BATTLE DRUID

A DRUIDVERSE URBAN FANTASY NOVEL

THE SYLVAN CYCLE SERIES

BOOK 3

M.D. MASSEY

Copyright © 2025 by M.D. Massey and Modern Digital Publishing LLC.

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. Druidverse® and the Druidverse® logo are registered trademarks wholly owned by M.D. Massey and Modern Digital Publishing.

Cover art by NMT Design Studio.

PREFACE

I’ve chosen to use vrykolakai as the plural form of vrykolakas in this novel, versus vrykolakes. Although it’s nonstandard usage, this prevents confusion between the singular and plural forms of the word and makes it easier for the reader to recognize when the narrator is referring to more than one of the creatures.

Likewise, varcolac becomes varcolaci in the plural form, and that’s how you’ll find those terms used in this novel.

You’ll also come across some rather tongue-twisting Gaelic words and phrases in the book’s later chapters. In the spirit of allowing you to traverse those sections without skipping the terms as you read, here are some rough phonetic pronunciations of said terms:

Draoíocht Cogaidh – “DREE-ukt KOH-gee”

Draoi cogaidh – “dree KOH-gee”

Draoi comhraic – “dree KOHM-rik”

Rí na gMadraí – “ree na GWAH-dree”

Sean-draíocht – “shan DREE-uhkt”

Ealaíona cogaidh na nDraoithe – “al-EE-uh-nuh KUG-ee na NREE-huh”

Na mairbh neamhbhásacha – “nuh MAR-iv NYOW-VAW-suh-kuh”

I’d be remiss if I didn’t also include pronunciations for the trickier names in this story, so here goes:

Bé Chuille – “Bay KWIH-luh”

Deichtine – “DEKHT-ih-nuh”

Tlachtga – “CLOKH-guh”

Creidhne – “KRAY-nya”

Goibniu – “GUV-new”

Luchtaine – “LUHK-tan-ya”

Finally, I apologize to native speakers of Greek, Romanian, Hungarian, and Irish Gaelic for any misspellings or mispronunciations found in this work.

—M.D. Massey

CHAPTER

ONE

As I stepped out of The Twisted Paths and into the Hellpocalypse, my druid senses told me that something was off. A dark gallows pall lay heavy on the air, encroaching and smothering, the supernatural equivalent of a black fog choking away oxygen and light. Not that death was an uncommon occurrence in this timeline, but the almost palpable oppressiveness was something new.

A quick druidic scan of my surroundings told me the root cellar was much as I’d left it—dark, boarded up, and warded nine ways to Sunday. Familiar, mingled odors of mold, stale air, and earth tickled my nostrils, each one an indication of an undisturbed sanctum. Yet, beneath that stagnant bouquet lay an acrid redolence I could not identify, a partner to the spiritual fug I’d already detected.

Crouching in the darkness, legs shaky and chest heaving from the heavy toll time travel had extracted, I took stock of my surroundings. The cot, side table, and military storage crates were undisturbed, with a layer of dust atop them that indicated none had found the place in my absence. No telltale shuffling footprints marred the same accumulated grime on the flagstone floor, nor had anyone attempted to breach the thick wooden door.

Not that any mortal could find this place. The ‘look away, go away’ spell I’d placed on the entrance was formidable, and the vegetation I’d grown to hide the entrance, impenetrable. Yet, something lurked nearby, a creature that put my Fomorian survival instincts on high alert.

A magical predator. Interesting.

In this alternate timeline version of Earth, death waited around every corner, figuratively and literally. Usually, it came in the form of various undead creatures who fed on human flesh and blood—zombies, ghouls, revenants, nosferatu, and vampires. This wasn’t the usual rotten spoor that I detected, and that alone was cause enough for me to take notice.

I’d once been unwillingly stuck here for months on end by a former mentor in the arcane arts, one Gwydion fab Dôn. Said trip was meant to show me what would happen in my timeline if I failed to heed his counsel. As luck would have it, the daft fucker forgot about me, and my three-hour tour turned into Gilligan’s Apocalypse.

I’d learned to survive this hell on earth the hard way. Thus, I considered myself an expert on its inhabitants. In addition to the aforementioned undead, you had werewolves, humans, and those wildlife species that were able to elude the wandering zombie hordes. But apart from ‘thropes and the unduly resurrected, magical beings were nearly absent from this timeline’s Earth.

Witches, wizards, and other human magic users were gone, for the most part. The greatest among them had been assassinated on Z-Day, as they’d posed the most immediate threat to the Vampyri plan for world dominance. Those less powerful of their kind—hedge witches, minor warlocks, and the like—had either been hunted down or sent into hiding.

As for the Earthbound fae, they’d moved on. After assisting the vamps in taking over, the entire race had split for Underhill. Currently, they were waging war against their own kind for control of Tír na nÓg, with the assistance of the Vampire Nations.

That was the deal the two races made—the vamps got Earth, and in turn, they’d help the fae reclaim Underhill. Between them, they’d bulldozed all earthly opposition to their plan.

In short, there wasn’t much magic left in the mortal realm. Despite that, the thing that lurked nearby smelled like death and arcana. Not necromancy, necessarily, but something just as unpleasant.

As long as it stays out there, fuck it.

Though its presence bothered me, the anomaly wasn’t my problem. That was one of the first lessons I’d learned during my initial visit here. ‘Mind your own business, resist curiosity, and avoid unnecessary risks.’ That was how you survived the Hellpocalypse. Add to that ‘don’t go out at night’ and ‘aim for the brain stem’ and you had the three prime directives for surviving an undead Armageddon.

There was another reason to let the thing be—namely, that I badly needed rest. Nothing taxed the limits of my magical abilities and physical stamina like traversing timelines. Traveling between them left me weak, and being vulnerable here was a death sentence.

I’d set this place up so I’d be able to enter this time stream safely, despite my typically weakened state following chronourgical travel. Thus, ‘rest’ was precisely what I intended to do, nagging mystery or no.

With that settled, I sat heavily on the cot as I pulled a few provisions from the pocket dimension inside my Craneskin Bag. A hot meatball sub, a frosty can of root beer, a crisp apple, and some chips. Following a meal and a nap, I’d address the business that brought me here, uninvited visitor be damned.

The food was satisfying, and likely the last decent grub I’d enjoy for a good long while. I savored the rush of carbohydrate energy and the heavy sensation of fat and protein that sat like a lump in my gut, waiting to be digested. Hunger sated, I removed the sword strapped over my shoulder, propping it beside me as I adjusted the sidearm and spare magazines at my waist.

Those items I left on. You slept in discomfort in this place, no matter how secure the accommodations. After I found a reasonably tolerable position, I closed my eyes so I could drift off to sleep.

That’s when I heard it, the soft, hiccupping sobs of a young child coming somewhere from the dwelling above. The incongruity of it wasn’t lost on me, nor was the suspect timing and setting. I’d been a hunter before I became a druid, after all. Not one who hunted game, but a person who dispatched rogue monsters to keep the other races in check.

As every hunter knew, you didn’t answer the call of a familiar voice in the deep, dark woods. You didn’t trust pretty damsels or handsome lads that mysteriously appeared on lonely roads after midnight. And you sure as hell didn’t investigate the sound of a child crying in an abandoned house in the Hellpocalypse.

Just ignore it and go back to sleep.

“I wah-want my muh-muh-mommy,” the soft, forlorn voice wailed.

“Son of a bitch,” I quietly groused as I swung my legs off the side of the cot.

First, I tightened my bootlaces and adjusted my gun belt. Then I unholstered my sidearm, press-checking the slide to make certain I had a round chambered. Finally, I grabbed the sword and stood, slinging it over my shoulder and tightening the strap as I continued cursing softly under my breath.

“There damned well better be something up there for me to kill,” I muttered as I headed for the door.

While I could’ve teleported out of the cellar, that would require the assistance of my Oak. Sadly, this version of my sacred druid tree had gone a bit mad after my alter-ego had been killed. Although I’d helped it recover, my arboreal aide was still unpredictable and wild. If the Oak sensed I was in danger, it might rip the thing to shreds before I had the chance to determine the nature of the anomaly.

Hand resting on the door handle, I listened carefully for several seconds while placing a silence cantrip on myself. While my chameleon spell might’ve seemed the better choice, it required more power to cast. Until I knew what I was up against, it was best that I save that energy for offensive magic.

I opened the door and parted the wall of briars outside with a wave of my hand, commanding the vegetation to close behind me as I crept up the cellar steps. This was an old farmhouse, likely built in the early 1900s, which explained the external cellar. The clapboard siding, leaky roof, and peeling white paint suited my purposes, as it looked like a place where the undead would hide. People—those who were left—tended to stay away from such places.

Moving cautiously, I snuck up the crumbling concrete stairs that led to the back entrance. Once there, I found the door slightly ajar, though the dust beyond remained undisturbed. Nothing had passed this way—nothing corporeal, that was.

Just as I was about to head for the front entrance, I heard a distinct scraping sound. My eyes darted to the nearest corner of the home, where thick clawed fingers reached around the clapboard siding. A broad, bloated face followed soon after, peering down at me despite my perch atop the landing.

The moon-shaped face was massive, with purplish skin and dark eyes that shone like two black pearls amidst all that swollen flesh. It was bald, save for a few thin wisps of jet black hair on its scalp, and thick, coppery ichor dripped from its eyes, nose, and mouth. When it spotted me, it flashed a broad, madman’s grin, exposing crooked, yellow incisors and unnaturally long canines.

It was a predator, to be sure, but of what kind, I couldn’t say. The thing rounded the corner with quick, precise steps, revealing its full, bare-chested bulk in the span of just a few heartbeats. Then it paused, craning its head to the sky, and from its lips came that same, sobbing cry that had drawn me from my nice, warm cot below.

“I’m huh-hungry,” the undead nightmare wailed in its childlike voice. “I wuh-want, warm, thick blood.”

Well, it’s not like I didn’t see that coming.

What struck me most about its appearance was its size. It was easily seven feet tall, and perhaps closer to eight feet at that. The creature was as round and stout as a human figure could be, with tree trunk legs that threatened to split the tattered gray sweatpants that covered its loins and thighs.

Oddly, however, I saw not a single wound or ulcer marring that eggplant-colored expanse of integument. From head to toe, every inch of exposed skin was perfectly discolored and stretched taut, reminding me of a distended animal carcass fit to rupture in the summer sun.

Most zombies rotted away over time, but some foul sorcery seemed to have frozen this one in a permanent state of festering putrefaction. Additionally, long, claw-like nails dripped the same dark pus that ran down its face. Obviously, it was an active vector for the Zed vyrus that I’d come to this timeline to eradicate.

Suddenly, I found myself wishing I’d taken that nap.

The corpulent creature reached out to snatch me from the porch, stepping forward to close the distance with a celerity that belied its bulk. In response, I ducked and rolled under the rusted iron banister that ran the length of the stairs and landing. Those black, pus-laden claws nearly snagged the hem of my Kevlar-lined jacket as I dropped into the tall weeds below.

Clearly, the thing hunted by sight as well as sound. I dropped the silence spell, figuring I’d better conserve my magic until I knew what I was up against. As I rolled to my feet and danced away, the undead abomination followed, maintaining the distance despite my best efforts to increase the space between us.

Again, I was surprised by how quick the damned thing was despite its size. I couldn’t recall ever coming across something so large and fast. The way it moved, it seemed to possess the strength and speed of one of the vampiric species. However, I’d never seen a vampire that looked like this one.

Quick as it was, and exhausted as I was, I didn’t trust myself in close combat against the creature. If I was in my fully shifted form, I would’ve pulled my greatsword from the Craneskin Bag and cut the giant vampire in two. Yet, I wasn’t.

That left me with few options. I could flee and hope to outrun it. But in this state, I didn’t know if I could lose it on foot, and the likelihood of running into more baddies in the darkness made that a very risky choice.

Alternatively, I could call on my Oak and teleport away. Yet, without dispatching this thing, I’d never know what it was or how it got here. With it hunting this property and the surrounds, the safe house would be useless until I got rid of it.

Then there was the danger of exposing this timeline’s Oak to unknown magicks. That ichorous goo that leaked down the creature’s face was all too reminiscent of the blight that had nearly destroyed my demesne back home. Until I knew what it was, it would be best to keep my Oak away from it.

That left me with just one course of action.

Druid magic it is, then.

I backpedaled to maintain distance as I readied a spell, circling the house with the giant vampire in hot pursuit. One thing was certain—I did not want to engage this thing in physical combat. For that reason, I decided to bring out the big guns to end the confrontation with a single, powerful spell.

“Gearradh,” I hissed as I released Mogh’s Scythe.

Instantly, thousands of cubic meters of air compressed into a tight, razor-thin plane that shot forth at the undead menace. While it could be blocked, so long as I had my target in sight, Mogh’s Scythe never missed. The spell hit the creature in its bruised, bloated gut, momentarily tracing a pale horizontal line across its flesh as it made contact.

The compressed air blade struck with a hypersonic crack, followed by a low, resonant thoom that sounded from the giant’s gut. I stopped backpedaling when I noticed that the vampiric monstrosity had been staggered by the impact. It paused, cocking its head as it glanced down and rubbed its kettle drum belly.

Then, it smiled.

For several moments, the entirety of my being was focused on that massive, bloated expanse of skin. Frozen in shock for the span of one heartbeat, then two more, I realized that Mogh’s Scythe had no effect on the creature. Rather than bisecting the thing at the waist, to my horror, the spell had essentially bounced off its skin.

“What the actual f⁠—?”

Before I could finish the sentence, the beefy, bloated behemoth leapt after me, closing the distance with a few quick, nimble steps. I dove and rolled to avoid its festering grasp, drawing my Glock as I turned and came up in a low crouch. Instinct and training took over as I peppered the ixodic leviathan, stitching it from thigh to chest with five rounds of silver-tipped 10mm.

When they hit, the bullets expanded into tiny lead and silver mushrooms against its skin, adhering as if glued to the target. For a moment, I held out hope that the silver had pierced the deader’s unexpectedly tough exterior. It smiled and shook itself, casting off the bullets like water droplets. Where each had struck, only a small welt remained.

Well, shit.

The giant vampire sprang toward me, arms extended as if to bear hug and crush me with its beefy arms. I leapt up and over the thing, flipping as I emptied the mag at its head and back, again to no effect. When I landed, I took off at a sprint, holstering my pistol while heading for the thick woods that surrounded the property.

Earlier I’d been worried about running into other undead, but now I was willing to take my chances. By some unknown mechanism, lower undead species were seemingly compelled to steer clear of their more powerful brethren. As I zig-zagged through the trees, I hoped that this odd new species of vampire emitted the same repellent aura as nosferatu and higher vamps.

Although I expected to hear the behemoth crashing through the oak and juniper forest behind me, the night was oddly still as I fled. Soon I reached a clearing, where I paused and drew Dyrnwyn from my back, holding the blade at low guard. Soft white flames danced up and down its length, as I mentally probed the depths of my magical reserves.

Tapped. Should’ve never gambled on a single spell.

Likewise, I was too exhausted to run. Crossing the timelines had left me ill-prepared to face such a daunting threat. Lacking even the energy to magically conceal myself, I had no choice but to stand my ground.

I scanned the darkness for signs of my pursuer, extending my awareness outward into the surrounding foliage. As the blade’s flames flickered and faded away, an eerie silence fell across the dimly lit glade. Had the monstrous thing given up the chase?

Suddenly, Dyrnwyn flared like a beacon in the dark, white-hot and blindingly bright. I turned my head one way and the sword the other, wincing at the unexpected source of illumination. Straining to detect any sound that would signal an approach, I waited for my night vision to recover as I blinked away the sword’s after-image.

In spite of my enhanced Fomorian senses, I heard nothing but the wind whistling through the trees. Oddly, the air remained still around me. Could it be…?

I looked up, willing my Fomorian eyes to recover and pierce the gloomy veil of deepest night. The sky was overcast, and Dyrnwyn’s after-image obstructed my vision, making it difficult to see much of anything at all. Then, against the pale glow of the waning crescent moon behind the clouds high above, a dark object flew past.

The whistling became louder, then the sky was blotted out by a single, massive shadow. I side-stepped and swung overhead, feeling the flaming blade bite deeply as something crashed into the ground behind me. In the same instant, white-hot streaks of pain lit up across my right shoulder and back.

I spun with Dyrnwyn held in a back right guard, its brilliance casting my shadow as it lit up the meadow. The giant knelt with a steadying hand on the ground not two paces away, bellowing at me yet making no move to stand and attack.

On stepping back and circling away, I realized it wasn’t kneeling, but balancing on the stump of its right leg. The severed section lay on the ground behind it, having been cut off just above the knee. The monster followed me with its hateful gaze as I sidestepped to its flank.

When I circled behind it, the thing tried to turn with me, but it failed in the task. Dyrnwyn blazed so brightly at this range, I could feel its heat on my hands and forearms. The sword was made to detect and destroy evil, and whatever this creature was, it triggered the blade’s magic something fierce.

“I wuh-wuh-want your blood,” the undead abomination wailed. “Gimme.”

“Say goodnight, Tubby,” I said as I stepped forward and severed the vamp’s neck.

The head fell in one direction and the body in another, the decapitated stump of its neck gushing thick black liquid as it crashed to the forest floor. As the odd vamp’s cranium rolled to a final resting place on its left ear, it blinked and leered at me. Then it spoke in a dry, raspy female voice, like fall leaves blown across a dusty gravel road.

“Druid… at last, I’ve found you.”

Ugh, necromancy. Why does it always have to be necromancy?

Although it didn’t sound like him, it could’ve been Ateas staring at me through those cold black eyes. Or, maybe that bitch of a vampire, Karen, had been learning new tricks from her old boss. I didn’t want either of them spying on me, so I staggered toward it and thrust Dyrnwyn through the creature’s skull, deep into the ground below.

As the un-life left its eyes, I held the severed head in place with my foot and pulled the sword out, noting the blade had dimmed with the leech’s final passing. It was then I noticed the blood that flowed freely from the slashes the vamp’s claws had left on my back. Already, its poisonous touch was spreading outward from the wound, hot and throbbing as the contagion waged war against my immune system.

It was a sensation that was familiar to me, as I’d experienced it on my first visit to this timeline. I’d been infected by the undead vyrus once again, with a version so concentrated that it may as well have been cobra venom.

I staggered, thrusting Dyrnwyn into the soil to catch myself. Leaning heavily against it with both hands wrapped tightly around the hilt, I opened my connection to the Oak.

“Take me to the Grove, then bury this thing apart from its head,” I said.

Darkness gave way to light as the Oak obeyed my commands, teleporting me to another dimension in a heartbeat. Shivering violently, I fell into the soft, warm, sunlit grass in front of my swimming hole in the Grove. As I slipped into septic shock, I initiated a self-induced coma, hoping it would help my body fight off the high concentration of vyrus poisoning my system.

CHAPTER

TWO

The next day, I was roused from my self-induced coma by some unknown mechanism. On coming back to the realm of the awake and aware, I found that I was lying on a raised bed of living, woven grass. Intravenous lines grown from hollow vines ran from each of my arms, with organic ‘needles’ made from thorns piercing the veins they fed.

I’m not one of the undead, so that’s something.

I slowly propped myself up on my elbows, following the vines with my gaze to their point of termination. They originated at a verdant, tree-like shrub that smelled strongly of allicin and carvacrol, two natural compounds that possessed potent antibacterial and antiviral properties. There were other, subtler scents layered beneath those I’d identified, a mixture of beta-glucan, flavonoids, terpenes, carotenoids, polyphenols—and nature magic.

Ah, so that’s what woke me.

I didn’t need my druid senses to tell me that the plant was a hybrid species, one created for the sole purpose of providing herbal substances that were beneficial to humans. The Grove in my timeline was fond of preparing special teas and extracts that could boost my immune system and speed healing, and this version seemed no different. For a moment, I wondered if it would be wise to cultivate the shrub, and then plant it in several places on the Hellpocalypse version of Earth.

No sooner had the thought occurred to me than I received a mental image of the shrub shriveling and wilting away. I tsked and sat up fully, observing with interest as the ‘I.V. needles’ extracted themselves from my arms. Within seconds, the vines withdrew, wrapping themselves around the shrub’s trunk like two long, thin snakes entwining Hermes’ staff.

“Ah, so it needs your magic to sustain it,” I said, acknowledging the Grove’s message. “That’s a shame. It could help the people back on Earth.”

I next received an image of a cold, overcast day, which was the Grove’s way of expressing sadness or regret. I flashed a reassuring smile as I wiped the sleep from my eyes.

“It’s okay. We can still produce an elixir from the sap and leaves that I can preserve in stasis inside my Bag. Hybridizing the shrub was a good call. Thank you.”

The Grove replied by sending me an image of a happy little meadow scene—green grass, warm sun, and a gentle breeze that caused the trees to sway lazily in the background. She was terribly kind, and it was good to know I hadn’t hurt her feelings.

I tended to think of the Grove as a ‘she’ and the Oak as a ‘he,’ due to their relative characteristics and personalities. The Grove was a refuge of safety, the Oak both its gateway and gatekeeper. They were two sides of the same coin, brother and sister, yin and yang.

They were also my adopted children, as it were, that adoption being the result of an involuntary sexual interlude between myself and my ex-girlfriend, Jesse. At the time, she’d been resurrected by the Dagda as a dryad, an anthropomorphic avatar of a druid oak. Oh, and what a handful she’d been—powerful, capricious, and a constant pain in the ass.

Driven mad by magic, she’d been compelled to mate with me, and when seduction failed, she turned to deception. I’d long ago forgiven her for that transgression, as it had ultimately been the machinations of the gods at play and not entirely Jesse’s doing. The Dagda had wanted me to bond with the Oak, and that was what he got.

And that, boys and girls, is how little druid oaks and groves are made.

