Kevin Hearne - Hammered

“Are you kidding? I haven’t seen combined channeling like that in a long time. Say what you want about their motives, Atticus, but that was cool. ”

I scowled at him. “Did you give them the power for that?”

Christ grinned. “Nah, they’re running on Yahweh juice. You heard them.”

“But aren’t you supposed to be …?”

“Oh, sure, to Christians I am. But not to these guys. Their conception of Yahweh is very different from a Christian’s, so they’re talking to a different god. Check it out, things are starting to get hairy.”

He was speaking quite literally. The Kabbalists didn’t look surprised or dismayed that I was still around. If anything, they looked more determined to give me ouchies. The beards of Yosef and the two Kabbalists immediately flanking him were lengthening and threading themselves into tentacular appendages anchored to their jaws, two on either side of their chins. They knotted and hardened into clouts first, then began to glide through the air toward me, about as fast as a man would walk at a leisurely pace. I’d have plenty of time to duck, but it was far, far in excess of the normal growth rate for beards. Once that registered with the remaining customers, they lost all pretense of behaving calmly in a crisis. There was a general exodus for the patio, with more than a few panicked squeals and impolite requests to get out of the way.

The manager objected and gave chase. “Oi! Pay first, then run away screaming if you want!”

“That’s it,” Flanagan said, his thick hands gripping the bar and his eyes wide. “I’m getting back on the wagon and I’m never getting off again. Oh, Jesus, look at that.”

“I’m looking,” Jesus said. Flanagan flicked an annoyed glance at him but quickly returned his horrified eyes to the facial hair advancing down the length of the bar. I empathized. I’d seen what those beard tentacles could do; they were much stronger than they looked, besides being viscerally dry, itchy, and raspy. Rabbi Yosef had killed an accomplished witch with his beard three weeks ago by strangling her. It had snaked its way past her wards, and now it occurred to me that it might snake past the protection of my amulet as well. Sure, the beard was being controlled magically, but that magic was targeting the hair, not me, and apart from being completely gross, such hair could constrict my windpipe every bit as effectively as a length of rope—and there were twelve such lengths reaching for me now. If even one of them got wrapped around my neck and the iron of my aura didn’t counter the magic controlling it, I could be in trouble.

My options were limited. There wasn’t much room to swing a sword in the bar, and I wasn’t anxious for bloodshed anyway. Besides, after a shot of whiskey and an Irish Car Bomb on top of my Smithwick’s, I wasn’t exactly sober enough to muster the balance required for sword fighting. Trying to lay a binding on any of the Kabbalists was impossible now that they had warded themselves from the earth; running away would make me seem like the mass of cowardly lunchtime patrons fleeing out the back, and I wanted my buddy Jesus to think I was cool too; that left nothing but hand-to-hand combat, and people did that all the time while drunk.

I’ve trained in many martial arts to defend myself against myriad weapons but never against beards. There’s not a whole lot of precedent. I decided to treat them like whips. Stepping forward to meet the first tentacle on my right, I grabbed it out of the air and yanked hard and down, expecting to pull the Kabbalist’s face to the left and perhaps break up their formation.

It didn’t go the way I pictured it in my mind.

There was no tension at all, no sense that the beard was solidly attached to someone’s jaw. It felt like I had yanked on a piece of fishing line when the reel button was depressed, allowing yards of ten-pound filament to whiz free every second. It threw me off balance, and the other eleven tentacles abruptly reared back like cobras and struck, punching me eleven times with surprising force. Getting hit with something akin to a giant knotted sailor’s rope isn’t as bad as getting hit by a bus, but it isn’t like getting tickled with butterfly wings either. One of them caught me on the cheek and spun me around to face an amused Christian deity.

“I don’t suppose there’s any hope of a deus ex machina right about now?” I said.

“Nope,” he said cheerfully.

I batted away a couple of hairy ropes that were trying to insinuate themselves around my neck and kicked at a few others that were trying to trip me up. “Well, how about some advice, then?”

“Whosoever shall smite thee on thy right cheek, turn to him the other also.”

“You’re pulling out the King James?” I cried, incredulous. “I don’t think that’s the verse you ought to be quoting right now. How about ‘I come not to bring peace but to bring a sword’? Remember that one? I liked that one. I have a sword here if you’d like to borrow it.”

“Nay, that is not my will.”

Uh-oh. Code word. What was his will? He’d just told me he didn’t want me messing with Thor because it would upset all the pantheons, and I’d responded by saying I was going to do it anyway. That made me a problem. Maybe he could take care of said problem by letting the Hammers of God have their way with me.

“Think I’ll turn the other cheek after all,” I said, and I bolted to my right and headed for the back patio, where all the other patrons had escaped. As one exits out the back of Rúla Búla, there’s a patio bar to the right, an extensive network of misters overhanging the tables, and a large wrought-iron gate to the left, which leads to the parking lot of the Tempe Mission Palms Hotel. Said hotel is situated directly behind a concrete block wall on the east side of the patio, separated only by a wide walkway paved in red cobblestones. The gated exit wasn’t much of an exit at the moment; another ten Kabbalists were blocking it, letting patrons past but only at a trickle. If I tried to get through there, they’d have me.

The block wall was looking good. It wasn’t terribly high, only four feet or so, and I felt sure I could vault it even in my slightly sauced state. My hopes of dashing over there unnoticed were destroyed by the vanguard of the Kabbalists, who must have been told to look out for the redhead with the goatee. I heard one of them shout, “There he goes!” in Russian, and that was the end of my attempt to “flee casually.” I sprinted full tilt for the wall, half expecting to feel a hit on my amulet as they hurled one of their “Justice!” strikes at me, or some other magical attack. Nothing of the sort happened. Instead, as I caught some air and I cleared the top, pain exploded in my back. Knives whistled on either side of me, and I understood as I fell that a few of the Kabbalists had thrown their silver daggers at me—daggers they all carried just in case they ran into a werewolf. One of the knives sank into the meat behind my left shoulder blade and another into my kidney on the right side.

Perhaps it would have occurred to someone else—someone from Scottsdale—to bemoan the fate of his leather jacket in such a scenario. But even such slaves to fashion might be distracted from a wardrobe malfunction by a knife in the kidney, because there’s no other pain like it. It’s the sort of pain that freezes every muscle for fear of increasing the pain, and you don’t dare to scream or breathe, because even that much motion will exacerbate it.

I fell heavily to the cobbled walkway on the other side of the wall and nearly blacked out from the pain. I yanked the knife out of my kidney and had a nice cathartic scream of agony, then went to work healing right away, because it could easily be a mortal wound. Poisons seeping into my bloodstream …