Kevin Hearne: Hammered

“Where are we going?” Perun asked.

I didn’t want to fly back to Tempe under these circumstances. Any magic, including Perun’s, was likely to draw attention now. So I named a town about seventy miles from Tempe and hoped I could arrange a ninja operation from there. “A copper-mining town called Globe, northwest of here. I know the perfect place. You can drop me off and I’ll buy you a Big Boy.”

“I am not fond of children.”

“Don’t worry, it’s a drink.”

We reached Globe a little after eleven in the morning by riding the winds, and I directed Perun to an alley behind Broad Street downtown—specifically the alley behind a sports bar called the Huddle. It wasn’t an urban alley full of rats and moldering dumpsters but rather a wide sort of throughway with parking and a couple of trees. Asphalt laid down decades ago was deteriorating, crumbling to gravel and allowing weeds to poke through.

The Huddle had a back patio constructed specifically for smokers; it faced an unused parking lot on the other side of the alley, currently fenced off with chain link. A single trash can sat in front of that fence, enjoying the shade of a willow acacia tree. I had Perun set us down there, and we stacked the coffins on top of each other about five feet away from the trash can. No one saw us do this, because the Huddle isn’t full of smokers at eleven in the morning. The smokers tend to come out at night.

“I need to make a couple of calls in there,” I said, gesturing at the back entrance of the bar, “and then we can enjoy our Big Boys.” I’d chosen this place precisely because it had a back entrance; those come in handy sometimes.

I dispelled our camouflage but left it on the coffins. After a bit of conversation, Perun was convinced that he didn’t need to wear his fur cloak into an American bar around lunchtime. Besides, we were in Arizona now: It was sixty degrees outside in December. He removed the fur to reveal another layer of fur underneath—his own hairy arms and shoulders sprouting from his thin sleeveless shirt. I grinned as I camouflaged his cloak on top of the coffins. Americans have a visceral fear of body hair—a fact exploited by hippies, bikers, and construction foremen—so Perun’s appearance would likely scare everyone in the bar, including the bikers.

After I reminded Perun to speak English again, we entered the Huddle and I threw a wave at Gabby, the owner. She had a quick smile, a ready laugh, and the supreme confidence that she could handle anything. I watched her size up Perun, who was probably two feet taller than she was and weighed twice as much, and savored the moment when I saw she had decided she could take him, even though he was holding Odin’s spear.

“Hey, Atticus, it’s been a while. Good to see you again,” she said. My familiarity with her and her place of business was based on several hunting excursions I’d made in this vicinity with Oberon. She pointed at our weapons. “You need to put those behind the bar.”

“No problem.” I carefully leaned the swords and spear up against the bottled-beer fridge.

“What’ll it be?”

“Two Big Boys full of Bud.” She had a fully stocked bar, complete with a large mirror behind it, but most people came in to enjoy the thirty-four-ounce frozen mugs of beer. Perun and I pulled up stools and avoided eye contact with the locals. They were staring at us and trying to decide if they’d pick a fight if Gabby weren’t around. After a minute I felt their eyes slide away, probably because they reasoned that anyone as aggressively unshaven as Perun was thoroughly dangerous.

Gabby gave us our beers and Perun eyed his uncertainly. “This is Big Boy?”

“Correct.”

“Is not vodka,” he observed.

“Right. You’re in an American bar, so to fit in you have to drink this.”

Perun glanced around the bar at the other patrons, who were mostly wearing jeans and T-shirts and shaved responsibly. “Do you really think I can fit in here?”

“Not a chance. But it’s your duty to make the effort. Cheers.” I clinked his mug and started chugging. Perun took a few cold swallows and then set down the mug abruptly, shuddering as some of it dribbled down his beard.

“Americans like this?” he asked.

“They say they do. Bestselling drink in the States.”

“Should I give them my respect or my pity?”

“It’s a dilemma, isn’t it?” I said. “Hey, Gabby, mind if I borrow your phone?”

I had my cell phone, but there was no way I was going to turn it on at this point; it was most likely dead anyway. Gabby handed the bar’s phone to me, and I punched in a memorized number while Perun took in the sights of the bar. There was plenty to see, starting with the mounted jackalope wearing a pair of sunglasses near the bottled-beer fridge. There was also a mounted javelina head staring at us with glass eyes, because dead animals are practically mandatory objets d’art in Arizona bars. The centerpiece of the place was a pure carven teak sculpture of an Indian motorcycle, resting on an old bartop that was hung from the ceiling by chains. Two pool tables in the back room were currently awaiting players, and an old Lynyrd Skynyrd song moaned on the jukebox in the corner opposite the bar.

A puzzled Granuaile answered her cell phone, not recognizing the number calling her.

“Hey, it’s me, back safe,” I said. “No names, okay? Are you in town yet or are you still working on the Verde River thing?”

“I got back a few days ago.”

“Great. I need you to come pick me up at the Huddle on Broad Street in Globe as soon as possible.”

“I’m bartending,” she said, by which she meant she was at Rúla Búla. “Just came on shift.”

“Time to quit that job,” I said.

“Again?”

“Again, and for good. We have to move. Your new life begins now.”

“Oh. Should I pick up the dog?”

The smart answer would have been yes, but I wanted to see the widow one more time if I could. So I said, “No, we’ll get him together.”

“Right. See you in an hour.”

She was so quick and decisive. I hoped she’d make it through the training. For that matter, I hoped I’d make it through the training. The Morrigan’s vision was very much on my mind, not to mention the consequences Jesus had mentioned.

Before I could make my second phone call, Perun whispered urgently, “Do you have Arizona money? I have none.” How sweet of him to be worried about the bill.

“Oh, it’s no problem, Perun. The drink’s on me,” I said. “Especially since it doesn’t look like you’ll be finishing it.”

“Ah. My thanks. I think I go now, Atticus, explore country, find place to hide.”

“So soon?” I thanked him for his invaluable aid and hoped that in his exploration of America he would find a town populated by many beefy, hairy women.

“America has such places?” he asked, hope and wonder filling his face.

“I’m sure it does. It’s a land of opportunity,” I said. He hooked me up with a couple of extra fulgurites for Granuaile and Oberon before he left, and I made sure to dispel the camouflage on his fur cloak outside. “Meeting you was a pleasure,” I told him. “It’s one of the few things about the trip I can say was one hundred percent positive, in fact. As gods go, you’re one of the best I’ve ever met.”

“You are only Druid I ever met,” he said, “but I think best also.” He tried to leave by pounding me manfully on the back a couple of times, but then decided that was inadequate and crushed me with a companionable hug. It was like getting squeezed between large hairy rocks. As he exited out the back of the Huddle, I tried not to laugh out loud at the collective sigh of relief from the locals. I covered my amusement by taking a long draught of my drink.