Or rather, how druid masters bonded with their oaks and groves, which allowed said entities to thrive and produce more of the same. I’d been experimenting with raising their offspring in my Grove back home and had dozens of saplings ready and waiting to be planted in secret locations worldwide. I only needed to recruit and train a matching number of druid apprentices to tend them—then, I could restore the druids to their former glory.

But one thing at a time. I planned to begin here, in this timeline, where druidry and druids were needed so desperately. I couldn’t think of a better place to launch my plan than an Earth where most mystical threats had either been eradicated or voluntarily evicted.

First, however, I needed to deal with the extremely contagious and hyper-infectious super-vyrus the Vampyri had unleashed to create the Hellpocalypse. The solution my necromancer friend Crowley and I had come up with was to create a counter-pathogen to release into the undead population. Thus far, that task proved to be beyond our knowledge and talents.

In my search for answers, I’d pored over the secret druid library Finnegas had left me. During my exhaustive study of those materials, I uncovered information on everything from making Greek fire to revitalizing demineralized soil. Yet, I found nothing that could help us nerf the overclocked version of the deader vyrus that Ateas and the Vampyri had created.

My instincts told me that druidry was the key. Nature magic was the antithesis of death magic, with the natural order being the counter to necromancy. The answer had to lie within the druidic arts, but apparently, I lacked the knowledge to uncover it.

While I certainly possessed the raw magical power of a druid master, due to the old man’s untimely passing, there were still considerable gaps in my training and education. Thus, my mission now was to complete my training so I could finally be worthy of the title of druid master. To accomplish that, I’d decided to go to the source—The Dagda, the Celtic god who originally gifted humans with the knowledge of druid magic.

The catch? In my timeline, he’d sworn off helping me.

And in this timeline? Here, he’d been assassinated.

Yet, that was a temporary condition where the gods were concerned. To get his help, I merely had to accelerate the process of the Dagda’s resurrection by a few centuries. No biggie. That was my next order of business after the housekeeping items I needed to attend, in this realm and elsewhere.

Speaking of which…

A large shadow passed over me and the shrub, temporarily blotting out the false sun above. Smokedancer landed some fifty yards away in a clearing across the pond from me. She preened and stretched before settling in the grass, the light reflecting iridescently on the dark red scales that ran the length of her back and down her wings.

-Greetings, master druid. It is good to see you are well.-

“Hello, Smokedancer,” I said as I stood. “How fares your brood?”

Smokedancer was a powerful, 30-foot-tall red dragon in the prime of early adulthood. I’d found her in this timeline’s version of Underhill, hiding from the gods and others of her kind who wanted to kidnap her children. In exchange for her assistance in defeating the goddess Boann, I’d granted refuge to her family within my Grove.

As I rounded the pond, I took in the fire drake’s majesty. Her scales were iridescent, darker along her back, then transitioning first to orange and finally to yellow on her stomach. Her teeth were like spears, and when her jaws spread wide, they revealed the glow of her fire glands deep within her throat.

She blinked, breaking visual contact with me so that I wouldn’t accidentally become mesmerized by her gaze. It was a bad habit, looking directly into those orbs. Yet, I often found my attention being drawn there, as her eyes were as captivating as Narcissus' reflection, as spellbinding as Tolkien’s Arkenstone.

Her irises were mostly gold and dusted with every possible color, shimmering due to the protective nictitating membrane that protected each orb. I could stare at those dazzling globes for hours, and would, were it not for the resulting consequences. Having dealt with other dragons, I knew to avoid their stare, and it was a testament to the trust between us that I was so lackadaisical about it in Smokedancer’s presence.

-Druid? Are you well?-

“Huh?” I said, shaking my head. “Just daydreaming, is all. You were saying?”

Her telepathic ‘voice,’ if you could call it that, was cultured yet very drake-like. It was like listening to Etta James—if Etta drank whiskey and smoked like a chimney. If I had to describe it, I’d say it was silk over hot coals. I know that didn’t make sense, but that’s how it sounded in my head.

-My children prosper under the shelter of your protection,- she replied as I neared. -We are indebted to you, as always.-

“Friendship keeps no tally, and it holds no record of rights and wrongs.”

-Wise words. Is that a quote from one of your druidic tomes? -

“Eh, something like that.” I smiled, close-lipped. It could be dangerous to show your teeth to a dragon. “I’m glad you stopped by, as I needed to speak with you.”

-Oh? Is there something you require? -

“No, nothing like that. It’s just that I’m going to be gone for another long while, and I want to make certain you’re well-situated before I leave again.”

I spoke as circumspectly as possible to avoid any possible insult. Draconic communication and social interactions were both intricate in their subtleties and strewn with hidden landmines, just waiting to be tripped over or trodden. While drakes made allowances for misunderstandings and the odd faux pas in their dealings with humans, I did my best to be aware of draconic cultural idiosyncrasies when communicating with Smokedancer.

The issue I was skirting was that of Smokedancer voluntarily leaving the Grove. I didn’t want her to leave, and I certainly didn’t want to give the impression that she’d overstayed her welcome. Yet, I knew that eventually she’d have to depart this place, due to the time differential between the Grove and other realms.

Time seemingly moved normally within the pocket dimension the Grove occupied—or rather, that it had created, take your pick. Yet, I could spend days or weeks here while only minutes or hours might’ve passed on Earth. That was great when you needed time to bone up on your druidry before you had to face a fellow demigod, or when you wanted some quality time with your very busy alpha werewolf girlfriend. But not so much when you were aging while everything in your home dimension was at a virtual standstill.

I had no idea how long-lived dragons might be, as there was very little information on their species in the library Finnegas left me. Understandably, I avoided broaching the subject directly, as I feared causing offense. Yet, I wanted my dragon friend to know she was free to leave at any time and free to return as well.

As if sensing my discomfort, Smokedancer yawned quietly, both to get my attention, and presumably as a physical indication of contentment.

-We’re quite well-situated here and need nothing more than that which you and your child-god have provided. Game to hunt, sunlight in which to bathe, and high places on which to roost. This place is a dragon’s paradise.-

I inclined my head in acknowledgment of the compliment. “I’m pleased to hear you say that. Yet, if you should require more, you are free to convey your request directly to the Grove in my absence.”

Smokedancer cocked her head as she looked at me. -You had best speak plainly, druid. Your language lacks the vocabulary needed to adhere to draconic courtesy and custom, and I know how impatient your kind can be about conveying meaning in conversation.-

“Oh? Is human language really that limited?”

-We have 3,762 words for ‘fire.’ In comparison to dragon speech, yes.-

“Huh.” I scratched my head, wondering how I should put things. Finally, I decided to simply blurt it out. “I’d like you to know that you’re free to leave and return at any time, but I don’t want you to leave because I enjoy your company. I also don’t want you to feel like you’re being held captive here for my benefit, as I recognize your sovereignty as an individual capable of making her own decisions and protecting her family without my assistance.”

The dragon sat in silence for a good long while, staring off into the distance while she chewed on my words. As she did, she blew tire-sized smoke rings from her nostrils, something I’d never seen her do in all the time I’d known her. Finally, after perhaps five minutes had passed, she turned and met my gaze.

-Noted-, she replied.

Before I could respond, she launched herself into the air. The dragon gained altitude quickly, then she wheeled sharply and headed for the mountains in the distance.

Well, shit. What’d I say?

After going back and forth for hours over pursuing Smokedancer to smooth things over, I decided against it. I didn’t know if her kind were functionally immortal, like the gods, but I knew they were very long-lived. As such, she probably needed quite a lot more time to process whatever emotions I’d stirred in my ham-handed attempt at conveying my intentions.

Thus, I kept my distance, instead readying myself to visit Crowley where I’d left him in another timeline.

The study of chronomancy is not something you can casually pick up over a weekend. The training is intense, and it’s not for amateurs. If you lack the mental fortitude to maintain your sanity while channeling every bit of mental energy you have into bending time and space to your will, you’re likely to go mad with the effort.

It requires a tremendous amount of willpower to get even a glimpse of the future or the past. Never mind that the future or past you see might not be the intended timeline. Instead, it’s likely to be just one of an infinite stream of constantly branching potential realities.

Sure, you might have the talent to open a doorway and step through. But if you don’t know what you’re doing, you can easily get lost in those Twisting Paths and never find your way home again.

Besides that, it takes a lot of juice to pierce through the boundaries of space and time, to journey to other realities and alternate dimensions. It zaps my physical and magical energy every single time, leaving me practically defenseless when I arrive at my destination. Which can be a real bitch when you land someplace that’s exceptionally dangerous.

For example, when Gwydion stranded me on some gods-forsaken rock in the middle of an unnamed cosmos far removed from our own. There’s nothing like almost being eaten by a gaggle of giant space yetis to motivate a budding chronourgist to innovate and evolve their skills. Which, obviously, was the entire point of the exercise.

I spent years with that madman, practicing and learning time magic in places where time flowed much differently than it did on Earth. Gwydion provided me with a crash course in mastering the most difficult and forbidden branch of magic, imparting skills that had saved my life on more than one occasion.

Countless trips to strange and unfamiliar worlds had taught me to tune into my surroundings on my every arrival. It was a survival skill born out of necessity, then transformed into habit, something I did despite the fatigue and disorientation I experienced whenever I ‘traveled.’ That was why I sensed that something was amiss in my immediate environment as soon as I entered the timeline where we’d hidden Crowley’s new lab.

It was pitch-dark inside the tunnels I used as my entry point each time I visited this time stream. That was by design. Crowley and I had mutually agreed to introduce as little magic and technology into this “Primal World” as possible.

I’d discovered the place shortly after my pseudo-breakup with Fallyn. It was a world parallel to my own in which an asteroid strike had reset the planet to position zero on the evolutionary scale. Pristine and primordial, I’d spent years mastering druid nature magic here, performing massive reforestation efforts, and nurturing the flora and fauna until the planet was back on track.

Out of curiosity, I revisited the world several million years after I’d revitalized its ecosystems. On re-entering the time stream, I discovered a planet in the throes of a Pleistocene-like period, complete with giant plants and the megafauna to match. The place was teeming with life and completely lacking in humanity, magic, and technology—and that was just how I preferred to keep it.

Giant predators notwithstanding, the influence of my druid magic had resulted in the evolution of several species that were unknown to archaeologists in my timeline. All kidding aside, the place was a lot more like Skull Island than North America of 500,000 years ago.

I hadn’t come across any true kaiju yet on the planet, but the insects, birds, and mammals were much bigger than anything scientists had dug up on my world. For that reason, I’d sealed off this cave system from the surface, save for the small ventilation tunnels I’d created to bring fresh air into the complex. Nothing larger than an insect should be down here. When I saw the large pair of bright green, feline eyes staring at me from the darkness, I knew something had gone very, very wrong with the fortifications I’d built.

My Fomorian vision being what it was, I did not possess the ability to see in absolute darkness. Unlike the fae and vampires, who could see in the infrared spectrum, my eyes were merely able to operate in low-light conditions. Thus, I could see at night much better than a human, but I couldn’t see in complete darkness. Maybe it was nature’s way of keeping my mother’s people from completely dominating the earth, but for whatever reason, our gifts had their limits.

I might not be able to see what was in the cave with me, but I could sense wrongness in a natural environment, and there was definitely something wrong here. For starters, I could smell magic, layered over something else—the scent of rotting flesh. Either Crowley was breaking the rules we’d set, or a powerful magic user had tracked me to this timeline.

Shit.

Rather than casting a light spell that would give away my position, I decided to try an alternative casting. As a druid trained in conventional magic, I could see in the magical-ultraviolet spectrum by triggering the cantrip that made that feat possible. It allowed me to see anything that projected ultraviolet rays, including enchanted objects, active spellcraft, and other magic users.

I triggered the spell and scanned the immediate area. The first thing I noticed was a large pair of eyes, staring at me from the darkness. My heart skipped a beat as I considered one of my worst fears—that a supernatural predator might follow me through the Twisted Paths.

CHAPTER

THREE

It was well-known to most chronourgists that things dwelt in the spaces between worlds. These entities lurked in the Void, and other in-between places, which was why it was quite dangerous to use wormholes to travel within a given universe. That said, the beings that inhabited the gaps between timelines made those creatures look like puppies in comparison.

Rarely would something notice you when you traversed time streams using chronourgy. If you did your due diligence, making certain you chose the correct and most direct path, chances were good you’d be safe. Yet, I was mortal—mostly, anyway—and prone to make mistakes. This was why it unnerved me that something unknown stared at me from the darkness when I arrived at my destination.

The bright, shining orbs were large and almond-shaped—not in the way a human’s eyes might be, but like a cat’s eyes. Save for the fact that they had round pupils and were the size of saucers, I might’ve been looking at a pet’s eye shine in the darkness. Then the rest of the thing began to coalesce as my spell settled in, allowing me to detect the low levels of magic that oozed from the rest of the sinister creation.

The big cat lay prone near the wall of the cavern, yet its head was level with my own. That would put it at perhaps ten or twelve feet tall when standing. While in shape it looked like a typical example of the now-extinct panthera atrox, or American lion, in size it dwarfed any known archaeological specimen.

Since my return to the Primal World, I’d seen such large felines roaming aboveground, but always from a distance. Witnessing one up close and in the dark was enough to make me wish I’d worn my brown pants. Considering the state of the thing, I was thankful that magesight didn’t render the world in high definition.

The lion had been killed, that much was plain to see. It had two large, gaping wounds on its side, likely the result of a run-in with a mastodon. Those wounds had necrosed before the cat had been reanimated, indicating it had been long dead before my partner had gotten hold of it. The edges were black and dripping with pus, the cat was losing its mane, and it reeked of dead things and necromancy.

In short, I now had a giant undead lion living in my underground lair.

“Crowley!” I roared at the top of my lungs, adding a bit of oomph to my voice with druid magic so it would echo through the caves.

In response, a low grumble emanated from the lion’s chest, vibrating my innards as only infrasound can do. Infrasound is unpleasant at best, capable of inducing bowel-loosening terror in humans. Large predators sometimes used it to freeze their prey, easing the work of acquiring dinner.

That the lion was using it on me only worsened my mood. Acting reflexively, I deflected the sound waves by altering the air density around me. Despite having just depleted most of my magical reserves, I met the creature’s gaze squarely, as any sign of fear or weakness might cause it to attack.

“Hush, you,” I snapped as I glared at the lion. “Else, I’ll unravel whatever’s keeping you alive and feed your corpse to my plants.”

The cat let out a softer, shorter growl, and then it chuffed and lowered its head to rest on its paws.

“That’s what I thought.” I turned off my magesight and triggered a light cantrip, then I marched down the tunnel toward the living quarters and labs. “Crowley, where the hell are you?”

I was halfway down the tunnel when the necromancer-slash-shadow wizard appeared in a puff of black smoke and mist. He adopted a bored expression, standing with one arm crossing his chest, the other hand cradling his chin. Barely visible wisps of smoke played across his pale skin, and his eyes were two dark gems set in pools of shadow.

“I’m right here, for Lugh’s sake,” he said in a tone that oozed droll detachment. “There’s no need to shout.”

I was livid and he knew it. True to form, the man was purposely testing my patience. After closing my eyes and counting to ten, I opened them and lowered the volume of my voice a few decibels.

“I thought we agreed that we weren’t going to introduce any more magic than necessary into this world?”

“And I haven’t,” he replied matter-of-factly as if speaking to a child.

I pointed back down the tunnel. “Then what the hell do you call that?”

“A necessary tool. A security system. Insurance, should some dark god or that insane vampire find a means of following you here.” He paused for effect, gesturing offhandedly. “You get the gist.”

“First off, only time gods can perform chronourgy, and they’re forbidden from using it.”

“And yet, Eris managed time travel rather handily, did she not?”

“Only by using a powerful artifact, which I took from her.”

He frowned. “Hmm, yes. And just where is said artifact now?”

“That’s not the point. The issue at hand is that you performed acts of necromancy on a pristine, non-magical world.”

“Hah! It’s hardly non-magical, now, is it? What, with twelve-foot tall lions and two-story tall oliphants walking about.”

I rolled my eyes. “The word is ‘elephant.’”

“Not where I’m from. And stop changing the subject. You decided to make this world your druidic playground, not me. After all, I wasn’t the one who seeded it with nature magic that altered the plant and animal DNA such that it’s now a monsters’ paradise.”

“I did it to bring the wildlife back from the brink of extinction.”

He placed his hands on his hips. “Oh, so it’s fine when you introduce massive amounts of magic into the world. But when I perform one tiny act of necromancy, you act as if I’ve sullied all creation. Do tell.”

I hung my head and rubbed my temples. Arguing was getting us nowhere; clearly, the isolation was affecting the man. The last thing I needed was to piss him off and lose his assistance. It was time to change tack.

“You only used necromancy on it? Not the vyrus?”

“Do I look stupid?” he huffed. “As if I’d let that monstrosity out in the wild. Just look at what it did to our world.”

He was referring to the Hellpocalypse. It wasn’t my world, but I gathered his meaning. The magical viral strain the vamps altered very nearly wiped out all of humanity. Mere millions were left, out of the billions who once populated that alternate-timeline version of Earth.

“Where did you reanimate it?”

“Down here, of course. Again, do I look like a fool? Besides, you pumped so much nature magic into this place, I doubt an undead creature could live long above ground.”

I flashed a crooked frown and sighed. “Fine. Just don’t let it out, and don’t do it again.” I glanced past him toward the lab. “How’s the work coming along?”

His eyes narrowed, which was an odd thing to witness, considering how they sat in two swirling pools of blackness. After a second or two, he chuckled, and his expression softened a bit. The man might be low-key, but he was mercurial as the weather.

“Fine, I suppose, if getting nowhere equaled progress. The nano-particles carry the load well, but it’s the counter-pathogen that’s stumped me. I can’t seem to create a stable version that brings about the desired effects.”

“Hmm. Then how are we on Subject Zero’s blood? Do we still have enough testing material?”

“Plenty, but it won’t last forever. I need help, druid—expert help.”

I held up a hand in protest. “We’ve already discussed this. The answer is still no.”

We’d experienced trouble countering the vyrus from the start. Theoretically, any druid master could make it work. Unfortunately, I lacked the know-how to trick the vyrus into killing its hosts instead of preserving them. Crowley, the skilled necromancer that he was, couldn’t seem to do the trick, either.

The vyrus was created thousands of years ago, and there were only a handful of entities left who might possess the knowledge to alter it. Amongst the gods, we’d considered Lugh, the Dagda, and possibly Fuamnach. Previously, Crowley and I agreed that we couldn’t trust the gods with anything. That left humankind and the fae races.

The fae fell into the same category as the gods, being completely untrustworthy. Moreover, it was doubtful that any of their mages would help us, even if they possessed the requisite knowledge, which I seriously doubted. None of the fae would have been there when the first vyral outbreak began, at the dawn of lycanthropy and vampirism.

Chances were minimal that the gods had transmitted knowledge of how the vyrus had been made to others. Deities were stingy with their secrets, even when it came to their offspring. Only the Dagda had passed on such wisdom, gifting druidry to humanity out of the pity he felt at witnessing their weakness.

Speaking of humans, until recently, there had been only two true druid masters left in the world—my master, Finnegas, and the Dark Druid. Yet, the old man was gone, and I’d killed the Fear Doirich. That seemingly left only one alternative, to go back in time and recruit my master from before his death.

I had several reasons for refusing to do so. For one, I’d already lost him once, and I didn’t think my heart could take losing him again. As well, I feared the timeline implications of pulling him out of the stream just before his death. Even if I returned him to the exact point from which he departed, he’d have knowledge he never could’ve possessed otherwise. There was no telling what mischief that might cause.

Lastly, I didn’t trust myself to return Finnegas to his time of origin after I finished my training. It’d be like sentencing him to death all over again. The old man had sacrificed himself for me, and the guilt I felt from that event still weighed on me heavily.

No, going back in time to recruit him was something I simply couldn’t do. It was the Dagda or nothing. But I wasn’t about to tell Crowley what I’d decided.

My gaze had wandered downward as my mind drifted. I humphed as I glanced up to address the shadow wizard.

“There has to be a way to make it work. Keep at it, alright?”

“There is, Colin. You must bring Finn Eces back from the dead.”

“Not going to happen, Crowley. But give me time. I have something else cooking that just might solve our problems completely.”

“As you say,” he said, inclining his head as he demurred. “But in this instance, I fear it’s the lady or the tiger. Putting off that decision is not going to make it any easier when you’re finally forced to choose.”

I rested within the caverns, in a private section set apart from Crowley’s lab and quarters. Once I’d recovered from the trip, I tended the gardens and pastures that provided Crowley with food during his stay on the Primal World. The man might’ve been a dangerous shadow wizard and an expert necromancer, but he was hellishly bad at raising anything living.

Although I was much fonder of this version of Crowley than his counterpart in my timeline, I preferred to take him in small doses. Besides, I had to avoid him before I entered the Paths again, as I intended to leave before he started inquiring about my new plan.

Yet, no man is an island, and I knew he required companionship. If we didn’t both die on this mad quest, I just might have to find a world where our mutual ex, Belladonna, lived and her version of Crowley had perished. Maybe then I could give the poor guy what he desired most.

After my chores were done, I left my partner a note, and then I crossed the Paths once more, straight back to my safe house in the Hellpocalypse. Again, I found the cellar untouched, and this time the stench and presence that permeated the place during my last visit had diminished. I fed and slept for the third time in twenty-four hours, then I opened my mental connection to the Oak.

Take me to the dead thing.

One instant I was inside the cellar, the next I stood in the early morning sunlight, on the edge of the forest clearing beyond the farmhouse. There was dew on the grass, birds sang sweetly nearby, and from a limb above, a squirrel scolded me for getting too close to his nest. The air smelled clean and pure, the result of a reduction in air pollution that this land hadn’t seen since the Spaniards arrived here in the 1500s.

If you closed your eyes, you almost wouldn’t know the world was experiencing a zombie apocalypse.

