Kevin Hearne - Hounded

“Not at all,” she replied. “You are a gracious host. But to finally answer your question, I went into the Crussh building and watched the mortals use these machines to make smoothies, and that is how I learned of them.” She considered her drink for a moment, and the crinkle appeared between her eyes again. “Do you not find this age to be horribly strange, so much of the sublime alongside the abominable?”

“I do indeed,” I said as I poured some red slush into my glass. “It is fortunate that we remain to preserve the traditions of a better time.”

“That’s what I have come to see you about, Atticus,” she said.

“Preserving traditions?”

“No. Remaining.” Oh, bloody hell. That did not sound good.

“I would love to hear about it. But may I first offer you anything else by way of refreshment?”

“No, I am perfectly content with this,” she said, wiggling her glass.

“Then perhaps we can retire to the front porch while we talk?”

“That will serve nicely.” I led the way, and Oberon followed us out and sat between us on the porch. He was thinking about hunting in Papago Park and hoping we would take him there. My bicycle was still in the street, to my relief, and I relaxed a little bit, until it occurred to me that Flidais had probably not walked here.

“Is your chariot safely stowed?” I asked her.

“Aye, there is a park hard by here, and I have bound the stags there until my return. Do not worry,” she added when she saw my eyebrows rise, “they are invisible.”

“Of course.” I smiled. “So tell me, what brings you out to visit an old Druid long gone from the world?”

“Aenghus Óg knows you are here.”

“So the Morrigan tells me,” I replied equably.

“Ah, she’s paid you a visit? Fir Bolgs are on their way too.”

“I am well aware.”

Flidais cocked her head and considered my air of unconcern. “And are you also aware that Bres follows them?”

I spewed strawberry smoothie into my flower bed at that, and Oberon looked at me in alarm.

“No, I suppose you had not heard that yet,” Flidais said with a faint smile, and then she chuckled, pleased to have elicited such a reaction from me.

“Why is he coming?” I asked as I wiped my mouth. Bres was one of the meanest of the Tuatha Dé Danann alive, though he was not particularly bright. He had been their leader for a few decades, but eventually he was replaced for being more sympathetic to the monstrous race of the Fomorians than to his own people. He was a god of agriculture and had escaped death at Lugh’s hands long ago by promising to share all he knew. The only reason he had not been killed since then was because he was husband to Brighid, and no one wished to risk her wrath. Her magical powers were unmatched, save perhaps by the Morrigan.

“Aenghus Óg has tempted him with something or other,” Flidais said with a dismissive gesture. “Bres acts only when it is in his interest to do so.”

“I understand that. But why send Bres? Is he to kill me?”

“I do not know. He certainly cannot be coming to outwit you. Truthfully, Druid, I hope the two of you do come to blows and you defeat him. He does not respect the forest as he should.”

I offered no response, and Flidais seemed content to let me consider what she had said. She sipped her smoothie and reached down to give Oberon a friendly scratch behind the ears. His tail sprang to life and quickly thumped against the legs of our chairs. I could hear him begin to tell her of the sport to be had at Papago Park, and I smiled at the way he always kept his goals firmly in mind—the mark of a true hunter.

Flidais told him no, she had never hunted sheep at all. They were herd animals that offered no sport.

“Does your hound jest with me, Atticus?” Flidais raised her eyes to mine, and a note of contempt crept into her voice. “You were unable to bring down a sheep?”

“Oberon never jests about hunting,” I said. “Desert bighorns are nothing like the sheep you are used to. They are significant game, especially in the Papago Hills. Treacherous rocks there.”

“Why have I never heard of these creatures?”

I shrugged. “They are native to this area. There are several desert creatures you would probably enjoy hunting here.”

Flidais sat back in her chair, frowning, and took another sip of her smoothie as if it were an elixir to cure cognitive dissonance. She stared for a few moments at the low-hanging branches of my mesquite tree, which were swaying gently in a whisper of desert wind. Then, without warning, her face exploded in a smile and she laughed in delight—I would almost call it a giggle, but that would be beneath the dignity of a goddess.

“Something new!” she gushed. “Do you know how long it has been since I have hunted anything new? Why, it has been centuries, Druid, millennia even!”

I raised my glass. “To novelty,” I said. It was a highly prized commodity amongst the long-lived. She clinked her glass against mine, and we drank contentedly and shared silence for a while, until she asked when we could begin the hunt.

“Not until a few hours after nightfall,” I said. “We must wait for the park to close and the mortals to retire for the night.”

Flidais arched an eyebrow at me. “And how shall we spend the intervening hours, Atticus?”

“You are my guest. We may spend it however you wish.”

Her eyes appraised me and I pretended not to notice, keeping my gaze locked on my bicycle still lying in the street. “You appear to be in the summertime of youth,” she said.

“My thanks. You look well as always.”

“I am curious to discover if you still have the endurance of the Fianna or if you are hiding a decrepitude and softness most unbecoming a Celt.”

I stood up and offered her my right hand. “My left arm was injured earlier this afternoon and is still not fully healed. However, if you will follow me and assist in mending it, I will do my best to satisfy your curiosity.”

The corner of her mouth quirked up at the edge, and her eyes smoldered as she placed her hand in mine and rose. I locked my eyes on hers and didn’t let go of her hand as we returned inside and went to the bedroom.

I figured, to hell with the bike. I’d probably feel like jogging to work in the morning anyway.

Pillow talk in the modern era often involves the sharing of childhood stories or perhaps an exchange of dream vacations. One of my recent partners, a lovely lass named Jesse with a tattoo of a Tinker Bell on her right shoulder blade (about as far from a real faery as one can get), had wanted to discuss a science-fiction television program, Battlestar Galactica , as a political allegory for the Bush years. When I confessed I had no knowledge of the show nor any interest in getting to know it or anything about American politics, she called me a “frakkin’ Cylon” and stormed out of the house, leaving me confused yet somewhat relieved. Flidais, on the other hand, wanted to talk about the ancient sword of Manannan Mac Lir, called Fragarach, the Answerer. It kind of killed the afterglow for me, and I felt myself growing irritated.

“Do you still have it?” she asked. And as soon as she did, I suspected that the entire visit—even the conjugal part—had been planned just so she could discover the answer. I had flat out lied to the lesser Fae who’d attacked me earlier, but I didn’t feel safe doing the same to Flidais.