Kevin Hearne - Hammered

“The era of stability is already gone. This city is about to pass through the Valley of the Shadow of Deep Shit. Best to cut and run while you still can.”

“Is that what you’re doing? Running?”

“I suppose I’m running from one fight to take part in another. Characterize it however you wish. Look, just pack all your crap into a U-Haul tonight and get out of the state. Stash everything in a storage facility and then take your time finding someplace else to settle down.”

“You’ve done this sort of thing before, I take it.”

“Absolutely. Works great. But if you don’t like that idea, how about rebuilding your coven? Go back to Poland, pick up some new recruits, take the long view here instead of focusing on short-term losses. That’s how you survive.”

“That … sounds like a very good idea. I don’t know if we can get out of here quickly enough, though. We have significant assets tied up here.”

“Hand them over to Magnusson and Hauk. Let them liquidate everything and put the proceeds in an offshore account for you. They can also get you new IDs if you need them, and I’d suggest it since the Hammers of God have probably done their homework.”

“You advise me well.”

“Aw, shucks.”

Malina beamed at me for a sunlit time, and then her smile faded as she processed that this leave-taking would probably be our last for a long while. “Will our paths ever cross again?” she asked.

“Perhaps, but not for at least a decade. I’m going to fall off the map if I survive what’s coming.”

“But you won’t share with me what’s coming.”

“No. Safer if you don’t know. Safest to just get out of this place and begin again.”

She nodded her understanding and said, “Well, our short acquaintance has been most instructive. On the one hand you’re responsible for wiping out half my coven, and on the other you’re largely responsible for preserving the lives of those who remain. You were forced into defending yourself in the first case, but you had no obligation to help us in the second. I must conclude that Druids are dangerous but fairly amenable acquaintances, though my sample size is admittedly very small.” She smiled. “Whatever you’re about to undertake, I hope you’ll survive and manage to find us in the future. If we know you’re coming, Berta will bake you a cake.”

“Thank you. Is there anyplace in particular I should look for you? I’d like to learn how to speak with a proper Polish accent.”

She slung a smirk at me and said, “It’s safer if you don’t know.”

Since this was to be the last night I spent in Arizona, I was hoping that I’d be able to get a full night’s rest. It’s funny how vampires don’t respect that, since they always expect you to let them sleep all day.

After spending the afternoon reviewing tea recipes with Rebecca Dane one last time and hooking her up with herb vendors for resupply, I spent an hour at my kitchen table drawing a map of Asgard based on my observations and Ratatosk’s intelligence. Then I went for a run with Oberon in the early twilight of late autumn and returned after sundown to a well-dressed vampire waiting on my front porch. He had an impeccably tailored werewolf sitting next to him.

Normally the two don’t mix, but Leif Helgarson and Gunnar Magnusson had several common bonds: They were both lawyers, they were both originally from Iceland, and they both hated Thor. They got along just fine, but I didn’t think they were bosom buddies. They’d driven to my house separately—probably because each was too dominant to let anyone else drive. Leif’s black Jaguar XK convertible sat in front of Gunnar’s silver BMW Z4 convertible. Most of the Tempe Pack drove those, but I’d never asked them why they chose such tiny cars.

Oberon said as we stopped jogging in front of my lawn. In the dim glow of the streetlights, Leif and Gunnar rose to meet us, shoving their hands in their pockets to reveal their competing vests—or waistcoats, as they probably thought of them. Leif’s was a Victorian burgundy number with matte black satin lining and eight black buttons in two columns of four. He’d gone all the way and had a gold chain wrapped around them leading to a pocket watch; he was even wearing one of those old-fashioned black string ties. Except for the straight pale corn-silk hair and the lack of mustache, he looked like he’d stepped out of the pages of a steampunk novel—and what’s more, he didn’t look the least bit scorched from his encounter with hellfire.

Gunnar’s suit was likewise old-fashioned, but it was gray and silver. His waistcoat was a decadently patterned silver paisley on a cool gray material, lined in gunmetal satin. His tie was the more modern sort, black with a silver paisley design, and he, too, had a gold pocket watch. His hair was a darker blond, much more of a tawny lion’s mane, and he’d slicked it back around the sides and let it curl on top. He had thick muttonchops that stopped short of his chin and arced over his upper lip. The choice of colors for his wardrobe seemed odd for a werewolf, until I realized that it was a status thing, like everything else with members of the Pack. As alpha he couldn’t show fear of silver, so of course he drove a silver car and wore silver clothes whenever he could. Now that I thought about it, I’d never seen Hal wear silver. He drove a metallic blue car, but that was it. If he wound up being alpha he’d have to get a whole new wardrobe.

Oberon observed.

“Good evening, Atticus,” Leif said in his stilted speech.

“Atticus,” Gunnar acknowledged me with a gruff nod. There was some tension between us and always had been, though none of it came from me. I liked Gunnar just fine. His problem was that he didn’t know if he could take me in a fight, and neither did his wolves. Since I was also a shape-shifter and centuries older than he was, they might follow me as an alpha if circumstances were right. Gunnar wanted to make sure those circumstances never occurred. He had declared me a Friend of the Pack years ago and then done everything he could to avoid me so that his wolves would have few occasions to compare us side by side. We’d always been cordial to each other, but some of that cordiality had chilled after he lost two pack members in the Superstition Mountains while trying to rescue Hal, who’d been drawn into the fight only because of me.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” I said, nodding to each of them in return. “I’m honored by your visit. May I invite you inside for a beer—and some blood?” I gave Leif a goblet full of my blood every so often, and now I wondered if that had something to do with him surviving an attack he shouldn’t have survived.

They made noises of graciousness and gave Oberon a friendly scratch or two behind his ears, and then we all went inside.

I got a couple of bottles of Ommegang’s Three Philosophers ale out of the fridge for Gunnar and me, then I grabbed a goblet out of the cupboard and a steak knife out of the cutlery drawer and stabbed myself in the arm, allowing the blood to drip freely into the goblet. A small exertion of power shut down the pain.

“I’m told by others that you’ve recovered fully, Leif,” I remarked. “What’s your own assessment?”

“Snorri has practically glutted me on bags of donated blood,” he replied, referring to the werewolf doctor who worked in a Scottsdale hospital. “And while it has been nourishing, it has also been less than satisfying. There is never the heady aroma of fear or the succulent scent of desire when you feast on a blood bag. Plus, they were refrigerated,” he added with a shudder.