I saw no sign of the battle the night before, as the Oak had erased it all. Yet, a large, oblong patch of grass in the center of the clearing had withered and died since I last visited the place. The spot was barren of other life as well, as no insects or burrowing animals would go near it. When I probed the area with my druid senses, it smelled of sorcery and death.

The Oak had encased the body in a granite tomb, tightly sealed, so its decomposition wouldn’t contaminate the groundwater. I called on the Oak’s magic to raise it from the earth, shaping the stone as I did so to make it look like nothing more than a rocky outcropping. Fearing that the carcass would be damaged by UV light, I left the tomb intact to protect the headless body while I examined it.

“What did you do with the head?”

The Oak sent me an image of a large hollow tree not far away. Inside the tree sat a beach ball-sized boulder, within which the head was encased.

“Leave it there. I have everything I need here. And please keep an eye out for any visitors, human or otherwise, while I work.”

The Oak sent me an image of an eagle soaring high above, searching the fields and lakes below for prey. Satisfied that the sacred druid tree would remain vigilant, I sat cross-legged and dropped into a druid trance. My breathing slowed until I was taking less than one breath a minute, my heart beating only once every five seconds. Soon my mind roamed the inner landscape where mere intent could direct magic freely and efficiently.

First, I used pure druidic energy to etch wards into the rock in which the body lay concealed. The enchantment would quarantine the vyrus that was left inside the thing, and it would protect me from any residual magic while I examined the body. Safeguards in place, I extended my senses until my awareness hovered above the giant corpse’s skin, then I carefully probed beyond to see what foul magicks had made this abomination.

As I’d suspected, the undead creature wasn’t merely the result of the usual vyral infection. Intricate magical weaves lay just beneath the outer dermal layer of its skin, their purpose being to harden and toughen it into a nearly impenetrable hide. Essentially, its skin was the undead version of enchanted boiled leather.

No normal weapon could slay this vamp. Heck, it’d take a laser or high explosives to pierce the thing’s hide.

Beneath that outer enchantment, save for its size, the creature was a normal, mature vamp. Dense bone structure, enhanced muscle contraction, thickened nerves and myelin sheathing, and an altered metabolism designed to digest heme instead of protein, fat, and carbs. That was, except for the vyral venom sacs and excretion channels buried in the subdermal layer around its fingernails and facial orifices.

On a closer examination of those sacs, I discovered that they were connected to the vamp’s lymphatic system. In a normal, healthy, living human, that system serves as a secondary circulatory network, one that carries white blood cells, macrophages, and nutrients. In short, it was a central component of the body’s immune system, transporting everything a person needed to fight off infections and keep them well.

Conversely, this creature’s lymph system was designed to collect the vyrus and concentrate it in those odd sacs, where it combined with powerful cytotoxic and proteolytic venoms capable of breaking down tissue. There the vyrus would fester and multiply until the sacs drained the mixture into the vampire’s mouth and nose, and onto its claw-like nails. A single stray droplet on the skin could turn any living human into a ghoul, revenant, or vampire—no scratch or bite required.

Damn. This thing was designed to be a killer and a super-spreader, both.

Without the magically altered skin and venom glands, it would be no more dangerous than any other vampire of a similar age and abilities. Yet, it normally required decades for a vampire to reach full maturity and come into their power. I wondered, had this thing been enhanced after the fact, or had magic been used to somehow accelerate that process?

There was simply no way to tell from this examination, as the aging process was halted, and in some cases, reversed when a human transformed into a vampire. What I did know was that this sort of magical vyral tampering had been outlawed ages ago by the supernatural accords. In those days, the gods created rules for each race to abide, to maintain a balance of power between them.

The most important of which for vampires was, ‘no magic for bloodsuckers.’ In this instance, it seemed someone was breaking the rules. It could’ve been Ateas, but I’d seen his work before. He leaned more toward combining magic with science, and enchantment with technology. That was how the enhanced vyrus had been created.

By leveraging cutting-edge biotechnologies, Ateas had devised an entirely new strain that turned the infected into undead much more often than it killed them. Where before only a small fraction of infected turned, now they changed regularly. His work flipped the typical outcome of human vyral infection on its head, making a global outbreak not just possible, but inevitable.

Based on what I’d seen here, it wasn’t the shriveled old lich’s work. This monstrosity had been created from pure magic, and the weaves that altered its physiology were intricate and elegant. Honestly, it looked like the work of a god, although I didn’t know any god who’d do such a thing.

As I came out of my trance, I reflected on what I’d discovered. It seemed an odd coincidence that a magically enhanced, giant vampire had been randomly hanging around my safe house.

What was the creature doing here, and who sent it? The answer lay in its creation. Not just any necromancer or sorcerer could weave the spells that altered this vampire’s physiology. As much as I hated to admit it, this atrocity was a masterwork of nature and death magic, combined.

Who could create something this foul? Could this be Fuamnach’s doing? Even she had boundaries she wouldn’t cross, and I couldn’t help but think that this represented one of them.

Crowley knew the Tuath Dé sorceress better than anyone, and he’d recognize her work. I made it a point to retrieve the stone-encased head from the hollow tree before I departed so I could show it to the shadow wizard on my next visit to the Primal World.

Left alone, the thing would’ve decimated the local human population. I wondered if there were more of these things wandering the apocalyptic landscape of Central Texas. If there were, I’d need to find them and destroy them.

Although I had other, more pressing matters to handle, this new development would weigh heavily on me until it was dealt with, permanently. First, I had a god to resurrect, and it wasn’t going to happen if I stayed here navel-gazing.

After warding the stone shell, I tucked the head inside my Bag. Then, I prepared to have the Oak transport me to Underhill.

CHAPTER

FOUR

To complete my mission, I needed to defeat a goddess in the Hellpocalypse timeline. She and her late husband resided in Underhill, which was where I was headed. According to Jesse, Neit and Nemain had been responsible for the Dagda’s death in alt-timeline Tír na nÓg, a sad turn of events that I intended to rectify.

To do so, I’d need the Dagda’s staff of life and death, which had most certainly been taken when the couple killed the giant all-father. The gods were petty, calculating, and greedy, so there was little chance they’d have left such a powerful artifact lying around after offing the big guy.

Jesse had said that the Dagda killed Neit during their battle. Meaning, I’d only have Nemain to deal with in my quest to retrieve the staff. Once I bested her, I’d bring the Dagda back from the dead and entreat him to help me fix the Hellpocalypse.

Normally, I wouldn’t be so certain of my chances against a member of the Celtic pantheon. However, I’d just survived a run-in with Nemain in my timeline, and I had her number. Once I took her down, I’d bargain ruthlessly—her life, for the staff.

Simple. Get in, engage in skullduggery worthy of a trickster, and get out. Typical demigod behavior—or demi-Fomorian, in this case.

No wonder the Tuath Dé hate us so.

There were few places in this version of Tír na nÓg that would allow me to prepare for the battle in peace. One of them was my half-brother’s demesne, but I had no desire to deal with him at the moment. Which left my other option, Peg Powler’s swamp.

I only hoped that the civil war hadn’t spread to her lands, as I hadn’t been to this part of Underhill in months. Yet, I somehow doubted the gods and fae would fight over such an undesirable swath of bog and marsh, infested as it was with giant serpents, house-sized snapping turtles, and other deadly creatures. Never mind the fact that Peg controlled every damp inch of it, and she could likely cause a small army to get lost in the place, forever.

It was a gamble, heading to Peg’s swamp, but a minor one. I had the Oak teleport me to a spot deep in the heart of the marshlands, not far from the water hag’s island. After arriving I stood stock still, waiting patiently while using a minor druidic cantrip to keep the nickel-sized gnats and even larger mosquitoes at bay.

Within moments, a pair of dull red eyes appeared, staring at me from the darkness in the vegetation ahead. Then it was two pairs of eyes, then five, then a dozen. Finally, I lost count.

I heard a chirp, which was answered by another. Soon the swamp erupted in a chorus of chirping sounds, all around me.

Grindylows. Great.

In daylight, their eyes appeared almost pitch black, but in the darkness, a grindylow’s retinas emitted a soft red glow. I’d read up on them since my last encounter with the little shits, and I knew it was best to back them off before they attacked. Once they started a feeding frenzy, it was impossible to scare them away.

I summoned a fireball above each hand, wielding them menacingly. “I’m not the same cursed druid you tangled with before. Test me, and you will all die.”

They began inching closer, so I linked with the surrounding flora. It was more difficult than it would have been on Earth, as this was Peg’s domain, and the plants obeyed her command. Yet, I managed a connection by sheer force of will. Soon, dozens of thorny vines detached from nearby trees, swaying back and forth in the air like serpents between me and the pack of lurking monsters.

Still, the little fuckers crept forward, tightening the noose. I was just about to cut loose on them when the pitch and tone of their calls changed. Slowly, they backed away, their eye shine fading off into the darkness, one by one.

I knew it wasn’t me who frightened them off, as they’d already decided to attack. My keen sense of smell confirmed what my instincts had suggested, as the fetid, pungent odor of stagnant water and rotting vegetation now tickled my nostrils.

“Peg, I presume?”

“Druid, welcome.” The woman’s voice was congested and gurgly, with an accent that was uncultured and ancient. As was typical, she remained hidden, speaking from somewhere in the shadows behind me. “See ya’ve come alone. How fares the boy?”

“He’s well, Peg. Or, as well as can be expected. We ran into some trouble recently, so I had to take him off-world to keep him safe.”

I thought I might’ve heard a sob, so soft as to evade detection by even my sharp hearing. Then, absolute silence followed, lasting for perhaps half a minute until Peg answered.

“Tis’ good ta’ hear. I worried when I could no longer track ‘im, in the world o’ me birth.” She coughed, making a wracking, wet sound. “What brings ya’ ta’ Peg’s swamp?”

“I require privacy and concealment, for a time. That’s all. I have business in Underhill, and I need to prepare before I see to it.”

“Ye’ll find plenty o’ both ‘ere, an that’s a fact. Ol’ Peg knows ya’ kept yer’ promise, she does, an’ her word’s as good as coin. Yer’ welcome ‘ere any time, master druid. Now, come.”

A pathway opened up in the dense vegetation before me, and as it did, dry land emerged from the marshy bog beneath it. I wasted no time following the path, which led to the wide moat surrounding the hag’s island. River rocks seemingly rose to the water’s surface ahead, creating a series of stepping stones by which I might safely traverse the waterway.

Yet, I knew they weren’t rocks at all. I tried not to think about what lurked beneath those murky depths as the ‘stones’ bobbed slightly under my weight. When I reached dry land again, the tiny islets sank and disappeared, leaving a line of bubbles in their wake.

“Make yerself comf’ter bull, master druid.” She spoke from within the dark depths of her stick and wattle cottage, near the center of the island. “Ye’ll find bedding o’er by the fire, an’ ol’ Peg won’t disturb ya’ none whilst ya’ do what needs be done.”

“You’re a gracious host, as always, Peg. I’m honored.”

She cackled at that until her laughter morphed into a soggy, hacking cough. “Honored, ya’ say? Been a time and times ten since Peg’s heard such fine talk directed her way. I’ll leave ya’ to yer’ work, now. Mind the water’s edge, tho’, as the marsh serpents ‘ave been testy, what with the wearh, dearg-due, neamh mairbh, an’ the like passin’ this way ta’ escape the war.”

That got my attention. “Out of curiosity, are they coming from Fuamnach’s castle?”

“Nay. She be in league with the undead, but the sorceress refuses ta’ have truck with ‘em. Why d’ya ask?”

For a moment, I considered if I should involve Peg in the matter, then I shrugged and pulled the stone-encased head from my Bag. No sooner had I removed the wards, than Peg hissed and spat.

“Wærloga. Put that thing away.”

I warded it again and did as she asked. “Do you mean to say this is the work of a warlock?”

“Nay, an oathbreaker. Same but not. Tain’t Fuamnach who done that, Peg’ll tell ya’ that. Even her black heart wouldn’t allow fer’ castin’ such dark magicks. But I kin tell ya’ what it is.”

“That would be helpful. What is it?”

“Grics call it a brukulaco. Nasty bit o’ sorcery, ’tis. Old, older’n me, an’ that’s a fact.”

I clucked my tongue and nodded. “Ancient Greek magic, you say? That at least gives me a direction in which to search.”

“Aye, an’ whispers o’ similar creatures roaming the New World been comin’ ta’ ol’ Peg on the wind. Don’t know if’n such rumors are true, mind. But ya’ best be careful, master druid, when ya’ return ta’ Earth.”

“I will, Peg. I will.”

The old hag said no more, which I took to mean our conversation had ended. With plenty to ponder, I lay down beside her cook fire, not far from the hut. After settling in, I set aside my concerns regarding the ‘brukulaco,’ and I began preparing for my coming confrontation with Nemain.

A druid trance is no trifling thing, as it can be put to many beneficial uses. For quick work, like probing my surroundings, I could drop into a light trance in under a minute. But for more serious tasks, like deciphering the nature of the brukulaco’s enhancements, a deeper trance was required. In this case, I sank into the deepest trance possible to prepare some complex druidic spells.

When I defeated Nemain in my timeline, it was only by trickery, and by a very narrow margin at that. I also had the willing assistance of a druid oak sapling, which I used to open a gravitational portal to the Void. The resulting miniature black hole sucked all the air from her lungs, neutralizing the source of her magic. That in turn allowed me to bind her snugly and force her to submit.

This fight would be different, as I lacked the advantage of having an oakling to assist me. Unlike my Oak, other druid oaks could not teleport, making them unwieldy to bring along to a battle. Sure, I could hide one in my Bag and pull it out when needed, but there was another problem with that plan—all druid oaks were semi-sentient.

The saplings that had been grown from my Oak and Grove’s acorns were essentially my grandchildren. Thus, I’d feel like the worst grandparent ever if I placed one in danger for my benefit. That meant I had to find another way to defeat Nemain, one that didn’t require the presence of an oak sapling.

After my battle with the Celtic war goddess, I’d spent a lot of time thinking about how I could defeat her a second time. The more I gnawed at the issue, the more I realized I didn’t need a miniature black hole to stop her from singing. In fact, there were plenty of other ways to prevent air from moving in and out of someone’s lungs.

I considered sealing her lips with magic, but I figured her armor would be warded to prevent that very thing. Then I thought about creating a physical seal—for example, with vines, leaves, or even rock. Unfortunately, Nemain was incredibly strong, and she’d likely just rip it off or smash it to bits in short order.

Next, I explored the likelihood that I might use druid healing magic to seal her lips together, or to swell the tissue in her throat until it closed. Unfortunately, druidry didn’t work like that. Violating the principles of the Hippocratic oath while using a druid healing spell might cause the magic to backfire on you, which was no bueno.

In the end, it was good old ‘druidgenuity’ to the rescue. That old standby battle druid spell of mine, Mogh’s Scythe, turned out to be the key to my plan for handling Nemain. My theory was, if I could simply control the air around Nemain, I could keep her from casting spells with her voice.

After a great deal of experimentation—and some rather gruesome discoveries on the effects of Boyle’s Law, Charle’s Law, and the First Law of Thermodynamics on zombie lung tissue—I had a workable spell. My solution was designed to freeze the air molecules in and around the targeted individual’s head and airway. It was elegant, expedient, and completely harmless if cast correctly.

The only downside? It required an inordinate amount of time to set up. Meaning, I could only have one such casting prepared, and thus I’d only get one shot at subduing the goddess.

It took hours to prepare my ‘p-air-alyzation’ spell—excuse the nomenclature—and several more hours to prep a half-dozen other nasty magical surprises as well. Once I was ready, I came out of my trance, then I kitted myself out for war.

Cloak of invisibility, check.

Yep, that was pretty much it. Although I’d have felt a lot more confident in my full Fomorian form, I was still no match for Nemain in hand-to-hand combat, even after shifting. She was just too tough, too fast, too strong, and too damned good with that magic mace she carried.

I’d learned my lesson the first time I fought her, and that’s why I planned to stealth my way through this mission. If all went well, I’d take her out with no fuss or muss, negotiate for the staff, and be studying with the Dagda shortly thereafter. Piece of cake.

When I’d finished psyching myself up by visualizing a successful outcome, I turned toward the shack and waved.

“Bye, for now, Peg. I’ll be sure to tell Crowley you asked after him.”

I got no response from the hut. Either Peg was out, she was taking a nap, or she’d decided to be done with conversation for the day. Fey creatures were odd like that. Considering myself fortunate that the hag hadn’t drowned me while I was in my trance, I contacted my druid oak, then I teleported to the Bright Home of Horses, where Neit and Nemain were said to dwell.

Imchéll was said to have been the Dagda’s architect, the person responsible for building his fortresses. According to the Dindsenchas, the region of Ailech Imchell was eponymously named for the castle Imchéll built at its center. In the epics, it was described as a rocky, hilly country where the sun shone bright, making it the perfect place for horses to graze and roam free.

When the Tuath Dé created Underhill, they were rumored to have either brought their lands with them, or to have crafted facsimiles of those lands into their new magical realm. It was hard to say which they did, as the myths and legends weren’t clear on the matter. Regardless, when I arrived on a steep hillside in Ailech Imchell it was just as described, with rolling, grassy hills dotted by limestone outcroppings stretching for miles around.

An oak tree would stand out here like an ogre at a red cap wedding, so I’d ordered it to stay away. I could call on its power if needed, but once I was found out I’d be cut off. In short, I was alone here, and I’d need to get things right the first time if I wanted to leave here in one piece.

Pulling Gunnarson’s cloak tightly around me, I mounted a hilltop and searched the surrounding countryside. The famed fortress that the Dagda had commissioned Imchéll to erect stood just a few miles distant. I’d expected to see tall spires, crenelated walls, and deep moats. Instead, it merely consisted of three plain, circular stone walls, each one taller than the last.

Meant to guard the body of one of the Dagda’s sons—Cermait or Aed, I couldn’t recall which—it looked like a tomb. Stark, foreboding, and standing in contrast to the land surrounding it, the stone used to build it hadn’t been quarried locally, that was for sure. All I saw was white rock around here, but the fortress had been constructed from enormous dark gray blocks, each more than ten meters tall.

Despite the bright conditions, looking at the damned thing gave me the creeps. I turned my gaze away and began searching for Neit’s Stonehouse, the dwelling that the Dagda had gifted him and his wife.

In the opposite direction from the fortress I spotted a jagged shoreline, so far in the distance it was almost out of sight. The ocean, or great lake, or whatever it was, had been hidden by the hillside when I first arrived, and had I not decided to climb the mount on which I stood, I might’ve missed it completely. Vaguely, I could just make out a narrow neck of land that jutted out from the shore, high above the waters. That was where I was headed.

As I drew closer, I realized it was an island isthmus that once connected to the mainland, though it was now separated by hundreds of feet of empty space. Strewn around the base of the high cliffs at the edge of that elevated strip of land lay giant, wave-worn boulders. These served as evidence that the missing ribbon of stone had long ago been cleaved away by some unknown force.

Past the gap that divided the two land masses, a broad, grassy, concave plain spread out in a gentle upward curve that became much more pronounced at the farthest end. The sceir, although it was too large to be properly called as such, reminded me of a large, shallow spoon that had been tilted slightly upward so it faced the mainland. High up on that distant slope sat another dark fortress, this one built in a semicircle so that the walls terminated in the steep incline behind it.

The topography of the island served to protect the incurvate plain from the harsh winds coming off the sea. It also provided the inhabitants of the fortress with a clear, unobstructed view of anyone who might be approaching from the mainland. It was precisely the sort of place a pair of war gods would live, and it fit the description of their home in the Dindsenchas quite adequately:

Neit, son of Indui, his mother's brother, possessed Ailech, with Nemain, his law-giver wife, of the wounds of war,

That it may be called by all men Ailech Neit, the bright neck of land; to him the whole island belonged.

Neit was said to be the Dagda’s uncle, presumably by way of the big guy’s mother—but who knew? So much of the Celtic pantheon’s genealogy was a confused mess, and the epics contradicted each other on that topic at turns. You’d break your head trying to figure out exactly who begat whom, and the gods themselves would never give you a straight answer.

I didn’t give a damn about genealogies. All I was concerned with was finding Nemain unawares and taking her down. As I neared the spit of land, I searched the broad, cup-shaped plain for any sign of life. Soon a flash of movement caught my eye, a small herd of seven horses circling a rocky outcrop on the eastern side, about a mile from the fortress.

In their midst, a lone woman sat atop a boulder—Nemain. I’d recognize her stout, blocky frame anywhere. She’d foregone her customary black trousers and tunic in favor of a dark green plaid skirt, a cream-colored twill shirt, and a short hide cape that was drawn and pinned over her left shoulder.

The goddess bore no weaponry that I could see. Other than the horses, she was alone.

And ripe for the ambushing.

CHAPTER

FIVE

On approaching the gap between the isthmus-turned-island, I searched for a bridge or other means of crossing and found none. The chasm was at least a hundred feet wide, and the drop to the rocks and waves below was twice that. I couldn’t jump it or fly across—not on this world, at least—so I’d have to find another way over.

The most obvious solution was teleportation. However, I was keenly aware of the gods’ abilities and figured that the entire island was warded against arcane means of entry. Opening a portal onto the broad, bowl-shaped spit of land might alert the couple to an intruder’s presence, or it might open another adjoining portal that sent said interloper to the bottom of the sea.

If I teleported in, I could expect any number of similar mystical safeguards to be triggered. Heavens knew I’d warded my lairs and strongholds similarly over the years, and the results of crossing those boundaries had proven to be disastrous for many of my enemies. Should they be trespassed, a deity’s wards were likely to be many times as gruesome in scope and outcome, and I had no intention of testing that assumption in real time.

Thus, bafming in was out of the question. I sat behind a rocky outcropping near the shoreline, considering the problem while I searched the island’s wards for chinks and cracks that weren’t there. After a few minutes spent examining the place for potential entry points, I realized their magical defenses did indeed have one major weakness.

