they stiffened. This must be Kohleherz, the source of all that bad mojo, and though I’d never seen one of his kind before, he could be nothing else but a kobold of the darkest mines and subterranean caves.