Kevin Hearne: Hammered

The extra alcohol gave me the courage I needed to dial the next number. I punched it in and steeled myself for an unpleasant conversation.

“Hal, it’s me. I’m back. And I have bad news.”

“Yes, I’ve been waiting for your call,” the new alpha of the Tempe Pack said, his voice tight with tension. “I already know it’s bad, but how bad? Are they both gone, or just my alpha?”

“It’s uncertain. Better that I show and tell,” I replied. “I brought them back, Hal. I did everything I could.” I told him where to find me and to bring the new IDs I’d ordered for both Granuaile and myself. “And come in a work van, or maybe borrow Antoine’s wheels,” I added, referring to the local ghoul who collected and hauled bodies around in a refrigerated truck.

“Tell me this much before I drive out there,” Hal said. “Did they at least get their revenge?”

“Yes. They got their revenge. But I never got to ask them if it was worth it.”

“I don’t think it was,” Hal said.

“No. No, it wasn’t.”

All my old haunts were possible traps now, and the Morrigan’s vision of my death had me practically loony with paranoia. Granuaile was already teasing me about my constantly swiveling head, half in jest and half in annoyance; I was making her nervous. Despite her impatient sigh and the rolling of her eyes, I had her park out of sight of the widow’s house so that I could call to Oberon through our mental link from up the street.

Oberon, can you hear me?

He sounded alarmed at my arrival rather than welcoming. That wasn’t right. What? Why not?

Is the widow all right?

Yes . I was sitting with Granuaile in her car, near University Drive.

His question jangled alarm bells in my head. What if I wasn’t talking to Oberon? That scene from Terminator 2 where Schwarzenegger imitated the voice of John Connor and the T-1000 imitated the foster mother replayed in my head. I wasn’t sure if such a switch could be accomplished magically, but I didn’t want to take the chance. Instead of answering him, I asked a question of my own. Oberon, can you get out of the house?

Jump over the fence and come to the front. By yourself. Right now .

“Start the car,” I told Granuaile. She nodded and turned the key in the ignition. Oberon appeared alone at the edge of the widow’s property in a few seconds, looking south down Roosevelt first and then north to where we were parked.

See the blue car? That’s us .

He went from dead stop to full speed in about three seconds.

What are you talking about? I got out of the car and opened the back door for him to jump in. He didn’t stop to be petted or anything. He leapt in and immediately started barking at Granuaile before I could close the door.

Oberon, what on earth? Stop that racket . I ducked back into the car and told Granuaile to get us off Roosevelt Street as I closed my door. Oberon’s behavior needed an explanation, but if matters were truly as urgent as he suggested, it would be unwise to demand one before leaving. We could always return if it was a misunderstanding. Granuaile made a U-turn and turned east on University, heading toward Rural Road.

“Where to, sensei?” she asked, checking her mirrors.

“Same place we discussed earlier,” I said. “Oberon says we have to get out of town.” I turned in my seat to collect an overdue explanation from my hound. Now you will tell me why we’re running. What’s happened to the widow?

Ah, so she is alive after all?

Then who’s been walking around in her house and feeding you and letting you outside since then? You’re not making sense .

Well, maybe she’s just in a funk, Oberon. She’s been depressed lately .

What?

I faced forward and slumped in my seat. Shock upon shock left my mouth slightly open and my eyes unfocused.

“Sensei? Atticus? What’s the matter?” Granuaile flicked her eyes from the road to my face, creases of worry between her brows.

“Drive on,” I told her. “Oberon’s right. We have to get out of here.”

My editor at Del Rey, Tricia Pasternak, is eternally encouraging and may be a Zen master of Soothing Anxious Authors. She exudes calm even through her emails. Here is one of her koans to boggle your mind: What is the sound of one subplot resolving?

Mike Braff, assistant editor, introduced me to Viking Death Metal, specifically a band called Amon Amarth and one of their songs called “Twilight of the Thunder God.” I had that playing on loop while I wrote the last battle scene, and now I’m fighting the urge to buy a double-bladed axe and a drinking horn.

My copy editor, Kathy Lord, and my managing editor, Nancy Delia, both deserve a bottle of something Irish because I’ve probably driven them to drink anyway—it might as well be the good stuff. They’ve been a spectacular help, and I’m grateful for their assistance.

My agent, Evan Goldfried at JGLM, happened to know a really cool rabbi, Jenny Amswych, who was kind enough to help me out with the Hebrew. I chose the kh spelling instead of the ch for the guttural sound, and I hope that doesn’t ruffle any feathers. If there are any errors, please lay the blame at my door and not the good rabbi’s.

Eli Freysson in Iceland assisted with some of the Icelandic names, but please don’t tease him if I messed up, because I tend to Anglicize things a bit.

I’m grateful as always to my early readers, Alan O’Bryan and Tawnya Graham-Schoolitz. Nick Steinkemper also did me yeoman service on short notice.

Kimberly, Maddie, and Gail Hearne are the most supportive family members a writer could wish for, and I count myself blessed to be a part of their lives.

As with my other books, most of the physical locations (on this plane) are real, albeit used in a fictional way. If anyone does that $75 shot of whiskey at Rúla Búla, drop me a line and let me know if it was worth it. I’ll tell you right now that the Smithwick’s with the fish and chips is always worth it.

Likewise, the teak motorcycle sculpture at the Huddle in Globe is worth a look. It gets even better after you’ve had a couple Big Boys. I’m indebted to the owner, Tracy Quick, for a tour of downtown that included a rare glimpse of the old secret tunnels beneath the streets.

You can find me at www.kevinhearne.com. I’m also on Twitter (@kevinhearne), and I hope to see you at a spiffy shindig of some kind. Maybe we’ll meet at a sci-fi/fantasy or comics convention, catch a glimpse of Neil Gaiman, and squee in ultrasonic stereo.

Already I am made wholly new. Though I probably do not look any different, I feel as if the world must see me in a new way now that I can see the world as it truly is. I am no longer a barmaid or a philosophy major but a Druid initiate, and it feels as though I have emerged from a long and febrile sleep in a poorly made cocoon. The name Granuaile MacTiernan hardly matters anymore; it is just something that people call me. The elemental, Sonora, calls me Druidchild, and that is who I am now.

The cottonwoods drinking from the East Verde River are poets even without their leaves.

Their branches speak to me of silence and death and a promised renewal that will come in its own season. And time is measured in those seasons, in buds and flowers and seeds, not in the gears of a clock or in the turning of a calendar page.