My magesight revealed wards around the perimeter of the island at the surface, shining so bright with mystical energy as to almost be painful to examine. However, they’d only warded the perimeter at ground level, and the air above that. As for the bedrock upon which the island’s topsoil rested, it had been ignored entirely.

My gaze slid down to the cliffs below that fell to the sea. I spied neither opening nor crevice that might provide a way past the wards and onto the island. Surely, on this landward-facing side—the one the inhabitants saw most often—they’d collapsed any such caverns long ago.

As a demi-Fomorian, I was not so different from the gods, nor they from me. I might not have the power of flight, but they didn’t possess it, either. In all the myths I was taught by Finnegas and Maureen in my youth, none of the Celtic deities possessed the ability to fly. Likewise, flying steeds were rare among the Tuath Dé and fae, which meant it was doubtful that Neit and Nemain had inspected the entirety of the cliffs surrounding their home.

I cast my gaze to the far side of the island, to the steep incline that led to the lip at the edge of the seaward cliffs. If they were obscured to me, they were obscured to the deific couple as well. That could be my way past their wards.

After pulling the cloak tightly around me, I contacted the Oak.

Teleport me to a spot in midair, on the other side of the island.

An argument followed, as the Oak was not my slave. It was highly protective of me, and it told me that my plan was foolish and likely to end in my death, in no uncertain terms. After being shown multiple images of me drowning, being swallowed by giant sea creatures, or being dashed against the stony cliffs by the waves and tide, the Oak finally relented.

Instantly, I found myself falling from a height of approximately one thousand feet, from the highest elevation along the island’s backside cliff edge, down to the sea below. I only had about ten seconds before I hit the water’s surface, and much less than that to search the cliffs on the far side of the island. However, the problem was gravity and momentum, as I’d still be falling when the Oak teleported me out of my fall.

It takes about twelve seconds to reach terminal velocity in free-fall. I don’t care how strong you are, landing at even half that speed is a bitch, and it’s going to result in some pretty serious injuries. Instead of searching the entire time, then teleporting back and hitting the ground at over one hundred miles per hour, I took a mental picture of the cliffs and immediately had the Oak send me back to where I’d started.

There, I told it, picturing a small cave opening I’d seen about a third of the way from the top. Take me there.

The cave was small, barely tall enough for me to stand, and full of bird shit and nests that had been abandoned long ago. It didn’t lead very far into the cliffside, either, but that wasn’t a concern. I was a druid, and I could part earth and stone easily, given enough time. My worries primarily had to do with whether I could tunnel through the bedrock before Nemain wandered back into her fortress.

I settled into a lotus position and dropped into a trance. Once situated, I commanded the rock to deteriorate and crumble away in a straight line, from the back of the small cavern to the last place I’d seen the goddess.

When implemented properly, druid magic was subtle, and not easily detected. Still, I took my time, merely accelerating natural processes rather than violating the laws of nature—or whatever natural laws prevailed here in Underhill.

Sometime later, I’d created a craggy tunnel that ended a few feet below the surface, one that was just large enough for me to traverse stooped over. I walked it quickly, hitting my head a few times in my haste along the way. When I reached the end, I used my magesight to determine whether Nemain was still near where I’d last seen her.

While all of Underhill was magic, its presence was ambient and understated, so concentrated sources of mystical energy stood out, just as they would on Earth. As expected, the goddess stood out like a flame in the darkness, shining brightly with deific energy and magical potential.

Yet, there was something else there, an energy misshapen and foul—a curse, maybe. I wondered, had the Dagda gotten off a final hex before his assassination?

Regardless, Nemain was in the same spot, and she was alone. The horses had dispersed to graze nearby, and she leaned against a stony outcropping no more than fifty feet from where I currently lurked.

You’ll only get one shot at this, Colin. Make it count.

With a surge of druidic magic, I burst through the last few inches of bedrock and topsoil, shedding dirt and pebbles as I unleashed my ‘p-air-alyzation’ spell at Nemain. Time seemed to slow, as it often does during such moments, and I noticed several things all at once.

The grazing horses spooked at my sudden appearance, rearing and whinnying, wild and white-eyed. Nemain turned her head, opening her mouth to speak or sing. Before a single sound erupted from her harsh gash of a mouth, my spell settled around her, freezing the air molecules and her head in place.

I drew Dyrnwyn and leapt at her, crossing half the space between us in a single bound. The look in the goddess’ eyes was as wild as the nearby steeds. Her face contorted with savagery as she realized I’d cut off her ability to cast her most powerful spells.

Wasting not a single movement, I took a final, vaulting step toward her, sword in hand, just as a dapple gray jumped between us.

For a steed to step in and protect its mistress was quite unusual. I’d known horses to display care for their owners, and bravery even, but typically speaking they were not aggressive animals. Equines were grazers, not hunters, and like most herbivores, their first instinct was generally to run in the face of danger. Certainly, a horse would lash out if it were cornered, but for the most part, they weren’t natural fighters.

This was why, as I flew toward the dapple gray mare, I wondered what had gotten into it. Then, as I neared the steed, Dyrnwyn burst into flames up and down its length. In the same instant, the horse’s appearance changed. Its eyes shifted from brown to bright, glowing red, its coat darkened, and it began dripping water, all over its body.

That’s when I realized my mistake. This was Underhill, where all was magical, and everything was out to kill you. These weren’t normal horses, they were fae horses.

Kelpies.

Call them aughiskys, water horses, glashtins, cabbyl-ushtey, or what have you, they were nasty fae creatures with a penchant for drowning and eating humans. Some could be quite powerful, possessing all the speed and agility of the fae, and the strength and tenacity of a predatory creature.

They were also shapeshifters, having the ability to assume a human-like form, although they usually had tells that gave them away. Tufts of water vegetation in their hair, leaving wet footprints behind, things like that. My friend Maureen was half-kelpie and hid her nature well. However, she was just as deadly as her fae kin, especially with a blade in hand.

If I had to fight a half-dozen Maureens, I did not like my odds.

That said, I’d killed enough of them in my time to know the species well. As I landed, I swung Dyrnwyn at the dapple’s neck. In response, the creature shifted into a tall, athletic, naked woman with pale wet skin, green eyes, and long, gray hair that clung to her small, perfect breasts.

The flaming blade swept past her as she leaned to the side, evading my attack with the natural grace of her kind. The kelpie hissed at me, narrowing her upturned eyes and curling her full blue lips to reveal perfect, sharp teeth. She leaned in to take a swipe at me with sharp, too-long nails, so I took her hand off at the wrist.

That only angered her further, and she pounced at me. It was a foolish move, as it left her committed to an attack vector that I easily avoided, sidestepping and pivoting to cleave her in two at the waist as she passed. Yet, her sacrifice had been calculated, forcing me to waste precious seconds as the rest of the herd closed in.

Five of the six remaining kelpies bore down on me, galloping in an ever-tightening circle that would allow any of them to attack from whichever direction they chose. In the background, Nemain struggled in vain to free herself, clawing at the frozen air molecules around her head. Meanwhile, the sixth water horse ran with preternatural speed toward the fortress, most certainly with the intent of bringing more of Nemain’s subjects to assist.

Not so fast, chump.

With nothing more than an exertion of will, I released two of the most powerful spells I’d prepared. Mogh’s Scythe triggered instantly, sending a micro-thin blade of compressed air spinning through the circling herd toward their fleeing companion. A large roan stallion lost his hind legs as the scythe passed, the invisible blade hurtling on to take the fleeing chestnut mare’s head clean off.

But I wasn’t done.

Fist-sized rocks and small boulders rose from the ground in a fifty-foot radius around me, hovering in the air before they began to move. The stones spun slightly as they began their orbit, picking up speed quickly as they circled me, the eye of the storm. At first, the kelpies were able to avoid the flying cobbles and scree, but soon they found themselves trapped within a chaotic, deadly vortex of hurtling missiles.

One rushed me, only to have its skull caved in by a basketball-sized sphere of death. The others attempted to flee, but they were beaten and crushed summarily while passing through the carnage. Cathbad’s Planetary Maelstrom was as brutal a spell as I’d ever mastered, and few supernatural creatures could escape its wrath once it was unleashed.

With no time to lose, I closed the distance between myself and the goddess, taking a position behind her where she could not turn to reach me. I held Dyrnwyn as near to her neck as I dared. Finally, I deactivated the cloak as I leaned in and whispered menacingly.

“Goddess, you have something I need. Do as I ask, and I’ll leave you in peace.”

No sooner had I spoken, than I felt a change in the air. Something powerful had arrived, though I couldn’t pinpoint its location. Had Nemain summoned another of her retainers to aid her?

“I’m listening, master druid,” a man said in a calm, almost imploring voice behind me. “Speak yer’ demands.”

I flinched and turned, keeping the flaming blade at Nemain’s throat.

What the—? Colin, you fucking fool.

Either that was Nemain’s husband standing in front of me, or I was a buggane’s uncle.

The Dagda might’ve killed Neit, but that didn’t mean he would’ve stayed dead. Of course, Nemain would use the staff to resurrect her husband, just as soon as she had it in hand. It was a foolish oversight on my part, but I could still salvage this mission if I played my cards right.

Fortunately, Cathbad’s Maelstrom was still active, and the orbiting mass of stones served as a barrier between us. I kept my gaze fixed on the god who stood beyond, evaluating him even as I prepared to make my demands.

Neit was tall, a full head taller than me in my half-Fomorian form, and not that dissimilar in appearance to my other self. He was built like a fireplug, thick and muscled, all thews and veins from head to toe, with not an inch of fat on him. The god had meaty, calloused, almost comically large hands. Those paws were nothing to laugh at, as they looked ready-made for gripping weaponry or tearing a person limb from limb.

As for his garb, he wore simple, spun cotton pants that were nearly the color of the lawn on which he stood, and a dark brown, sleeveless tunic made from the same cloth, belted at the waist. The burnished belt and tarnished buckle were unadorned, as were the matching leather bracers he wore, almost as if to restrain each of his bulging, oversized forearms and wrists. Every crinite inch of exposed skin bore the scars of battle, as did his face, which was as craggy and timeworn as any I’d seen, as if he’d spent millennia standing the battlements of his fortress home.

His thick, dark beard and full head of hair were groomed and trimmed, framing a crooked, bulbous nose and keen granite eyes set deep below a thick, protruding brow. Those eyes were searching and curious, yet dangerous, though I saw no ill intent hiding there, despite my threat and trespass. Neit’s deep crow’s feet crinkled even more as a faint smile played across his lips, not mockingly, but in clear amusement at some small jest he’d yet to utter.

“You two killed the Dagda?”

He crossed his arms and stroked his beard. “Aye, we did, tho’ the task exacted a toll we weren’t expecting ta’ bear.”

His accent was moderate and quite restrained for one of the oldest gods in the pantheon. Unlike Gwydion, whose manner of speech was a mishmash of many eras and evolutions of the Gaelic tongue, Neit spoke clearly and eloquently in a more contemporary style. I made a conscious decision to resist being charmed by his calm manner and almost genteel tone, focusing instead on my reasons for being there.

Despite that, my curiosity got the better of me, and instead of making demands, I asked a question that bothered me for some time. “Why, though? You’ve always been on good terms with the Dagda. If the epics have it right, he gifted you this island and fortress. Why kill him?”

“For counsel ill-advised, an’ plans poorly laid.” Neit frowned. “If yer’ here fer’ revenge, I suggest ya’ get on with it. But I warn ya’—ye’ll not be going far, now that ye’ve set foot on my lands.”

I tried opening a channel to my Oak and found I was cut off. It was an expected risk, but it certainly removed a bit of the leverage I’d gained by subduing Nemain. With a mental shrug, I reminded myself that millions were counting on me, and I steeled my resolve.

“I’m not here for revenge, Neit. You have something I want, and I’m here to negotiate for it. Nemain’s life against the Dagda’s staff.”

“Ah.” He nodded. “So, it’s power yer’ after.”

“Not for myself.”

“A noble cause, then? Every man’s noble, ’til they’ve reached the heights. Then their true mettle’s revealed.” He inclined his head, lowering his gaze to glance at his wife. “Look down, lad. I’ll not attack, ya’ have my word.”

The gods couldn’t lie, per se, but they could dissemble while speaking the truth. I shook my head. “I prefer to keep an eye on you if it’s all the same.”

He scowled. “Look damn it. Yer’ about ta’ lose all advantage, if we don’t settle this standoff shortly.”

With a thought, I tightened the path of the orbiting maelstrom, shaping it so the stony missiles formed a sort of dome around me. Only then did I shift my gaze to his wife, whose skin appeared mottled and bruised. She sat slack and slumped, seemingly held upright only by the stationary air molecules surrounding her head.

A goddess of Nemain’s stature and power should’ve been able to hold her breath for a damned long time, going without oxygen for many times the span a human could withstand. That she’d passed out already seemed an impossible outcome, and certainly, one I didn’t expect. Either she was faking and this was a ruse to force my hand, or something was horribly wrong with this third of the Morrígna.

I parted the spinning maelstrom to meet Neit’s gaze again, finding more than a small bit of concern in his eyes. “What the hell happened to her?”

“The Dagda’s what happened. Ya’ think one can defeat a god of his stature without paying a sinister price? Nay, not even we could ambush Ruad Rofhessa an’ escape unscathed.”

“I need your word, Neit. Give me the Dagda’s staff of life and death, and I’ll release Nemain immediately.”

The war god’s gaze shifted to the horizon, then he closed his eyes for several moments. When he opened them, he looked at me and sighed.

“Aye, I’ll give ya’ the staff. In exchange, ye’ll release Nemain an’ do a task fer’ me besides.”

“No deal,” I hissed. “It’s her life for the staff or nothing.”

He pursed his lips. “She’s slipping away, master druid. What d’ya think’ll happen after I watch Nemain die at yer’ hands, here on me home soil? Ya’ seem ta’ know a thing about her powers, but what d’ya know o’ mine? Could ya’ withstand the might an’ fury o’ the original Celtic god o’ war in his full power?”

I thought back to when I watched the Dagda use his staff on his son. Aengus might’ve been resurrected then, but he was far from well after that ordeal. Could it be possible that Neit was still knackered after his trip to and from the beyond?

“Crossing the Veil and coming back again takes a lot out of a god. Something tells me you’re not at your full power, else you’d have crushed me by now.”

“P’raps,” Neit replied. “But is that a chance yer’ willing ta’ take?”

We stared at each other for several long seconds, unflinching as statues. Finally, I broke the silence.

“Damn it to hell. What do you need me to do?”

The corners of Neit’s mouth ticked upward, ever so slightly. “One perfectly suited fer’ a druid master. I need ya’ ta’ rid Underhill o’ the mactíre neamhmharbha—the wolven undead.”

CHAPTER

SIX

“Come again?”

“Release my wife, an’ I’ll explain—if yer’ in agreement.”

I racked my brain for any memory of an undead wolf. Were the vamps raising wolves from the dead using necromancy, or had they altered the vyrus to infect animals? An undead wolf didn’t sound like it’d be too difficult to deal with, so I nodded and released Nemain.

The goddess slumped bonelessly to the ground. Her complexion looked like mashed beets, which had me a little worried. She lay there unmoving for a time, then she stirred, indicating what I’d suspected all along—that even a diminished goddess was a damned hard thing to kill.

“Fine, she’s free. Now, give me the staff, and I’ll take care of your little wolf problem.”

“Not so fast,” Neit countered. “Task first, then reward. Before I provide direction in that regard, p’raps I should look after me wife?”

I sheathed Dyrnwyn and canceled the maelstrom spell. Stones and scree flew in all directions, but none hit Neit. This was his demesne, after all, and he and Nemain likely controlled every last pebble. It would’ve been a battle of wills to use those rocks against him, had it come to that.

Neit strode toward his wife while I stepped away, averting my gaze as he ministered to her with magic and small words of comfort and care. Her color returned somewhat, though she failed to regain consciousness immediately. After a time, he raised a hand as if to get my attention.

“I’ll return shortly,” he said.

A portal appeared before him, a tall oval window in space that revealed a lavish bedroom beyond. The god cradled his wife in his arms, then he stood and carried her through. The gate closed behind him, leaving me standing in the middle of a field of kelpie corpses, wondering what the hell I’d gotten myself into.

While I waited, I used druidry to bury the dead fae, sinking them beneath the soil where they’d nourish the grass. Not that anything was left to graze on it, but that was no great loss. I felt no remorse for killing those child-drowning, cannibalistic creatures.

When I finished, I sat on a boulder and bided my time by readying more spells, just in case the war god decided to break his word. Druidic protections notwithstanding, I doubted it’d do much good. I’d faced Nemain in my timeline, and she’d outclassed me in nearly every way.

What if the husband is more powerful than the wife, and he turns on you? What will you do then?

Neit was one of the oldest of the Celtic gods. If his reputation held up, he was among the most dangerous of the lot. Assuming he was in tip-top shape, I had no doubts regarding his ability to trounce me on his home turf.

On the other hand, his response to my actions had been odd, to say the least. I’d trespassed on his lands, attacked his wife, and slaughtered his subjects. Being a war god and all, you’d think he’d have reacted by smiting me with prejudice.

Yet, the art of battle was about more than just strength of arms. To be successful at waging war, you had to utilize strategy, resource management, and deception with equal skill. Either Neit was currently diminished due to his recent trip across the Veil, or he saw me as an opportunity that he intended to use to his advantage.

Bottom line? The gods were cunning, and the old gods were craftier still. I’d need to be on my guard, no matter how simple this task might seem.

Time passed strangely in Underhill, and when Neit returned, I couldn’t be certain how much of it had passed. When he stepped through the portal, he looked much more relaxed than he had earlier. The tightness around his eyes was absent, and he moved with an easy, carefree grace.

As he strode toward me, I stood. The god stopped just out of arm’s reach, arms crossed and eyes narrowed. “Tell me, why d’ya want the staff?”

“You’re strangely calm, considering I just invaded your home and attacked your wife.”

“I’ve been in the dirty business o’ war fer’ a good long while. Ya’ learn ta’ be pragmatic about such matters.” He cocked his Neanderthal head. “So, the staff?”

“I miss my cat, and the cursed Native American burial ground behind my house got bought out by Blackrock and turned into condos.” I gave a slight shake of my head. “No offense, but let’s focus on the task at hand, shall we?”

He raised his hands placatingly. “Fair enough, fair enough. What d’ya know about necromancy?”

I tsked. “About as much as any druid should know. It’s forbidden, it violates the laws of nature, and it somehow created the vyrus that led to the creation of the undead.”

Neit raised a finger. “An’ let us not forget the faoladha as well. All such creatures were birthed from the same seed. Twas’ necromancy that caused the living ta’ thrive an’ the dead ta’ rise, both.”

“How’s that possible? Necromancy is death magic, or at least, a form of it. It’s anathema to life. Nature and death magic simply don’t mix.”

“Not in the form practiced today. Originally, however, that art was not so constrained.”

“You’re saying that necromancy wasn’t always necromancy?” I narrowed my eyes. “The essence of a thing doesn’t change on its own. If it was ‘constrained,’ as you say, how exactly did that happen?”

The war god’s gaze shifted to the mainland. “That topic’s not exactly germane ta’ our discussion. Ta’ explain what ye’ll be up against, you merely need ta’ know a fact about necromancy that’s been lost ta’ time. That being, how the magic was once used both ta’ enhance life, an’ ta’ destroy it.”

“Call me a skeptic, but let’s say this is true. What’s it got to do with my mission?”

Neit bobbed his head as he took a deep breath, letting it out slowly before he answered. “Some retain this knowledge, e’en ta’ this day. The deamhain fola have recruited such a one, a sorceress who’s raising creatures that possess powers o’ both species.”

“Both species, meaning vampires and werewolves?” I hung my head. “You’re talking about undead shifters. Impossible. As soon as a ‘thrope is infected with the undead vyrus, the ‘thrope vyrus expels it from their system.”

“Yet, this has been done. These creatures are being used in the war here in Underhill, ta’ turn the tide against the native fae an’ the gods who lead them.”

“Why should you care? You killed the Dagda, so that must mean your side’s winning.” I twirled a finger in the air. “Hooray.”

He gave a resigned sigh. “I merely wanted the war ta’ end, afore Underhill was torn apart. Killing Ollathair was supposed ta’ speed things along. Instead, it only served ta’ prolong the conflict.”

“Seems a strange thing for a war god to misjudge such matters.”

For the first time, Neit bristled. “Watch yerself, lad. I might’ve mellowed o’er the millennia, but me tolerance fer’ insolence has its limits.”

Honestly, I couldn’t tell whether his anger was an act or not. He was hustling me; I just wasn’t certain how or why. Until I knew all the stakes and players in this game, I’d dance to his tune.

“It wasn’t my intent to offend, only to determine whether there were other factors involved.”

Neit’s expression quickly morphed from irritation to calm. He smiled broadly, chuckling in a manner so natural that I couldn’t help but think that his mirth was genuine. Yet, my intuition said otherwise.

“Ah,” he said, clapping a meaty hand on my shoulder. “Yer’ looking fer’ an angle. Can’t say I blame ya’ fer’ it, so no harm done.”

The god squeezed a little too tightly before lifting his hand away. I resisted the urge to rub the bruise his firm grip surely left. Neit was a predator, of that I had no doubt, and it wouldn’t do to show weakness in front of him. Suddenly, I felt eager to get away, to get this quest over with so we could square up and part ways for good.

“Just so we’re clear, tell me exactly what you’re asking me to do.”

He pointed a thick finger at me. “I want you ta’ destroy na mairbh neamhbhásacha, an’ the one who made ‘em.”

“Sounds simple enough,” I said, knowing it wasn’t. “So, where do I start?”

He flashed an amused grin. “Directions an’ assistance were not a part o’ the bargain. Off ya’ go, lad, an’ don’t return until ya’ve dealt with the creatures and their sorcerous matron.”

