Kevin Hearne - Hammered

“So what I am hearing you say,” Leif said, already weaving past human motorists at dangerous speeds, “is that I should go a bit faster.”

“Right. But with the proviso that we need to remain alive and uninjured at the end of the journey.”

We tried to relax as we drove out to Superior and then took Highway 177 south toward a small town called Winkelman. When one is being pursued by a god, it’s extremely difficult to pretend that nothing is amiss, but we tried because machismo demanded it. We spoke of other things, as if we were out cruising instead of fleeing. Leif amused us with what he’d accomplished last night at the stadium, spending a large part of the drive giving us a play-by-play account of how he’d dismantled sixty-three vampires.

“The key to sowing mayhem in the age of electronics is to deprive humans of electricity,” he began. “I took out not only the transformer for the city block but the backup generators within the stadium as well. That meant the security cameras were out of it, and only dim flashes of movement would ever be seen by human eyes. Their cell-phone cameras work poorly in low light. I was thus free to travel throughout the stadium and hunt the Memphis nest at my leisure. They had foolishly spread themselves throughout the crowd rather than concentrate their strength in an unassailable position.” He grinned wickedly in the rearview mirror. “The young and naïve fell to the hand of experience and guile.”

“The papers didn’t say anything about irregularities with the bodies, but they probably didn’t discover them until today sometime,” I said. “I’m sure tomorrow’s headlines will be engrossing—it’s on the Internet already, I’m sure. Aren’t you worried that the existence of vampires will be exposed to the public?”

Leif shrugged. “My own existence remains a secret. I will worry about it when and if I return.”

“When,” Gunnar emphasized, “not if.”

“Come on, Leif,” I persisted. “One or more of those vampire bodies are going to get kissed by the sun and go up in flames. That’s going to be a big fucking clue. And even a semi-competent coroner is going to figure out that those bodies died a long time before last night. Admit it. You just made vampires real.”

“I admit no such thing. They will blame fires on undetected flammable gases or fluids. And the coroner who suggests that those bodies are vampires or anything close to undeath will lose his job. Whatever they figure out will either be squashed or disbelieved by a public raised on a diet of science and skepticism.”

I shook my head. “You must have a giant pair of hairy balls,” I said, then added, “unless you don’t. Say, Leif, do vampires have balls?”

Gunnar tried and failed to stifle a laugh.

“Atticus?” Leif said.

“Yes, Leif?”

“You have my permission to fuck off.” Pretending I had never spoken, he proceeded to flesh out his hunting story, culminating in the dismemberment of the Memphis nest leader.

From Winkelman we headed south on State Route 77 and picked up a police officer anxious to pull over a speeding muscle car. Leif eased up on the accelerator and let Gunnar hold the wheel steady. He rolled down his window and leaned out, facing the rear. His gaze captured the officer’s eyes and charmed him. Shortly thereafter, the sirens ceased their wailing and the police officer pulled himself over.

Leif pulled his head back into the car and spent a few vain moments straightening his windblown hair in the mirror, while Gunnar continued to steer from the passenger seat. I sniggered.

“You have something to say to me, Mr. O’Sullivan?” Leif asked archly.

“Please do not trouble yourself about your appearance, Mr. Helgarson,” I replied. “I assure you that you look very pretty.”

Gunnar chuckled and Leif raised his chin haughtily. “I shall ignore the jealous gibes of ugly men,” he announced.

“He’s talking about you, Atticus,” Gunnar said.

“Your mom talked about me,” I said, and the werewolf abruptly lost his sense of humor and growled. I smiled and kept silent after that, as did Leif. You can push a werewolf only so far.

We turned left on Aravaipa Road and continued for twelve miles, the last eight of which were covered in gravel. The Aravaipa Canyon Wilderness is not technically a forest, nor does it contain much in the way of oak, ash, or thorn, but its healthy riparian habitat is strong enough to support a tether to Tír na nÓg. More than two hundred species of birds, nine species of bats, and fish species native to Arizona live there, along with black bears, bobcats, desert bighorn sheep, and coatis. The trees are largely broadleaf species, a pleasing mixture of alder, willow, walnut, cottonwood, and sycamore, all lining the perennial flow of Aravaipa Creek. There are true forests with stronger ties to Tír na nÓg slightly closer to Tempe as the crow flies, but in terms of getting the hell out of town quickly, this was my best option.

The three of us climbed out of the Mustang, and Leif left the keys in the ignition. I enhanced my vision for night and slipped off my sandals, carrying them in my left hand. The entrance to the wilderness was fenced off, but we vaulted it and began to jog toward the creek. The tabletop mesas on either side of the canyon held little in the way of wildlife; it was the bottom of the canyon that was rich in that regard.

“How far on foot?” Gunnar asked.

“About a mile in, we should be okay to shift,” I said. “Keep a sharp ear out for pursuit, will you?” My senses couldn’t begin to approach theirs while in human form. “I still don’t think Bacchus gave up on us.”

We loped easily through the night and I spoke to Sonora as I ran, informing him—or her, as Granuaile insisted—that I hoped to return soon.

Gunnar looked over his shoulder with about a half mile to go, and Leif did the same a second later. “He’s coming,” Gunnar said.

“No more jogging!” I said. “Leif, you’re the fastest on two legs. Can you carry us?”

“I don’t know where we’re going,” he protested.

“Straight down the canyon. I’ll tell you when to stop, then you guys just throw rocks at him or something, keep him off us until I can shift us away.”

Gunnar didn’t like the idea of being carried, but he saw the necessity. We weren’t going to stay ahead of flying leopards for very long. Leif picked us up easily in a fireman’s carry over either shoulder, and then he lit out with his best speed. It reminded me of the violent ride on top of Ratatosk. Still, the vampire’s best speed was short of a leopard’s. We heard a roar behind us and then a victorious “Ha!” from Bacchus. Immediately afterward, Leif dropped out from under us and I went flying through the air, along with Gunnar, to land painfully against the trunk of a cottonwood. I scrambled to my feet and saw that Leif’s legs were tangled in ivy—or perhaps grapevines. Bacchus was catching up and swooping down at us, his face a mask of the sort of frenzy he inspired.

Well, sanity was better than madness. I sent a message to Sonora through the earth: //Druid needs favor / Prevent rapid plant growth / My location / Now / Gratitude//

Gunnar was shucking off his shoes and jeans and going wolf. He didn’t bother with the rugby shirt, deciding for philanthropic reasons it was best for everyone if it got destroyed in the transformation.

“Just hamstring the kitties,” I told him while I was waiting for Sonora’s answer. “Don’t mess with the god.” Gunnar managed a nod before his face elongated into a snout and his human expression was gone.