The war god dismissed me with a subtle sweep of his fingers. The next thing I knew, I stood on the mainland once more, facing away from the spoon-shaped island that Neit and Nemain called home.

“Well, piss,” I said to no one in particular as I stared at the fortress of Ailech Imchell in the distance.

Mistake one was failing to expect that Nemain would use the staff to bring back her husband. Mistake two was agreeing to tackle a quest for a god without first delineating the terms of said undertaking. Both were rookie mistakes, and I was way past committing those sorts of critical blunders.

What had I been thinking?

I hadn’t been thinking, that was the problem. On reflection, I realized I’d had a one-track mind from the time I decided to head down this mad path. Clarity had only come after I cut my deal with Neit.

Someone or something had been subtly clouding my judgment and causing me to act recklessly. Yet, I’d decided to acquire the staff in another timeline, and I’d told no one about my plans. I only knew of one entity that could predict the future and influence it across multiple timelines.

“Click, you conniving jackass,” I hissed. “Show yourself.”

The quasi-god and trickster known as Gwydion stepped out from behind a tall rock formation to my left. He looked like a young James Dean, straight down to the stray lock of hair that always dangled over his brow. The immortal, insane magician dressed like the late actor as well, favoring worn Western boots, pegged jeans, and a white t-shirt worn under a vintage black motorcycle jacket.

“Figured it out, didja’ boyo?” he asked, wincing abashedly as he lifted his eyes to meet my gaze.

“Yes, I fucking did,” I replied. “Mind telling me why you’re meddling in my affairs again?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say I’m meddlin’ so much as guidin’ ya’ in the proper direction⁠—”

“‘Guiding?’” I replied, my voice dripping with incredulity. “You could’ve gotten me killed.”

“Only in a few possible futures, mind.” He clucked dismissively. “Hardly e’en a risk, when ya’ think about it.”

“Not to you,” I hissed softly, shooting daggers at him with my gaze. “You’re not the one who decided to take on two war gods in their demesne.”

“Meh, they’re clearly off their game. More like takin’ on a single war god, when ya’ think about it.”

I made a shushing noise as I pinched my fingers and thumb together. “Not another word.”

After fixing him with a look that could spoil milk, I closed my eyes and counted my breaths to calm myself. The truth was, I was more worried than angry. Click might’ve been crazy, but there was a method to his madness. If he’d gone through this much trouble, major events were afoot.

When I opened my eyes, the trickster was fussing with the zippers on his jacket and muttering to himself softly. He looked equal parts embarrassed and aggrieved in a manner only a cunning, mad fool like he could manage. I released a long, resigned sigh—this was what I got for ignoring Finnegas’ advice when it came to immortals.

“Why’d you do it?”

His face lit up as he grinned from ear to ear. “First, lemme’ say that I knew ya’ had it all completely under control. I mean, the way ya’ handled that ambush, t’were a thing o’ beauty. An’ ol’ Neit wasn’t about ta’ off ya’—leastways, not afore he got ya’ ta’ deal with his puppy problem.”

“‘Puppy problem’? This mess sounds a hell of a lot more serious than a litter of strays chewing Neit’s curtains and pissing on his carpet. Mind filling me in?”

Gwydion waved me off with a backward flick of his hand. “Pfah, ’tis nothing a druid master like yerself cain’t handle. The priority’s gettin’ the stave back from that brute, an’—”

He stopped mid-sentence, snapping his mouth shut like a steel trap. Either he didn’t want to reveal too much, or he’d already said enough.

I cocked an eyebrow. “You were saying?”

“Me?” he replied, laying his outspread fingers on his chest. “Was I sayin’ somethin’? Must’ve slipped my mind.”

“Click—” I said in a low, dangerous tone.

“Would’ja look at the time,” he replied as he glanced at his bare wrist. “Been fun catchin’ up wit’ ya’ lad, but I’ve places ta’ be an’ timelines ta’ pilfer. Toodles.”

I lunged at him, but he was too quick and wily to be caught by my halfhearted attempt. The ancient magician disappeared, leaving me grasping empty air. Growling and cursing under my breath, I commanded the cloak to conceal me as I headed inland, figuring the walk might clear my head.

Was I angry? Certainly, but Click was experiencing a manic episode. Better for me to chase him off, than to press for answers that would only frustrate me further. He’d show up again later, hopefully in a much saner state of mind, and then I’d find out why he’d steered me toward a confrontation with Neit.

That said, it did piss me off that he’d used magic to cloud my judgment. I’d been headed down this path anyway, but I wouldn’t have chosen such a risky and foolhardy approach had it not been for Gwydion’s interference. Regardless, now I had to find this anonymous sorceress and deal with her so I could acquire the Dagda’s staff.

The question was, what sort of being would be powerful enough to wield knowledge that only the oldest gods possessed? I had to assume she was a god, or at least, that she wielded god-like power. Was my target a sorceress, a goddess, or something else entirely?

My former adversary Fuamnach was both a sorceress and a goddess, one who’d served the interests of the Celtic pantheon for millennia. Despite her extensive mastery of arcane practices, I’d never witnessed her using anything close to the sort of spell craft that Neit described. Was it possible that this enigmatic enchantress was even older than a Celtic goddess?

Or, perhaps there were magicks that even Fuamnach herself wouldn’t touch. Neit did mention how said magical practice had been ‘constrained.’ That sounded like god-speak for declaring that something was forbidden.

Like time magic. What in the world could be so dangerous as time magic to the gods?

If anyone knew, it would be Crowley. He lived with Fuamnach and had been trained by her in necromancy. It was time to have another chat with my old frenemy.

Crossing into the Primal World timeline didn’t take quite as much out of me this go-round, so I headed straight through the caves to Crowley’s lab when I arrived. As I passed the undead, oversized panthera atrox guarding my time travel entrance chamber, it raised its head, observing me with pale green eyes as I strode by in the darkness.

Practically speaking, I could re-enter this world at any time. However, by previous agreement, I returned here at one-week intervals. This was intended to provide Crowley with the opportunity to make appreciable progress between visits.

My partner in crime was hard at work when I arrived. The general disarray of the lab stood as a testament to that fact, as the shadow wizard was normally as neat and meticulous as any person I’d ever met. Yet, the room was a mess, with lab equipment, test tubes, and alchemical bottles strewn everywhere.

The wizard was hunched over a microscope when I entered, presumably examining his latest attempt at creating a viable counter-pathogen.

“Any luck?” I asked as I approached, taking care to step over a broken vial on the smooth stone floor.

“I’m not currently working on the antibodies,” he replied without looking up. “Instead, I’m replicating the vyrus in Ateas’ blood sample, so I don’t run out of work material.”

“Ah, gotcha. Smart.”

“Necessary,” he said. “But you didn’t come here for an update. What brings you back so soon?”

“Have you ever heard of a necromancer who could create an undead werewolf?”

He took his eyes away from the microscope and sat upright, swiveling his chair around to face me. “Now, that is an interesting question. I take it this has something to do with whatever obstacle has arisen in your quest to acquire the knowledge we seek?”

“It does. I’m trying to gain the favor of someone who can get us closer to our goal.”

“A god,” Crowley interjected, raising a hand as he closed his eyes and turned his head. “Say no more. I needn’t know the details of your latest suicidal endeavor.”

“I am not suicidal.”

“Your track record says otherwise.” He crossed his arms and leaned against the sculptured stone worktable. “Regarding your question, the last time I heard someone mention such a thing was before the apocalypse. I was perusing the shelves at the local comic shop when two patrons began arguing about what would happen if a vampire and a werewolf bit each other.”

“Nothing, of course.”

“Yes, but they didn’t know that. Their argument became so heated, it distracted me from my browsing. Eventually, I cast a compulsion on the duo that caused them to crave convenience store sushi, so they’d leave the premises.”

“Oh? What happened next?”

Crowley shot me a quizzical look. “I assume they died of food poisoning. But enough of reminiscing about happier times. Come then, explain why you’re inquiring about impossible necromantic creations.”

“How do you know they’re impossible?”

“You’ve seen therianthropes and vampires engaged in mortal combat. How many times have you witnessed a vampire wounding a werewolf? Dozens, I’d imagine? And have you ever met a ‘thrope that succumbed to the undead vyrus?”

I shook my head. “No, I haven’t. We both know that the ‘thrope vyrus prevents that from happening.”

“Then why do you ask?”

“Just wondering if Fuamnach ever tried to make zombie werewolves a reality.”

“Hmm,” the wizard said as he stroked his pale, dusk-streaked chin. “I believe it is possible to raise a werewolf from the dead by animating it with necromancy. Yet, the sheer amount of magic required is simply not worth the cost. In the end, you’re left with one very dumb, reasonably slow werewolf, when you could’ve had a score of ghouls for the same expenditure of resources.”

“Yes, but has she done it?”

“Not in recent memory, no.” He paused for a moment to give my question further consideration. “Although I do seem to remember coming across a reference to such a creature during my assigned studies. The old gorgon has quite an extensive library at her castle above Peg’s swamp. A truly remarkable collection⁠—”

“Wait a second—you called her a ‘gorgon.’ Why?”

Crowley made an offhanded, dismissive gesture. “Oh, I don’t know. I suppose the entry in this particular bestiary caused me to make the connection.”

“By chance, was this creature Greek in origin?”

“As I recall, yes. A vrykolakas, I believe. Similar to the Romanian legend of the varcolaci.”

“Hot damn, Crowley, you’re a genius,” I exclaimed.

“I hardly think that having excellent memory recall makes me a genius,” he demurred. “Although I am at that. Wait—where are you going?”

I waved at him over my shoulder, as I was already headed for the exit. “I’m going to rest, then I have some research to do. I’ll see you in six days.”

“Fine then, leave me to my work,” he muttered. “And bring me back some comic books.”

CHAPTER

SEVEN

When I returned to the Hellpocalypse, my first stop was the Grove to get some rest. I recovered in record time, which I chalked up to the restorative powers of the pocket dimension’s nature magic. Since the druidic tomes and scrolls that Finnegas left me were in my timeline, I asked the Oak to take me to Earth to do a little research.

Not every city had been destroyed when the bombs fell. While the larger metropolitan areas had suffered the most damage, mid-sized cities like Round Rock were mostly spared. Except for exposure to nuclear fallout, that is.

Thankfully, fallout decays quickly, diminishing by a factor of ten over every seven-fold passage of time. Twenty-four hours after the attacks, radiation levels had dropped to roughly fifteen percent of initial levels. A few days after detonation, the roentgen per hour level of radiation fell to less than one percent of what it was at the time of original contamination.

Meaning, the ones who survived were those who took shelter under earth, concrete, or some other substantial barrier as soon as they saw the mushroom clouds. Granted, when they emerged they had to deal with food shortages, finding potable water, fighting looters and zombies, and all the other crap that came along with living in the Hellpocalypse. But at least they were alive.

Most people didn’t take shelter from the fallout because they simply didn’t know better. As a result, many people died after the bombs fell. Thus, those who made it stayed away from fallout zones, both from fear of radiation sickness and due to the high concentration of undead in those areas.

The upside to that, if there was one, concerned the preservation of resources within those formerly populated areas. There was a lot of nonperishable food, medicine, and other salvageable goods in those places, if you were bold, and you knew where to look.

By this point, as long as you stayed away from bomb craters, you’d be fine. I had my very own built-in druid Geiger counter, so I knew when I was getting too close to a hot zone. The undead didn’t frighten me anymore—not in small numbers, anyway—so I was free to roam in places most survivors avoided.

My quest for knowledge began by teleporting to public libraries in smaller, densely populated areas all around Central Texas. I arrived at the first location close to midnight, which wasn’t ideal, but at least the local undead would be active so I could eliminate them easily.

My work had been cut out for me. First, I had to clear each location of unwanted occupants, then search the shelves for books on mythology and folklore. I turned up little in the way of helpful info on undead weres, but I did find an entry on the vrykolakas, which appeared to be the more proper pronunciation of Peg’s ‘brukulaco.’

By the time I’d cleared and rummaged through a fifth library, the sun was coming up. I sat atop the front counter of the Pflugerville Public Library, watching dust motes float through the air above the moldering stacks as I took a moment to revel in the familiar scent of books, old and somewhat new. With a sigh, I realized it was time to face the facts—namely, that the information I sought was much more obscure and arcane than I’d first hoped. Meaning, I’d have to look for answers in much more obscure and arcane places.

The trip wasn’t a total loss, as I’d found numerous books that would be useful to the survivors I looked after here in this timeline. I grabbed anything that might provide the children with a practical education—all the STEM titles I could find. Moreover, I snagged survival and homesteading manuals that had been overlooked by other survivors. Finally, I took fiction novels at all levels of reading, everything from Asimov to Tolkien, from Encyclopedia Brown to The Once and Future King.

All of it went in my Bag, to add to the library at the fortified homestead where I’d stashed the survivor group I called ‘the LARPers.’ Finally, I secured each library to prevent the undead from inhabiting the buildings, protecting them with hidden wards that would repel zombies, ghouls, revenants, and vampires. Of course, the bookworm in me just had to add a minor cantrip to protect the remaining titles against mold, rot, and insects. I might be a druid, but I wasn’t entirely given over to allowing nature to run its course, after all.

Once done, I headed to Bryan-College Station to speak with Samson. Not only was he among the oldest and most powerful werewolf alphas I’d ever met, but he’d also been romantically involved with Leto, mistress of all werewolves. If anyone knew about varcolaci, he would.

I teleported atop an elementary school roof on the outskirts of Bryan, about a quarter-mile southeast of the Department of Public Safety building the Pack inhabited. The choice of my arrival location had not been random. Although members of the Pack were used to my magical antics, most humans were not, and they tended to be jumpy. The last thing I needed was to frighten some mundane by appearing out of nowhere, then catch a bullet in the brainpan for my trouble.

The former DPS office was strategically located, within easy reach of good scavenging territory to the south and nothing but miles of farmland to the north. The place was defensible as well, being a two-story, red brick box with few windows and a fenced parking lot in the back. Shortly after taking it over, the Pack beefed up the fortifications with stacked concrete barriers and shipping containers. It was fortunate they had. When I arrived, they were surrounded and under attack by a horde that numbered in the thousands.

A row of shipping containers stacked two high ran from the fenced parking lot behind the building to the feeder road in front. The wall turned and continued along the frontage road and back to the lot on the other side. This gave the pack plenty of outdoor space to garden and spend time outside, but it was a hell of a long perimeter to defend.

It appeared that the dead had come from the highway, likely having wandered up from Houston to the southeast. From where I stood, I had a clear view of the rear side of the building, which was about to be overrun. The only thing between the dead and the building was the eight-foot, concertina wire-lined fence around the back lot.

Chain link would keep out the odd zombie and deter a ghoul, but pile enough bodies against a fence line and it’d fold like chicken wire. The pack should have lined the inside of the parking lot with a single row of shipping containers, but they’d probably run out. Instead, they’d reinforced the fence by stacking concrete highway barriers behind each upright, to prevent them from collapsing inward.

It was better than nothing, but it wouldn’t be enough. There were humans inside, and the dead could smell them.

As the horde worked its way around the 20-foot wall in front, the fence began to give under a steadily increasing mass of moaning, groaning bodies. Always hungry and unrelenting by nature, the zombies would continue to pile up and clamber atop one another until they breached the meager barrier.

Werewolves and humans alike stood atop the building and wall, taking out the dead with suppressed .22 rifles and pistols. It was a good tactic, but every zombie they dropped was another brick in a wall of corpses the horde would use to climb the fence. And that was if the fence held out that long.

Me? I wasn’t about to let that happen. I stripped out of everything but the Lycra shorts I wore beneath my clothing, tossing it all into my Bag as I cast my first spell.

Being on the wrong side of the Pack’s perimeter and in my semi-human form posed a problem. No matter how strong and fast I was, a deader’s teeth could easily pierce my human skin and infect me, sickening and weakening me for weeks on end. My skin was functionally bulletproof in my full Fomorian form, but blood splatter might still get in my eyes, nose, and mouth all the same.

My first trip to this timeline had taught me not to allow that to happen, and my brush with the vrykolakas had cemented that lesson. For that reason, I stripped and cast my ‘bark armor’ spell before leaping from the roof of the school. Not only would it protect me from bites, it’d mask my scent and body heat, preventing the horde from homing in on me.

When my feet hit the ground, I pulled a heavy-duty polycarbonate face shield from my Bag and put it on. With the mask in place and a thick layer of plant fibers covering my skin from head to toe, I was ready to party.

Time to roll these motherfuckers up.

Dark clouds formed above as I sprinted to the Pack’s aid, and when a nice thunderhead had gathered, I began calling lightning from the sky. The Pack had the wherewithal to remove the trees that bordered the backside of the lot, so I enjoyed a clear view of my targets. I aimed for the center of each gathering throng, hitting them repeatedly with 300 million volts of druidic fury.

Lightning struck all along the fence line, dismembering the undead with each direct hit. Taking a page from past encounters, I coupled each attack with my chain lightning spell, burning out the nervous systems of dozens of dead at a go. The air became heavy with smoke, the soft breeze carrying the stench of charred flesh and rotting corpses to my nostrils.

Soon, the fenced section of the perimeter began to clear, but the battle was far from over. My instincts told me to glance up at the roof of the building, where I spotted a human aiming a rifle at me. I flinched just as the pack’s medic, Trina, appeared in a blur, knocking the barrel skyward.

The round whizzed over my head—a near miss. Though I didn’t think a .22 long rifle round could penetrate my thick Fomorian skull, it wasn’t a theory I cared to test. The ‘thrope might have saved my life. At the very least, she saved me from a nasty headache.

Guess I owe her a beer.

As I continued my advance, Trina barked a few harsh words at the fool who’d taken the shot. Between the din of the horde, the resounding report of each successive thunderclap, and the rush of the wind in my ears as I ran, it was impossible to tell what she said. When she began to wave me away from the building, I had no problem interpreting her meaning.

I stopped my attack, allowing the thundercloud I’d summoned to disperse and the skies to clear once more. To better survey the situation, I skidded to a stop and took cover behind a tall tree stump. Trina turned around and knelt for a few moments, then she stood and faced me again with a small whiteboard held in her hands. Focusing in with my Fomorian-enhanced vision, I made out a few, hastily scrawled words on the board.

DANGER!

TURN AROUND

Her response to my arrival was perplexing, to say the least. The Pack’s situation was dire, and without my intervention it would become desperate in short order. What the hell would cause Trina to be so concerned for my well-being?

Then I sensed it, that same ominous pall that hung heavy over my safe house while the vrykolakas had lurked about. The air was thick with the putrid odor of a few thousand rotting corpses, muting any information I might glean via my keen sense of smell. Yet, there it was—that oppressiveness that seemed to suck the oxygen right from your lungs with every breath.

No doubt, another of the creatures lurked nearby, or something much like it. The sense of foreboding was much weaker than it had been before, so I could only assume that the thing was observing or orchestrating this attack at a distance. Certain vampires and nosferatu had that talent, the ability to force the lesser undead to do their bidding. Perhaps this thing shared that faculty.

I cast about with my druid senses to pinpoint the source of the dark presence, hoping to get a bead on it before it spotted me. After searching visually and arcanely, I failed to find anything but zombies and the slowly beating pulse of pack magic coming from within the compound. Then, on a whim, I looked up.

High in the now clear skies above, a single dark cloud hovered just to the west of my position. Initially, I paid it little mind, thinking it might be the remnants of the cloud I’d summoned or a latent puff of smoke from my recent voltaic detonation of the undead. However, the small cloud remained stationary, despite the strong northwesterly winds at that altitude.

I’d previously dealt with vampires that could change shape, for example turning into mist or animals like those in folklore and popular literature. But never had I seen a vamp that could completely disregard the midday sun. Whatever it was, it was unnatural, and that meant it didn’t belong anywhere near my former fellow pack mates.

On a whim, I cast my sunbeam spell at it, laser-focused in a tight beam of heat and UV light. As soon as the ray of solar energy pierced it, the cloud dispersed, then it reformed and fled like a wraith southward, toward the heart of the city. I watched as it vanished into a wooded area near Still Creek, and then I turned my attention back to the undead.

Time to send these soulless bastards to their final rest.

With a thought, I summoned my Oak to a small patch of trees the Pack had left standing to the west. We conversed telepathically for several seconds, then the earth and asphalt beneath the horde began to rumble. Hundreds of thick, thorny vines erupted from the ground, crushing necks, impaling them through their facial orifices, and ripping their heads clean off.

As expected, the remaining undead reacted by attacking the whipping, weaving, swaying vines that my Oak had called forth. This made it easier for the Oak to complete the task I’d asked of it, and soon nothing was left but clean up and burial.

I drew Dyrnwyn from my Bag and strolled casually through the mess as those vines parted before me. Wherever the Oak had failed to dispatch a zombie, I finished the job with a flick of Dyrnwyn’s white-hot blade. As I passed, the ground parted and the vines pulled the bodies underground behind me, laying them to rest where their corpses could nourish the earth.

Once I’d made a complete circuit of the building, I dropped the bark armor spell, put my clothes back on, and sent the Oak somewhere safe. Then, I leapt over the fence and headed off to find Samson.

All the doors and windows at ground level had been covered with a mishmash of welded steel plates, so I was forced to take a vertical route to enter. While I might’ve jumped high enough to reach the roof, Trina was kind enough to drop a thick, knotted rope so I could scale the wall instead. Nothing was worse than embarrassing yourself in front of a pack of werewolves, and had I missed the jump, I’d never have heard the end of it.

When I reached the top, the stout, skull-shaven woman clasped forearms with me to haul me up. Therianthropes were generally much heavier and stronger than humans, and lycans were one of the more robust subspecies. Despite being a head-and-a-half taller than her, she yanked me to my feet with ease, barely having to anchor herself or lean back to do so.

For all her strength, however, she looked exhausted. ‘Thropes didn’t age like humans, yet Trina’s face was marked by crow’s feet and worry lines that ran across her forehead and down the center of her brow. Her eyes were tight and bloodshot, and her cheeks drawn. I did my best to keep the concern off my face as we greeted.

“Took your sweet time showing up,” she chided after stepping away to give me some room. “Been a complete clusterfuck for almost a week now. Maybe for once, the rest of the pack will be glad to see you.”

I snorted softly. “Doubtful. So, what in the hell’s going on? Why didn’t you send out some clearing parties to cut their numbers or draw them off, before that many gathered?”

Trina shook her head and frowned. “No one’s active outside the wall, since we’re all restricted to the facility. Samson’ll explain it to you. That shit’s above my pay grade, and honestly, it freaks me out.”

“Meaning?”

She glanced around, checking to see if anyone was listening. Or, rather, if any humans were within hearing range. There wasn’t a ‘thrope on that rooftop who couldn’t hear a mouse fart on the other side.

“Meaning, there’s some weird stuff going on,” she whispered. “You knew us before the world went off the rails. We weren’t as rich as the vamps, or as high and mighty as the fae, but we didn’t back down from nothing. But this? This is something new.”

I pursed my lips and nodded. “Where can I find the boss?”

“He’s downstairs, in a conference room on the first floor. Center hallway, middle of the building. You can’t miss it. Sledge’ll be on guard outside the door.”

My brow furrowed as I arched an eyebrow at that last remark. Samson never needed protection from anything, not for as long as I’d known him.

Trina shook her head. “Talk to Samson. He’ll explain everything.”

Following her directions, I dropped through the roof access hatch and headed downstairs. As I walked through the top floor, I noticed ‘thropes and humans alike speaking in hushed, concerned tones. Some nodded to me as I passed, others stared off into the distance or hung their heads.

This was not the pack I knew, even in light of an apocalypse. The Pack simply does not despair.

Mostly, that was because Samson was the most dominant alpha on the northern continent, and he was tougher than nails. An alpha’s attitude and mindset permeated the rest of the pack through their pack bonds. The result? Packs with strong alphas were made better for it, so this was one of the toughest, most resilient groups of ‘thropes on the planet.

For them to look this downtrodden, something had gone very wrong. I was lost in thought as I exited the stairwell onto the ground floor, gently pushing my way through a throng of people waiting to be fed. As I passed, someone grabbed my wrist to get my attention.

“Sorry, I don’t have time—” I said, cutting myself off as I turned to find a familiar and friendly face. “Oh, hey. Didn’t realize that was you.”

She looked much as she had when I’d brought the Occidental Petroleum building survivors here and left them in the care of the Pack. The tall, athletic brunette looked a bit leaner, and her hair was now styled short and chaotic, but she wore the same cocksure, defiant grin. And, she was still human.

“Heard you saved our asses,” she said. “The whole place is abuzz about it. But strangely, not everyone’s happy to see you here.”

“Yeah,” I replied, glancing around and catching a few hard looks from bystanders. “I’m not every wolf’s cup of tea.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“How’s Mateo doing?”

“He’s good. And like me, he’s⁠—”

“Still human?”

“Um, yep. Hasn’t made us very popular around here, either.” She exhaled through her nose. “Mateo’s fine, by the way. He’s on laundry duty right now.”

“Washing my racing stripes out of my drawers,” someone chuckled.

“You would be proud of shitting yourself, Bumper,” Del shot back, eliciting a few chuckles from the crowd. “Maybe we should ask the scavenging teams to bring back some Depends for you next time they go out.”

“If they go out,” I heard someone mutter under their breath.

“Anyway,” I said, by way of bringing her back on task. “I’d like to talk to both of you about, um, that—but first I need to see the boss man.”

“Ah,” she nodded. “Bald Chuck Norris.”

“Hey, show some respect,” a surly male pack member barked from further down the chow line.

Del shot him the bird over her shoulder. “I’ll say what I like, ‘Bama. Besides, Samson knows I’m just yanking his chain.”

She was flirting with disaster, although she didn’t realize it. Challenging the wrong wolf could result in broken bones and a rearranged face, or worse. Additionally, someone should’ve told her that you never, ever yanked an alpha’s chain.

Yet, I was more worried about the ‘thrope she just flipped off. Being the worry wart I was, I stole a glance at ‘Bama. Based on his body language, he seemed to be pretty low in the dominance pecking order, so Del was probably safe.

Phew.

I met the former cop’s gaze squarely. “Look, I really gotta’ go. After I’m done, where can I find you and the kid?”

“There’s a makeshift library on the second floor, southeast corner. Nobody hardly uses it. We’ll meet you there later tonight.”

“I’ll be there.” I turned to leave but stopped short, looking back over my shoulder. “And Del?”

“Yeah?”

“Stay out of trouble till then.”

She flashed an impish grin. “No promises.”

CHAPTER

EIGHT

As I headed down the hall, I wondered if leaving Del to the wolves, both literally and figuratively, had been the right call. But with bigger fish to fry, I set my worries aside, turning my attention toward my coming conversation with Samson. These ‘thropes were spooked, and that was no laughing matter. Whatever the Pack had faced in my absence, it couldn’t be good.

I turned the corner past the makeshift mess and found myself in the first empty hallway I’d encountered since entering the building. Empty, that was, save for Sledge, who leaned against the wall about halfway down the corridor, next to the baby-shit-beige metal office door he guarded. The big, redheaded Viking had one foot propped on the wall, with his thick arms crossed over his worn leather cut and bare, hirsute chest.

The patch on his vest said, ‘SGT at Arms,’ which meant he was the enforcer of the bunch. If anyone got out of hand, it was his job to take care of them before they challenged Samson. This was more for the alpha’s convenience than safety. It was difficult to focus on leading a pack when you had to watch your back all the time.

Even so, Samson was respected and well-liked among the Pack. Once, a few roggenwolves posing as ‘thropes had infiltrated the club, and they’d tried to usurp the old alpha’s power. Despite their trickery and fae magic, most of the pack members had stuck by Samson’s side. Those who didn’t like him, feared him, which was why Sledge’s job was easier than it should’ve been.

You wouldn’t have known it by the way the towering werewolf looked. He had dark circles under his eyes, his face was sallow and drawn, and he’d lost weight, which was weird. For the most part, ‘thropes didn’t get sick, they didn’t need much rest, and they maintained weight easily so long as they had an ample food supply.

The weight loss was easily dismissed. Fresh game was a lot more scarce these days than it had been before Z Day. But the rest? I had a sinking feeling about the whole situation.

Sledge heard me approaching before I turned the corner, and he’d likely detected my presence not long after I entered the building. Werewolves could recognize a person by both smell and sound, as everyone had a unique scent and gait. When he glanced my way with feigned surprise, it was out of courtesy, and nothing more.

Sledge grunted and gave me a bro nod. “The prodigal son returns. Tell me you brought more coffee. Been dying for a cup.”

I dug around in my Bag for a few moments until I found a bag of Luther’s blend I’d been saving for a rainy day. He looked like he needed it more than I did, that was for damned sure. The wolf’s eyes lit up as I tossed it to him. When he caught the package, he held it to his nose to take a long, deep whiff.

“Make sure you share that with Trina. She saved my bacon today.”

“Oh yeah?” Sledge cocked his head slightly. “How so?”

“Some newb mistook me for a deader, and tried to give me a lead lobotomy.”

“Pfft, humans.” He frowned and wiped at the side of his nose with his thumb. “Picked up a few more on a scavenging run not long after you left. Doubt any of ‘em will survive the change. Nothing but dead weight.”

That was the main issue when it came to mixing humans and ‘thropes. Mundanes were a liability, a risk—a pressure point and vulnerability that constantly needed protecting, one that could be exploited by the pack’s enemies. The only humans most packs kept around were either longtime mates who were afraid to attempt the change, or those uniquely useful to the pack.

Needless to say, such humans were the exception rather than the rule. Mitzy, the bartender at the Pack’s old clubhouse, had been one of them. She’d been their girl Friday, a kind of administrative Swiss Army knife who took care of all the day-to-day, so the pack could do what they did best—raise money and hell. I’d always liked her, which was why I never asked what had happened to her. Some things, you’re better off not knowing.

“I’ll talk to Del and the kid before I leave,” I said, addressing his unspoken concerns. My gaze shifted to the door. “Samson in there?”

“Uh-huh. It’s just—” Sledge looked down the hall and back again. “He’s been keeping to himself lately, but he’ll see you.”

“Send him in,” a muffled voice softly commanded from behind the wall.

Sledge tilted his head, gesturing toward the door. “You heard him.”

I approached the door and paused as I rested my hand on the knob. “Got some whiskey in my Bag. When your shift’s up, you and Trina should track me down.”

“Shit, kid—I never pegged you as the kind to want a threesome. Hate to tell you, but we’re not Trina’s type.” I closed my eyes and sighed. The big werewolf chuckled in a manner that said he was well pleased with himself for busting my balls. “Oh, don’t get all pissy on me. I’ll round her up, and we’ll find you later.”

“Fuck you, Sledge.”

“So you do want that threesome.” He chuckled, I groaned. “Go on now—the boss is waiting.”

I closed the door behind me as I entered the stuffy, dark room. With boarded windows and no power, there was no way to ventilate the space. Yet, it was clean, and while it smelled like gym funk and stale farts, I could tell that Samson was maintaining some semblance of cleanliness.

It took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the gloom, and when they did, I cast my gaze about the place. The converted office contained a few folding chairs, a small table stacked with food, supplies, and several gallons of water, and a bed in the corner. That was where Samson sat, bare feet on the floor with his elbows on his knees.

He was gaunt—emaciated, even. The alpha wore nothing but a ragged pair of faded jeans, and despite the slight chill in the room, his bare chest and bearded face were beaded with sweat. Though he appeared clean and well-groomed, he smelled sour, like he’d been fighting off a ten-day flu for the last nine days.

“You look like shit,” I said, without a hint of irony or humor in my voice.

“Good to see you, too,” he growled in a voice that sounded like he’d been gargling ground glass. “Pull up a chair—we need to talk.”

Once I’d planted my ass on the hard, cold surface of a metal folding torture device, I looked the alpha right in his icy blues. “Shoot me straight—just what the hell’s with everyone? The pack’s cooped up like a bunch of scared pups, you’ve got undead practically tearing down your walls, Trina and Sledge are hangdog as fuck, and you look like you’re trying out for a remake of The Machinist. What gives?”

He sniffed and stroked his beard. Although his hands shook, his glacier eyes were hard as ever. “We’re under siege, is what. Already lost Slider and Bedhead to those bastards, and I don’t intend to lose more. Been drawing on pack magic to keep ‘em out.”

On instinct, I looked at him in the magical spectrum. Despite his emaciated appearance, he shone bright with a translucent, golden energy that pulsed in a slow, steady cadence from within.

Throom… throom… throom.

With each pulse, a sort of magical shockwave spread out like ripples in a pool, reinforcing a bubble of mystical force that encased the building and the surrounding grounds, just past the wall. While Samson was drawing on the Pack’s magic to power the sphere of protection, much of it came from the alpha himself. That was why he looked the way he did—the magic was feeding on him, eating him from the inside out.

“Shit,” I muttered as I glanced away out of deference.

He cleared his throat. “It’s hardest on those in closest proximity to me, and those at the top of the pecking order. The bond draws from them, first.”

“But why, Samson? What could possibly have you holed up in here like a bunch of caged mice, starving to death?”

He massaged his forehead for several seconds, then he reached for a pack of ciggies and lit up. The alpha slid back to prop himself against the wall with one leg straight and the other bent, so he could drape his smoking arm over his knee. He took a drag and blew smoke toward the ceiling, then he spat a fleck of tobacco and stared at the window as he spoke.

“About a week ago, our patrols started noticing strange patterns in the behavior of the dead. We’d cleared most of ‘em out of the city, then barricaded the streets as best we could to keep them from filtering back in. Did it to make it easier for the humans to go on scavenging runs so they could pull their weight.”

“Smart.”

“I know I’m fucking smart,” he snapped. “Don’t interrupt me. It takes a lot of effort and concentration to keep this protective shell going, and every second I talk to you, I risk losing control.”

He took another long drag and blew smoke from his nostrils. “Where was I? Oh yeah, the humans. Four went out to scavenge and didn’t return. Sledge sent out a few runners to look after them, and only one came back. Trix claimed something had taken Slider and Bedhead. Not killed, mind you—taken. She also said there was no sign of the humans, but that half our blockades had been moved. Buses turned on their sides, shipping containers, and a makeshift wall of felled tree trunks, all just shoved aside and toppled like Legos. Oh, and the dead were watching them.”

Now that sounded familiar. Samson stopped talking and closed his eyes, leaning his head against the wall. I waited for the better part of a minute before I spoke.

“The same thing happened before my run-in with Ateas. The watching thing, I mean. Someone’s controlling them. As for the barricades, ghouls aren’t strong enough to do that, and neither are revs. Nosferatu, maybe?”

Samson gave the slightest shake of his head, eyes still closed. “We chased ‘em all off, killed those that wouldn’t leave. ‘Sides, Trixie would have caught their scent. She’s young but sharp. Wasn’t a nos’—not any sort of vamp we’ve seen before, either.”

“What was that thing I chased out of the sky?”

He cracked an eyelid just long enough to cast a glance my way. “Ah, you saw it. That’s what snatched Bedhead and Slider. Forgot to mention they showed up two days later in the middle of the night. Jumped the wall and took out three humans and another of my wolves. It was bad, so bad I had to get involved. They weren’t themselves anymore.”

“And?”

He flicked ash over the side of the bed. “Couldn’t fight them, not without risking the entire pack. ‘Sides, I knew that thing was out there in the dark, waiting for the right moment to strike. That’s when I activated the pack magic, to push them out. Been holed up in here ever since.”

“You still haven’t told me what took those wolves.”

He sucked his coffin nail down to a stub, then he dropped it in an empty beer can and lit another before answering. “Something from the old country. Not my old country, but theirs. They go by many names, depending on the region. Vampyri call them varcolaci. In our legends, they’re called moon eaters.”

“‘Moon eaters’? I don’t get it.”

“It’s a euphemism. They were created for one purpose, and that’s to kill werewolves.”

“Never heard of them,” I said.

“That’s because they were outlawed, back when the accords were written. The varcolaci were one of the reasons why the vamps were forbidden to use magic.”

“I still don’t understand what makes these things so dangerous. Explain it to me like I’m ten.”

“That won’t be hard,” he quipped. “Varcolaci are uber-vampires, with all the powers and strengths of elders of their kind, and possessing multiple vampiric talents. They can shapeshift, fly, and turn into mist.”

“And withstand sunlight, too? Because that thing was hanging out in broad daylight like a Baywatch extra.”

“Only in that form. It’s a kind of shadow magic, lets them block out the sun, or it passes right through them—I’m not sure how it works.”

I scratched my head. “I still don’t get it. What makes these damned things so dangerous?”

Samson lowered his chin and looked at me with hooded eyes. “According to the legends, they’re made from werewolves.”

“Bullshit.”

“Trust me, I’ve seen it. They’re extremely dominant, meaning they can subjugate lesser wolves and make them do their bidding. Wouldn’t you know it, this one’s after my pack. The thing doesn’t rest, and it’s been harassing us night and day since it first appeared.”

“Wearing you down, bit by bit.”

“Exactly. Because when I fall, the Pack falls with me.”

“You said that Slider and Bedhead were changed. What do you mean by that, specifically?”

Samson stabbed the cigarette at me, sending ash flying as he did so. “This part’s going to sound crazy. Supposed to be impossible, but I witnessed it with my own eyes. I’d heard stories about the farkaskoldusok, but—” He shook his head. “Never thought they were true.”

“That what was true?”

“Those wolves were undead.”

“Well, damn.”

“Damned, and then some.”

Samson closed his eyes. His expression grew strained, and new beads of sweat broke out from his bare skin. Obviously, he was occupied with maintaining the barrier of protection he’d erected. While he remained silent, I reflected on what I’d learned.

If what the alpha said was true, I did not doubt that the Pack’s current woes were related to the task Neit had given me. But was this varcolac the cause of it, or was someone else pulling its strings?

There was no way to be sure without confronting the thing. If I could rid the Pack of this ‘moon eater,’ that might be the end of my quest. If not, it could lead me back to whoever sent the damned thing.

It wasn’t as if I had any better options. Still, I needed to glean more info before I made a snap decision. I waited until Samson’s eyes opened, then I continued my line of questions.

“What about Lita?” I asked, referring to Leto, the Greek titan and matron of all werewolves. “Can’t you ask her for help?”

“What, you think I have some sort of magical hotline to my ex?” He snorted softly. “We always used good old-fashioned landlines to stay in touch, back when they still worked. No, Mama Wolf won’t be coming to rescue us. Unless she comes knocking on a whim, that is.”

“Well, that sucks. The good news is, it looks like we have similar goals. Have you seen these—what’d you call them?”

“Farkaskoldus. It’s Hungarian, means ‘wolf beggar.’ Don’t ask me why, vampyri shit never makes any sense to me.”

“Right. Have you seen any of these… ‘farkaskolduses’ since you forced them out?”

“That’s not—” He grimaced. “Don’t they make you study foreign languages in druid school?”

“Sure, a little Gaelic. But nature has a language all its own.”

“One custom-made for the slowest students in class, I’m sure.” He puffed on his cigarette. “They return just after sundown every night, prowling the dark, taunting us. Trying to get us to come out.”

“So their master can add to their numbers.”

He humphed. “They can try.”

I clapped my hands on my thighs and stood. “You need some rest. I’ll ward the fuck out of your perimeter, then I’m going to wait until nightfall and try to capture one of those things.”

The alpha shook his head. “I don’t recommend it.”

“Then I guess it’s a good thing you can’t tell me what to do. Don’t worry, I’ll keep it outside your walls. Hopefully, my wards will take some pressure off, and you’ll be able to rest.” I smiled. “And if you don’t mind eating vegan, I can help somewhat on the food front.”

“Humans’ll appreciate it, but for us, it’ll be about as useful as an ashtray on a Harley.”

“After I deal with these wolf zombies and chase off these Scut Farkuses, I’ll see if I can scrounge up a doe or some wild hogs for you. Get you back on your feet.”

“Farkaskoldusok, you dumbshit.”

“What’d I say?”

He merely scowled in reply, so I headed for the door. Just as I was leaving, I heard the old wolf speak softly behind me.

“Thanks, kid.”

I quietly closed the door and nodded to Sledge as I passed, eliciting a slight lift of his chin in response. My mind turned to the coming task as I walked, and I’d concocted several possible strategies by the time I reached the roof. Tonight, the hunt would begin.

There were multiple ways to kill vampires. Fire, silver, sunlight, and decapitation. The same went for werewolves, minus the sunlight. For some undead, the sun was merely an inconvenience, and I suspected these zombie werewolves would be less susceptible to it.

However, their master was another matter. My sunbeam spell had an effect, so if worse came to worst, it’d be my ace in the hole. My intention wasn’t to kill the varcolac, but to chase it off. Hopefully, it’d lead me back to its maker.

First, I wanted a close look at these undead ‘thropes. I had no idea what I was getting myself into, as I’d never dealt with this sort of magic before. If I could study one of the hybrids, I might be able to concoct ways to unravel the magic that made them.

If not, I’d be running blind on this quest. Not that my uncertainty would stop me—it never had before. But I’d learned the hard way that it was best to at least look over the side before you jumped off a cliff.

Thus, my plan was simple. I’d use the most basic sort of druidry to trap Slider and Bedhead, then I’d turn my wrath on the varcolac. If I proved to be its match, it’d run off to get reinforcements and lead me to its maker.

If not, well—I chose not to think of that potential outcome. Druidry had carried me through plenty of scrapes, and the key was always preparation. That was why I spent as much time setting up my traps as I did warding the wall and fence around the Pack’s digs.

As for the wards, I focused on the undead side of things. Using permanent markers, I drew complex runes and glyphs every five feet inside and outside the container wall, and again on both sides of every fence post. Then I switched to spray paint for the concrete barriers. When I was done, there wasn’t a zombie, ghoul, or rev that could come within twenty feet of the perimeter.

Could stronger varieties of undead approach? Sure, but without damaging the wards, they couldn’t cross over. Even if they managed to break the outward-facing wards, those on the inside would hold.

Now, maybe Samson can take a break.

After the wards were complete, I sprinkled some druidic pixie dust on their garden. By the end of the week, they’d have more produce than they knew what to do with. That still didn’t solve the food sitch for the ‘thropes, but one crisis at a time.

It took me a few hours to complete the wards and boost the garden, then I turned my attention to my traps. By the time I finished, the sun was sitting low in the sky. I chose a small copse of woods close to the compound in which to hide, where I grew a thick wall of briars and leaves all around me. After changing out my ammo for pure silver rounds, I assumed a lotus position, dropped into a druid trance, and waited.

Shortly after darkness fell, a blue jay alerted me to the arrival of Slider and Bedhead. They were obnoxious little shits, those birds, known to raid other birds’ nests and even behead rival species that nested too close for their liking. But they were survivors, aggressively chasing off predators like cats, raccoons, and hawks.

When a blue jay sounded the alert, you knew it, as it was uncannily similar to an alarm clock or other manmade signal. I was pretty sure we’d designed our alarms after the bird’s calls, and not the other way around, as humans had been paying attention to the little tyrants since time immemorial. I’d placed a subconscious command in the bird’s mind to alert me to the arrival of any undead, so I knew it was time to fight.

First I undressed, then I covered myself in plant fiber armor before donning Dyrnwyn and my sidearm once more. Stripping made it easier to apply the spell, and it also meant that, should I need to shift on the fly, I wouldn’t ruin my clothes in the process. Next, I opened a few observation windows in the briar wall so I could see without revealing my location. Finally, I cast both chameleon and silence spells on myself and waited for the enemy to make an appearance.

The pair of undead werewolves approached from the southeast, from the heart of the two cities. The varcolac had also fled in that direction earlier after I strafed it. I figured the three of them had a lair somewhere in downtown Bryan, or the university area of College Station.

If all went well this evening, none of them would return. If it didn’t, I’d be forced to find that location during the daytime and smoke them out. Or I’d level it and bury them in the rubble—take your pick.

My eyesight had adjusted to low light conditions while I meditated, so the two former Pack members were easy to make out in the moonlight. Both had fully shifted into their hybrid forms, their hunched silhouettes appearing no different from the ‘thropes I’d known in the past. Yet, there was something odd in the way they moved, as they loped along on all fours with a herky-jerky, stop-and-start cadence.

When they got within a block of the building, I was taken aback by their appearances. Both still wore their cuts and remnants of their stained, shredded clothing, which was odd since ‘thropes almost always stripped before they shifted. Their gray coats were filthy, matted, and patchwork, with missing fur and skin in random places. Like the vrykolakas, thick black pus dripped from their mouths and claws, and also from the sores on their bodies.

Their eyes were milky and hazed, yet they shone with a pale yellow phosphorescence that echoed the amber glow of a healthy wolf’s orbs. Rather than exuding power, they looked sickly, reflecting the strange death magic that presumably had turned them into the abominations they were. Several times they paused and cast their gaze about, sniffing the night air and growling before continuing their advance.

They ran up to the protective dome Samson had erected with the Pack’s magic, skidding to a halt just before they reached that invisible border. How they sensed it, I wasn’t certain, but some innate instinct told them not to go any further. At that point, the two split up, one heading north, the other south, circling the compound as they began to taunt the inhabitants.

“Come out, brothers,” one of them said, its voice a gravelly, drawn-out wheeze.

“Can’t cower inside those walls forever,” the other added.

“Samson won’t last forever,” the first replied. “Magic’s gonna’ use him up.”

“He’ll burn out like a wick, poof.”

“Then you’ll be like us.”

They went on like that for a while. I listened for a time, hoping I could glean some useful information, but I was wrong. They mostly spoke vague nonsense, like a couple of borderline schizos. When I finally grew tired of their bullshit, I sprang my trap.

CHAPTER

NINE

“Balla tine,” I whispered as the two corrupted weres crossed paths.

A wall of fire sprang forth from the earth and tarmac, thirty feet high and half that wide, completely encircling the compound. Caught off guard, the undead ‘thropes snarled and cursed as they pivoted to face the flames. At my direction, the inferno closed in, capturing the duo between the druidic blaze and Samson’s magical barrier.

Using my mage sight, I watched from my hiding place as the creatures frantically searched for an escape route, only to find none. When I was certain they were trapped, I triggered the next step in my scheme.

“Gaineamh súraic.”

The instant I triggered the second spell, the ground beneath the abominations softened into a slurry, sucking the duo down to their waists. They fought to free themselves, but werewolves were piss-poor swimmers. The more they struggled, the lower they sank. When they were neck-deep in the mixture of vegetation, soil, and asphalt, I finalized the spell.

“Coincréit threisithe,” I muttered.

Within seconds, the quicksand hardened like cured cement. To ensure they wouldn’t escape, I had laced the mix with natural fibers so strong, I could bind a giant with a sufficiently thick length. Flex and fight as they might, those two wouldn’t soon escape the trap I’d laid for them.

The ‘thropes atop the wall cheered, only to be hushed by Trina. She knew the battle wasn’t over yet, not by a long shot. As for me, I remained hidden, knowing the varcolac would attempt to free its minions.

The first sign of its arrival came when the gibbous moon was blotted from the sky. A dark cloud appeared from nowhere, blocking most of the ambient light and causing a hush to fall over the cityscape. Cicadas fell silent, nocturnal creatures hunkered down, and even the moans of the dead tapered off to silence in the distance.

An odd, ominous feeling came over me all at once. It was much like the oppressiveness I’d felt in the presence of the vrykolakas, but multiplied, an almost palpable feeling of impending doom. No stranger to mind magic and glamours, I activated my charm of mental protection. Within moments, the sensation faded, until it was nothing more than a nagging feeling lurking in the background.

A bolt of dark mist shot to the ground from high above, just outside the ring of flames that still surrounded the compound. It coalesced into solidity on landing, first taking the form of a goat-legged man with skin the color of dried blood. Then it became a huge black serpent that was easily thirty feet long and large enough to swallow a man. Lastly, he morphed into a wolf of enormous size.

Fucking show-off.

The wolf was covered in thick, black fur from the tips of its ears to the claws at the end of its massive, broad paws. It was large, at least as tall as a man at the shoulder, with eyes that glowed a citrine yellow as it cast its gaze about. Once it surveyed the scene, it calmly padded its way through my wall of fire, moving unhurriedly as if it were taking a midnight stroll.

Not only did the flames fail to ignite its fur, wisps of shadow seemed to suck the fire into the wolf’s body. The fire spiraled into a dozen tiny spouts, twisting and turning as the heat and energy of my spell was drawn into the dark creature. When every last lick had been extinguished, the varcolac yawned and licked its chops with a long black tongue.

Well, hell. That’s new.

Next, it approached its undead minions, taking time to sniff at the hardened earth and stone that entrapped them. The wolf’s nose crinkled slightly in distaste, then it began to scrape and dig at the rock-hard surface.

What I first thought would be an exercise in futility turned out to be a fruitful tactic. The varcolac’s claws must’ve been diamond-tough because the thing tore chunks away with every swipe of its paws. At the rate it was going, it’d free the zombie werewolves in short order.

That was my cue to act.

“Gabhaim i ngaiste,” I whispered as I emerged from the undergrowth.

Bright silver light shone up from the ground, all around the trio of undead creatures. It burned through the soil and tarmac, revealing an intricate pattern that encircled them all.

The design consisted of two unbroken rings, one outer, and one inner. Between them were inscribed a chain of glyphs and wards designed to contain all manner of undead creatures. I’d spent much of my prep time earlier inscribing that containment circle, and I was certain that the undead would be unable to escape it.

Claw your way out of that, bitch.

The varcolac padded to the inner edge of the circle. It sniffed at the glowing glyphs, then it stared directly at me, despite that I remained hidden with my chameleon and silence spells intact. How it knew where I stood was a mystery to me. Was it a vampiric talent, or did it possess some other form of magic that allowed it to see through spells and glamours?

The enormous wolf seemed to laugh at me, its foul black tongue lolling as its head and shoulders shook. As its laughter died down, the thing’s front paws began to morph into hands that were not quite human-like, but close. Once the transition was complete, it began scratching symbols into the hardened surface beneath it with its furry, clawed index finger.

I didn’t recognize the glyphs it drew, but I knew the magic they possessed. Those odd characters glowed with the same sickly, pale light that emanated from the wolf’s eyes. It was the color of death magic, the foulest arcane discipline a practitioner could choose to pursue.

The wolf worked its way around the circle, moving ever faster as it inscribed a working to counteract my spell. I wanted to use magic to prevent the completion of the counter-spell, but I’d outsmarted myself. While my containment circle prevented the varcolac from escaping, it also prevented me from casting spells at it from outside the ward barrier.

Whelp, I guess good ol’ firepower will have to do.

I drew my pistol and fired, hitting it in the ribs where its heart should be. Like the vrykolakas, the silver-tipped bullets barely fazed the abomination. They disappeared into its pelt when they struck, only to slough off and fall to the ground soon after.

After seeing that, I figured I ought to even the odds. I fired two more rounds to put the former Pack members out of their misery. The varcolac moved like a blur, acting as a shield to prevent me from taking out its minions.

Damn, but it’s fast.

To make matters worse, the beast paid me little mind as I emptied a magazine at the trio. For all the good it did, I may as well have been shooting Nerf darts. The varcolac zipped around, blocking my shots while continuing its task, getting closer to inscribing its way out of my trap by the second.

When the slide locked back on empty, I changed mags and holstered the pistol. No sense in carrying an empty sidearm. Besides, I might need it for other reasons before the night was up.

When the varcolac scratched the last interlocking glyph in the ground, the glowing yellow symbols emitted a surge of energy. As the wolf’s circle shone brighter and brighter, mine began to fade. The varcolac’s spell was siphoning my druid magic off, weakening my barrier bit by bit. Not only that, but it had resumed its efforts to release its minions from the hardened ground.

Huh.

When I realized the creatures would soon be free, I ran through my options. I could pour more magic into my containment circle, but it would only feed the spell the varcolac had cast. Since I had no idea what would happen when my spell was extinguished, it seemed a bad idea to waste my magic on prolonging the inevitable.

I could attempt a counter-counter spell, but I had no time. That was the problem with druidic magic. It was powerful, but it required painstaking efforts to prepare. Unfortunately, I hadn’t foreseen this happening, and thus I hadn’t prepared anything to counteract the varcolac’s magic.

There was only one thing left to do, and that was to fight. I unsheathed Dyrnwyn, feeling both comfort and dread at how the blade blazed with bright-hot intensity as I drew it forth. The sword’s sole purpose was to root out evil in all its forms, and when it burned this brightly, it was a good indication that I’d stepped into a clusterfuck.

Holding the sword off to the side to avoid blinding myself, I queued up the last of the spells I’d prepared while dropping my concealment spells to conserve magic. They were a waste now, anyway, what with Dyrnwyn shining like a beacon in the darkness. With a final check to ensure that my bark armor was still in place, I found a good spot about ten yards from the containment circle and braced for the coming battle.

When the last small glimmer of silver light faded from my circle of containment, the varcolac’s death magic glyphs flashed brightly. There was an audible whoomp, then all that stored energy was released at once in a blast of pure, raw magic. The effect was no different from a mundane explosion, manifesting in a pressure wave that crumpled the outer surface of the container wall as it lifted me off my feet.

I lost my grip on Dyrnwyn as I was thrown into the air, sailing over fallen trees and stumps and into a field beyond. The concussive force of the spell rattled my skull and knocked the wind from my lungs. Despite that, I was still aware enough to notice Slider and Bedhead racing through the cleared forest after me.

Damn, they’re fast.

On the scale of supernatural superpowers, a few rules of thumb hold true. Vampires were the quickest among the major species, werewolves possessed the greatest physical strength, and fae were more agile and slippery than the other two races by far. If you ranked each of them by speed alone, ‘thropes were slower than vamps and often surpassed in that regard by the fae, depending on the subspecies.

Yet, these two were almost a blur as they pursued me. By some unknown mechanism, undeath had granted Slider and Bedhead swiftness to match that of any mature vamp. If they hadn’t been hampered by the mess of fallen logs and stumps between us, I might not have had a chance to react.

Considering how the vrykolakas had shrugged off one of my most powerful spells, I’d decided earlier that I wouldn’t fuck around with these two. I sat up and waited until they were within fifty feet of me. When the moment was right, I triggered the same ‘p-air-alyzation’ spell I’d used on Nemain, aiming at the undead werewolf on my left.

The two had been moving at well over one hundred miles per hour when the spell struck. When it took hold, the effect was dramatic and instantaneous. Slider’s head, most of his rib cage, and the upper half of his spine tore clean through his back. Meanwhile, his arms and lower half continued forward for a few steps before tumbling into a bloody, pus-blackened heap a good twenty feet beyond.

The werewolf’s head and partial upper torso hung in midair, suspended by the spell’s effects. Slider’s milky yellow eyes darted this way and that, confused as he was by what had happened. Despite being rather pleased with the results, I had little time to enjoy the spectacle my magic had wrought, as Bedhead was nearly upon me.

The second undead ‘thrope leapt at my throat from fifteen feet away, claws extended and jaws agape. I thrust out my hand, triggering a flash-bang spell while simultaneously falling backward to allow him to pass over me.

As he did, I flipped over and slammed my right hand on the ground. The grass responded by thickening and lengthening around the werewolf’s feet, even as the roots grew deeper into the soil below. Hundreds of long blades of grass lashed out, wrapping around the creature’s legs, torso, and neck.

Bedhead snapped and bit at the grassy ligatures, tearing and sawing them in two with rabid, reckless abandon. But for every thickened sward he severed, two more sprang up to further secure him in place. Soon the thing was swathed tightly from head to toe in layers of green, fibrous lashings.

Using my druid affinity for wood, I located Dyrnwyn’s hilt and called it to my hand as I pushed myself to my feet. When I felt the warm, smooth surface slap into my palm, I slashed high overhead and down, severing the undead creature’s head from its shoulders. Bedhead’s skull tumbled away, only to be lashed tightly by the grass and pulled deep beneath the surface of the earth.

As the farkaskoldus’ body was likewise dragged under, I swiveled my head around to search for the varcolac. I hoped it’d been enraged by watching me dispatch its underlings, and that it would pursue me into the field where I had the advantage. For the moment, it was nowhere to be seen.

After several long seconds of searching, I decided to dispatch Slider. I drew my pistol and aimed, waiting until he opened his jaws wide to pull the trigger. The round struck the back of his throat, just below the bony upper palette, entering the soft tissue and destroying the brain stem and cerebellum.

What do you know? I guess these things aren’t as bulletproof as their maker.

I had little time to gloat. No sooner had Slider’s suspended head gone still, than the varcolac was on me. It appeared beside me in a cloud of mist, consolidating into physical form faster than I could react.

One moment it was just me and the wannabe manananggal, the next I’d been bitten multiple times by the varcolac. Its head moved in a blur, tearing and snapping so quickly that it appeared to have a dozen mouths instead of one.

Pain erupted all over my body as sections of the fibrous druid armor were ripped away by the varcolac’s massive jaws. Before I could even register the extent of my injuries, it latched onto my right arm, snapping my humerus like a twig before tossing me into the air. I flew up and over the giant wolf, rag-dolling in a long, high arc back toward the compound.

I landed face down in a broken heap, not far from Samson’s bubble of protection, disoriented and bleeding profusely in multiple places. My first instinct was to push myself off the ground, but something was wrong with my arms. When I moved them I felt a grinding sensation, then the pain hit, and I screamed.

Before my cry of pain had ended, the black blur struck again, latching onto my leg to throw me overhead once more. I came back to earth in the middle of the feeder road that ran in front of the compound, landing with a sickening crunch that sounded nasty and felt even worse. An awful clarity came over me then, and the reality of my predicament hit me. I was going to die.

In an instant, I’d gone from enjoying an easy victory over the two undead ‘thropes to being a giant wolf’s chew toy. The thing was playing with me, like a cat with a dead mouse. Except I wasn’t dead yet, and I couldn’t even see the damned thing in time to react to its attacks.

Fuck it. Time to play my trump card.

"Hairicín," I grunted as I bled out on the pavement.

The wind picked up around me as dozens of invisible, razor-thin blades of compressed air appeared, spinning and revolving in a tight ballet of death and destruction. This was a spell of my creation, my Planetary Maelstrom of Scythes, and it was a ‘break glass in case of’ spell if ever there was one. I pulled the blades as close to me as I dared, knowing that if I allowed the varcolac to manifest inside that deadly orbit, I’d be finished.

Indeed, the creature tried to attack me again. It appeared as a black mist for a third time, coalescing for just an instant before releasing a yelping snarl as it faded back to smoke. The spell might not be strong enough to pierce its hide, but while it was active, there was no way the wolf could assume a physical form.

It tried three more times before giving up on me. The last I saw of it was a pair of yellow eyes hovering in the darkness. Finally, blessedly, the eyes faded away, and the black mist fled off into the night.

Hot wet blood soaked the tarmac beneath me as I struggled to maintain consciousness. Though I needed to heal myself, I had to sustain the Maelstrom spell, or else the varcolac would return and finish me off. Yet, I didn’t know how much longer I could keep my eyes open, much less keep that effort up.

As conscious thought began to fade away, I felt my control of the magic slipping through my fingers. Just as darkness began to close in around the edges of my vision, a warm golden glow suffused me. I took a long, ragged breath, then the world fully faded into black.

I woke up inside the Pack’s compound, on an Army cot that was only slightly more comfortable than sleeping on the floor. There was an I.V. in my arm—a waste of precious resources, considering how hard the bags were to come by—and I was naked under the rough wool blanket that covered me. The room smelled like grain alcohol and dried blood, with just the slightest tang of vomit and shit beneath it.

“Morning, Opie,” Trina said as I pried my eyes open. “I see you’ve finally decided to rejoin the land of the living.”

“Better than being undead,” I croaked as I pushed myself up on my elbows. “What happened?”

She pulled up a ragged metal and vinyl chair and sat down. Trina wore a loose, threadbare black t-shirt, dark blue cargo pants, and tactical boots that were laced loosely at the top. A stethoscope hung around her neck, and she spun a pair of trauma scissors around her finger as she spoke.

“What happened is you got used like a piece of rawhide in a Schutzhund kennel, and that thing was about to finish you off. Then Samson strolled out there, glowing like Bruce Leroy at the end of The Last Dragon. Pulled so much juice from the Pack, half the youngsters passed out.”

“So it wasn’t my imagination. I thought I dreamed that part.”

“Wasn’t a dream,” she said, pausing her fidgeting to point at me with the scissors. “To be honest, I didn’t know he could do that. It was wild.”

“How long have I been out?”

“Let’s see.” She glanced at a battered G-Shock on her wrist. “Forty-one hours, give or take a few minutes. I spent over an hour setting bones and stitching you up after they brought you in. Your body wasn’t healing well—guess you lost too much blood. It was touch and go for a while, but you pulled through.”

“Once a trauma junkie, always a trauma junkie, right?”

“You’re familiar with the type. How so?”

“Had to take an EMT class as part of my early training. Got to know some medics during ride-alongs.”

“Ah. I don’t get to use my skills all that often these days, not unless one of the humans does something stupid. I miss it, you know?”

“Hey, happy to oblige,” I replied as I swung my legs over the side of the cot. “Anytime you need to practice, just let me know and I’ll take on another vampire-werewolf thingy. Speaking of which, has it come back?”

“Nope. After it gave up on killing you, it shot off to the east. Haven’t seen it since.”

I considered what lay in that direction. There were the prisons in Huntsville, which would make damned good fortified positions if you could clear them of the undead. The town and university as well, though there was nothing in that burg that couldn’t be found in Bryan-College Station. But beyond that?

“The national forest is out that way.”

Trina’s eyes narrowed. “Sledge and I were thinking the same thing. It’s where we thought we’d end up, eventually. Plenty of thick woods to get lost in, lots of game, and no reason for the dead to roam out there.”

“Besides the fact that they’re stupid and follow anything that moves.”

“Yeah, but they’re creatures of habit. Or memory, maybe. You know how they tend to stay in cities and along highways. From what we can tell, it’s rare to see a horde straying from the roads.”

I pulled the I.V. catheter out of my arm and rubbed my face. “I don’t know, Trina. All it takes is one deer to run across the road, and pretty soon you have hundreds of undead trampling through your backyard.”

“Not if the place is warded, they won’t. Not a single one of those fuckers has come near the compound since you doodled all over the walls. Imagine if some enterprising druid decided to do that to an entire forest?”

“Hmph. Hadn’t thought of it.”

“I wish you would.” Trina tucked her scissors into a nylon sheath on her belt with a flourish and stood. “We need a home, McCool. Someplace where a pack can thrive.”

I nodded noncommittally. “Where’s Samson?”

“Sleeping. That thing never could do much in the daytime, and your wards seem to have taken the pressure off some. He’s out like a light in his room. Sledge posted a double-watch though, just in case.” She pointed to the corner as she headed for the door. “Oh, and your weird man purse is over there.”

“Thanks, Trina.”

The stout, short ‘thrope gave a two-fingered wave over her shoulder on her way out of the room. When she was gone, I stood and grabbed my Bag, then I cleaned up with some wet wipes I scrounged from within. After I got dressed, I enjoyed a breakfast of energy bars and bottled water as I considered Trina’s suggestion.

Teaming up with the Pack was something I’d never considered. Alliances between the factions had been verboten before Z Day. But now, in the Hellpocalypse? It could be an option.

I always considered them to be allies, and some of them were friends, but it hadn’t occurred to me that our purposes might be aligned. They needed a home, and I needed someplace where I could train druid apprentices in secret, away from the prying eyes of the gods.

In truth, this timeline was a much better place to set up a druid academy than my own. Here, the fae were absent from the mortal realm, and the gods and fae both were preoccupied with their war in Underhill. Besides the undead, there weren’t many threats to speak of in the Hellpocalypse.

Apart from Terminator-tough varcolaci, that is.

Trina had been onto something when she suggested warding the national forest to create a safe zone where the Pack could thrive. I’d done it in Mag Mell in my home timeline, and while I didn’t have access to that much magic here, I had the Oak to help. It’d be a lot of work, but it could be done.

First, however, I had to take care of the varcolac and whoever created it. Now that I’d seen what the damned things were capable of, I realized the gravity of the task I’d been assigned. Neit knew what he was doing when he sent me on this errand, and it was a good bet that he believed I wouldn’t return.

I fully intended to prove him wrong. But first, I needed to find out where the varcolac had fled.

No, first you need to find out how to beat the damned thing.

Samson didn’t seem to have much more information to offer, but I knew someone who might. Before I took off, I’d feed the Pack. Then, I’d track down Luther.

CHAPTER

TEN

That afternoon, I shared a bottle of Cooper Family Rye with Samson, Trina, and Sledge. We talked about old times, keeping the conversation light so each of us could let off some steam. After we finished the good stuff, I dug into the vodka and grain alcohol I’d packed for bartering and antiseptic, passing along several gallons of cheap liquor for the rest of the Pack.

Earlier in the day I took a button buck and a couple of hogs, so we had food and booze for everyone. We drank and played cards, bullshitting and telling old stories until sunset neared. At that point, we split off, Trina to oversee the night watch, Sledge to keep an eye on his alpha, and Samson to prepare, just in case the varcolac returned.

I stood watch until morning, but thankfully, it was a quiet night. Just before daybreak, I found Del and Mateo in their bunks, sleeping off the previous night’s libations. I woke them as quietly as possible and whispered instructions to follow me.

The three of us stole down the halls to a disused mechanical room on the first floor. I ushered them inside, then I locked the door with magic and cast a silence spell on the walls. Once I was certain we wouldn’t be eavesdropped upon, I pulled a battery-powered lantern from my Bag, along with some granola bars, four bottles of water, and a couple of convenience store blister packs of Excedrin.

I handed out the supplies to each of them in turn, noting that Mateo looked much worse for the wear. “Here kid. Eat a granola bar before you take those pills. They’re hard on your stomach. And if you have to puke, do it before you swallow the meds.”

He merely groaned as he accepted my gifts. The teen ate in silence, washing his breakfast down with gulps of water as he stared off into space. For a moment, I wondered whose idea it was to get him drunk. Then I remembered that I’d left him in the care of a bunch of biker werewolves.

Bad Colin. Two demerits and no dessert for a week.

“My first party and it had to be during an apocalypse,” he whispered.

“Did you have fun?” I asked.

“Until you woke me up. I swear, I’m never touching a drop of alcohol again.”

“Never say never,” Del muttered as she plopped down on an overturned milk crate. She glanced at the blister pack I’d given her. “Aspirin, caffeine, and Tylenol. Not bad as hangover cures go, but I’d have preferred a beer.”

“Yeah, well—‘hair of the dog’ seemed a bad idea, all things considered.” I gestured at the bars in her hands. “Eat up. We can talk after you’ve perked up a bit.”

I waited a good fifteen minutes so the caffeine and analgesics could take effect. After a bit of color had returned to their faces, I grunted and broke the silence.

“Tell me, why didn’t you two attempt the change?”

Mateo gave a morose shake of his head. “After seeing what happened to Hannah and Robert? No, thanks.”

“Hannah and who?”

“The short redhead and the old man,” Del replied. “They came along with us from Houston.”

“Ah. They tried and didn’t make it. What happened to the other girl?”

Mateo shook his head. “Liv? She was with that group that went out scavenging. I guess that wolf thing got her.”

“That’s a damned shame. About Liv, I mean, not the redhead. That woman was a bitch on wheels.”

Del gave me a halfhearted kick in the ankle. “Watch it, mister. Just because it’s the truth, doesn’t mean it needs to be said.”

“Sorry,” I replied, hands raised. “I know this whole thing has been hard on you. And now that you’re the only ones left…”

“Liv might’ve been the lucky one.” Del sniffed and wiped her nose with her sleeve. “We watched two members of the Pack as they attacked Robert and Hannah. Robert did his best to take it standing, but Hannah—” she shivered. “I still hear her screams in my head.”

“Ah, crap. I didn’t know.”

“Now you do.” She raised her water bottle in the air. “To Liv, Robert, and Hannah. Wherever you are, I hope it’s better than this fucking place.”

“Por los muertos,” Mateo replied before pouring some water on the floor.

That was the shitty thing about becoming a werewolf. It wasn’t just the vyrus that made you a ‘thrope. Only the vyrus plus a ton of trauma could create the conditions needed to trigger the change. Some made it, some didn’t. Sucked, but that was how it went.

“I can’t blame you for refusing,” I said. “But it’s going to make it damned hard to survive in this world without their—” I paused to choose my words carefully. “Let’s just call them ‘unique advantages.’”

“I’d rather die and stay human.” Mateo sipped his water as he stared at the wall. “These wolves, they might not be like los vampiros, but they’re still not us.”

“Agreed,” Del said. “It’s difficult to trust them when you know they see you as dead weight.”

I glanced at the floor, then back again. “The truth is, you can only trust them so far. If you don’t attempt the change, eventually, they will leave you. Werewolves have no use for humans that aren’t useful to them in some way.”

Del’s head snapped around as she gave me a hard look. “‘Useful’? What’s that mean? Like, someone they keep around to fuck?”

“If it’s voluntary, then sure, sometimes. ‘Thropes have been known to date and marry humans. Mostly, they tend to stay with their kind. Less likely for accidents to happen that way.”

“Accidents?” Mateo asked.

Del scowled. “Like ‘accidentally’ getting your throat ripped out while you’re banging a werewolf.”

“Oh,” the kid whispered.

I rolled my neck out as I considered what I was about to share. “I can see why neither of you feels comfortable with the idea of becoming a ‘thrope. I just want to make sure you understand this opportunity before you make a final decision.”

“I know what I’m giving up.” Del shrugged. “Me? I’m more worried about what I’d lose by saying yes.”

“Decision’s already been made,” Mateo added. “I’m good.”

Several seconds passed in silence as I let it stew. What I was about to offer them wasn’t offered lightly. It could have serious repercussions for them down the line, and for me as well.

Yet, I needed to start somewhere, and these two had proven themselves to be decent people. Both were kind, resilient, and smart enough to navigate pack life and politics as humans, under the worst conditions imaginable. As apprentice candidates went, I could do a whole lot worse.

“What if there was an alternative?” I said, addressing each of them in turn. “What if I could provide you with similar advantages, without giving up a lick of what makes you human?”

This time, Mateo was the first to catch on. “You mean becoming un brujo, like you.”

“I’m not a witch,” I answered.

“Yeah, but you can do stuff I’ve never seen any human do.” Del exhaled through her nose as she gave me an appraising look. “You thought you hid it from us, but we aren’t stupid.”

“That thing you did in the car when that bloodsucker was chasing us?” Mateo shivered slightly. “It freaked me out. Still can’t figure out how you did it.”

“To be honest, I can’t promise that I could ever show you how to pull something like that off. But, I can teach you how to protect yourself from the monsters out there.”

“How?” Del asked.

“By teaching you the ancient art of druidry.”

The two survivors shared a look. Something unspoken passed between them, an indication they’d bonded on a level deeper than I could comprehend. After several moments, Mateo shrugged.

“We talked about this, while you were gone. Like, if you ever came back, would we ask you to show us some tricks or not.”

I raised an eyebrow. “And?”

“And,” Del said. “We’ll hear what you have to say. Because neither of us wants to become some kind of freak, but we aren’t ready to die out here, either.”

“Well then,” I replied as I interlaced my fingers and cracked my knuckles. “Let me tell you about the druid order.”

I spent over an hour explaining the order to them, and what it meant to be a druid. First, I told them about the history, about Finnegas, and my apprenticeship. We discussed some of the things that druids could do, and I explained that it was more about stewardship and protecting others than it was about amassing personal power.

When I’d covered the broad strokes and answered their questions, Mateo was on the fence, but Del was ready to sign up. I asked them to think about it, and we’d discuss it again when I returned. Then I found Samson, to let him know that I’d be taking the two off his hands soon.

Samson thought it was a good idea, considering that they didn’t want to become ‘thropes. He asked for a timeframe, and I told him I needed to deal with the varcolaci situation first. After I soundproofed the room with magic, we also talked about Trina’s idea and the possibility of fostering an alliance between me and the Pack.

“Can’t say I hate it,” Samson sat on his bed, arms crossed as he stroked his beard. “Trina was always one to think ahead.”

“It could work. Once I set up a permanent, living ward perimeter, that forest would become a game magnet. It’d give the pack a chance to grow and thrive.”

The alpha rubbed a hand over his bald head as he gave an old man’s sigh. “If you’d approached me with an idea like this before all this shit happened, I would’ve refused. Close alliances like this were forbidden by the accords, way back when. But now?”

“I’d say the Vampyri and the Fae broke the accords when they fucked all humankind.”

“And us.” Samson’s voice was hard and cold as he continued. “Far as I’m concerned, all bets are off. If you want to create a druid sanctuary and have the Pack guard it, I’m all for it.”

I raised my hands in protest. “Not just a druid sanctuary⁠—”

He cut me off with a chop of his hand. “Don’t piss on my leg and tell me it’s raining. I’ve been at this a long fucking time, and I can see what you’re planning. Like I said, I don’t hate it. You know why?”

“Nope, but I’m sure you’re going to fill me in.”

“Smart ass.” Samson started counting off on his calloused fingers. “One, the fae have always had magic. No matter what they claimed when the accords were signed, that always gave them an unfair advantage.”

“Can’t argue with that.”

“Two, the leeches are using magic now, in direct violation of the accords. It wasn’t a fae wizard or sorceress who created that thing. Hell, you saw it yourself when you tangled with Ateas. You never went into detail about that mess, but I got the broad strokes from Del. I know there had to be magic involved somehow.”

“You aren’t wrong. Ateas is an out-and-out nightmare, way worse than this varcolaci. Eventually, I’m going to have to stop him, although I don’t know how.”

“Which brings me to my third point. I’ve been traveling, gathering scattered pack members while piecing together what the vamps have planned.” He got a faraway look in his cold blue eyes as he continued. “Let me tell you, it ain’t good. The future of this world hangs in the balance, and right now, you’re the only one who can tip the scales.”

“I sense a ‘but’ coming.”

“But, you can’t do it alone. All that cowboy bullshit you did when you were younger, running around like Shane, waging a one-man war against Rufus Ryker and his gang? That’s a risk you can’t afford to take anymore, going it alone all the time. Stakes are too high.”

“Shane? Really? Damn, you are old.”

“You have no idea.” He leaned forward, lowering his voice. “Just between you and me, I have been in contact with Lita. Did you know all the gods fled back to their realms? Left the Titans holding their dicks. She’s pissed, but that woman’s never been one to sit on her hands. She has plans for the Lycan people.”

That gave me pause. Allying with the Austin Pack was one thing, but getting in bed with a goddess was another—metaphorically speaking, of course.

“Samson—”

He raised a hand as he looked away. “I know, I know—she’s a goddess, and you don’t trust those fuckers. Can’t say I blame you. The good news is that Fallyn’s always been fond of you, and as far as her mother goes, that girl can do no wrong. Lita’ll give you a fair shake.”

I choked back a laugh, coughing into my hand to cover my amusement. In this timeline, Fallyn and I had just started to date before things went sideways. Her mom never had the chance to learn to hate my guts or to disapprove of her daughter’s choice in demi-Fomorian suitors.

That was one of the reasons I’d never tracked the girl down here. It was best to stay away from Fallyn, and just let that whole affair die down. I’d grown too close to her counterpart in my timeline, which meant I’d be sure to mix up facts and slip at some point if I met this version of her.

Besides, it’d feel too much like cheating. That girl was very forward when it came to getting what she wanted. Very, very forward. Getting mixed up with her in this timeline had ‘nope’ written all over it.

“I’m going to have to say no to dealing with your ex, Samson. I’ll gladly be the Pack’s magical ace in the hole, but whatever you and Lita have planned, that’s your deal. If we move forward with this arrangement, I’m going to kindly ask you to keep me and my apprentices out of it.”

He frowned and lit up a cigarette. After he’d filled half the room with smoke, he nodded. “Fair enough. I guess that leaves just one question. How’re you going to deal with the varcolaci?”

“Trina says that thing fled east. I’ve got a hunch it left to report to its maker.”

“Ah. You think they’re hiding out in one of the national forests.”

“Makes sense, doesn’t it? If the vamps are making more of these things, they need werewolves. The best place to find them is in the wild places, far away from humans and the dead.”

Samson humphed. “Unless you’re a large group. Then, you’re forced to fortify a location and sit tight.”

“Which made you an easy target. I figure they want older, stronger ‘thropes so they can turn them into more powerful varcolaci. It’s not like your kind grew on trees before the world went to hell. That’s why that thing was sent here. They want to enthrall as many wolves as they can.”

Samson scratched his cheek and tsked. “You might be onto something. With plenty of humans and a lack of moral restraint, a few dozen werewolves could double or triple their numbers within a few weeks.”

“By forced infection, you mean.”

“Given those resources and the right spell-fucker, the vamps could build an entire army of varcolaci.”

“I still don’t understand why the varcolac didn’t just take Slider and Bedhead and run. Two more werewolves for breeding and turning seem better than none.”

“Chalk it up to hubris. That’s always been a weakness of the Vampyri. The thing would settle for nothing less than the entire pack.” He flicked cigarette ash off the side of the bed. “What it didn’t count on was me. Most alphas don’t have the kind of connection to their pack that I do. When I sensed what was happening, I protected those two from being dominated. They fought to the bitter end.”

“So the varcolac had to kill them. Turning them into Scut Farkuses was never the plan.”

“For the last time, it’s farkaskoldusok, you dumbfuck.” He took a drag and blew smoke out his nostrils. “Anyway, they must have at least one werewolf in custody already. Otherwise, how’d they make the varcolac they sent?”

“Well, shit. You mean I might be facing more of those things after I track it down?”

“Yep.”

“Well, that sucks.”

Samson barked a sarcastic laugh. “Don’t it just.”

My next step was to track Luther down. The last place I’d seen him was at the cliffside home he’d been occupying, not far from the LARPer’s compound. It was time I checked in on the kids, anyway. I decided I could spare a day or so on my way to speak with the former master of the Austin Coven.

After I’d made my rounds and said my goodbyes to the Pack, I strode off into a thick copse nearby. Once I was hidden, I contacted the Oak and had it portal me to a wooded spot near the Castle House. It was close enough to be inside the safe zone I’d created for them, but far enough away to avoid spooking Guerra.

He’d catch my scent eventually, which meant it’d be no surprise when I showed up on their doorstep. Meanwhile, I did my rounds, first by inspecting the earth berms and vegetation that concealed the roads into their neighborhood. The steep embankments required very little maintenance, beyond thickening the wall of thorny acacia and briar that grew up and down the slopes.

Following my gardening chores, I checked the wards I’d left around the neighborhood. The first dozen or so were intact, though some required a bit of upkeep. I’d designed them to keep out the undead, and though I briefly considered adding protections against ‘thropes, it wouldn’t do to lock Guerra out by accident.

Later, it might prove a necessary precaution. If so, I’d have to provide him with a charm or key to give him passage in and out of the ward perimeter. Until then, I’d have to trust the salty old wolf to protect the group, should an incursion occur.

It wasn’t until I got to the wards on the east side of the boundary that I noticed something amiss. Originally, I’d chosen this location because it was isolated from the rest of the city by thickly wooded hills in all directions. The difficult surrounding terrain was as good a deterrent as any to the odd wandering deader who might roam this way. As an additional precaution against unsavory humans, I’d blocked and hidden all incoming roads as well.

While the wards on that side looked to be in good shape, there were signs of plenty of foot traffic coming from the east. Shuffling, toe-dragging traffic. Evidence of their passage was plentiful, as they’d worn a faint path all along that side of the ward perimeter—probing it for holes, it seemed.

This was strange behavior for the lesser undead. Zombies and ghouls relied more on instinct than intelligence when hunting for a meal. They lacked the brainpower necessary to recognize magical barriers, much less to search for weaknesses in a ward wall. The kids knew how to maintain noise discipline, and I seriously doubted that these deaders had heard them from that far away. In short, the whole thing stank to high heaven.

I wanted to see where the undead were coming from, so I traced their footsteps to the source. Along the way, I found a single set of large footprints, made by something heavy enough to leave deep indentions in the hard Hill Country soil. I also counted over two dozen smaller sets of tracks, each following the same game trail through the woods from RM 2222.

That was a rough trek and not something any zombie would make without good reason. Something was drawing those sons of bitches this way, coaxing or herding them to test the ward boundary in various places. I intended to find out what, but first I needed to check in with Guerra.

I found him fifty feet off the ground in a massive oak tree, just across the street from the Castle House. The grizzled Danny Trejo lookalike gazed eastward, searching the vicinity for anything that might be amiss. When he spotted me, he slung his crossbow over his shoulder and leapt from his perch, vaulting from limb to limb while mostly using his right leg and left hand.

Although his disability hadn’t slowed the werewolf down any, I still felt guilty about how it happened. In an attempt to get to me, a master vampire named Dauphine had done a number on him—right before she killed Anna’s little brother.

The ‘thrope dropped to the cracked, nearly overgrown pavement directly in front of me. He made nary a sound on landing, save for the soft thump his prosthetic made on the pavement.

“Guess you noticed all the activity on the east approach.”

“Good to see you too, Guerra. How’s things?”

“What, you want a hug or something?”

I knuckled the tip of my nose. “Sheesh, who pissed in your cornflakes this morning?”

“The druid who left me here—alone—to guard fourteen kids and a nearly useless pair of adults.” The usual frown he wore deepened, and then his gaze shifted to my Bag. “You bring any booze?”

“Sorry, but the Pack cleaned me out.”

“Figures. Did Samson ask about me?”

“Never came up. We were preoccupied with other matters.”

Guerra hissed and looked away momentarily. When he met my gaze again, his expression was writ with concern. “Eh, enough of that bullshit. Did you see it?”

“See what?”

“The thing that herded all those zombies here.”

“Lemme guess—it’s big and ugly, and it looks like it chewed one too many pieces of Willy Wonka’s three-course dinner gum.”

The wolf looked at me askance. “You mean there’s more of those things?”

“Found one hanging around one of my safe houses a few days ago. Had a hell of a time getting rid of the thing.”

“I tried to put a bolt through its skull. Bounced right off. Then the pinche thing looked at me and fffttt—” he quickly slid one hand over the other, palm to palm. “It took off like the Roadrunner on meth. Never seen anything that big move that fast.”

“They’re quick, but don’t sweat it. I know how to get rid of the fucker. We can take care of it before I leave.”

“Of course, you’re leaving again, pendejo. Why not, when you’ve got me to babysit your kids.”

“Now, Grandpa,” I pleaded, my voice dripping with forced sincerity. “You know there’s no way I could afford childcare on my salary.”

Guerra’s frown turned into an out-and-out scowl. “Fuck you, McCool.”

“Give me a break. I know you’re just as fond of those little shits as I am.”

“Doesn’t mean I don’t need to get back to my pack. Wolves aren’t meant to be alone.”

“You aren’t alone.”

“You know what I mean.” He sniffed the air in the direction of the Castle House. “C’mon, dinner’s ready, and I’m fucking starving. That gringo might not be worth a damn in a fight, but he sure can cook.”

Guerra loped off toward the front gate, and I followed behind him. As we walked, my gaze drifted to the spot where Brian died in my arms. Out of respect, I paused in the middle of the street to say a prayer before moving on.

The curmudgeonly ’thrope glanced over his shoulder to see why I’d stopped. “He’s gone, druid. Need to let the past go.”

“Has Anna?”

“She has her days. Gotta say though, all that medieval shit gave the kids purpose. Made training them a heck of a lot easier, that’s for sure.”

“Oh? How so?”

He flashed a wry smile. “You’ll see.”

CHAPTER

ELEVEN

When we entered the front gate, the soft sound of arrows thwacking into targets in the backyard was the first thing I noticed. The smell of fresh squirrel stew wafted from somewhere within the mansion, and the scent hung heavy on the early autumn air. Far above eye level, D’Wayne, Christopher, and Thomas stood watch, longbows in hand, from the upper deck and parapets of the faux-castle home.

When Christopher noticed Guerra and me, he whistled in a fair imitation of a white-throated sparrow. D’Wayne replied, nailing the call of a red-winged blackbird with impressive accuracy. Thomas followed up with the repetitive whistle of a chipping sparrow, getting the pitch and rhythm close enough to fool anyone who wasn’t an ornithologist.

I raised an eyebrow at Guerra, and he shrugged. “It was the kids’ idea. Every boy picked a unique call, so they can identify each other from cover or at a distance. They know the distress calls, too. You know, in case there’s an incursion.”

“Pretty slick. Won’t fool a vamp, but it’s good enough to trick a deader.”

“Wait, there’s more.”

We passed the gardens, which were heavy with produce, and entered the backyard without announcing ourselves. There, a handful of boys practiced archery on the butts, while others worked basic fencing skills with blunted rapiers nearby. A few more sparred with cloth-covered practice knives, mostly going for the tendons above and behind the knee, or to score a stab at the base of their partner’s skull.

The youngest of the bunch were training with slingshots, both of the wrist rocket variety and the more traditional, string and pocket versions. While they got better results with the newer technology, I saw the wisdom in teaching them to use both versions. In short, the kids were learning how to kill zombies, and doing a hell of a job of it.

What was even more impressive was that they remained focused on their given tasks, even after word spread through whispers and bird calls that we’d arrived. I could tell they wanted to run over and greet us, but even the smallest of the lot resisted the temptation. I felt more than a touch of pride at seeing how they were coping, but the sight evoked a slight pang of sadness, too.

Kids shouldn’t have to live in a world where their survival depends on their ability to fight.

“So, whadya’ think?”

I snapped out of my reverie and side-eyed the werewolf. “It’s damned impressive. But, do they get to play anymore? Or just hang out?”

“No, we have them working a chain gang from sun up until after lunch, then we throw them in the ring and place bets on who comes out on top.” He took a breath and scowled. “Of course, they get to play, payaso. They get recess three times a day, between their lessons, meals, and homework.”

“It’s smart to keep them busy,” I said. “And I’m glad they’re getting an education. Someday, this world is going to need knowledgable leaders to rebuild society.”

“We need to get them past puberty first.”

“One thing at a time, Guerra. Where’s Anna?”

“You mean Dame Sweetlove. Don’t forget, we all have titles now. I’m Sir Guerra, the boys are all ‘Page This’ or ‘Squire That,’ and Mickey’s⁠—”

“‘Chancellor Merlin.’ Yeah, I remember.”

“Anyways, they’re both inside. You’ll find Anna in the library working on tomorrow’s lesson, and Mickey cooking dinner.”

“How’s morale? Among the adults, I mean.”

Guerra squinted and pinched his fingers together. “Meh. Anna kind of lives in a fantasy world these days, while Mickey’s been hitting the booze.”

“I thought you said you were out.”

“Of the good stuff, sure.” He shuddered slightly. “Whatever you do, don’t try Mickey’s hooch.”

“If it’s nasty enough to scare a werewolf, I’ll steer clear. Is it okay if I say hi to the kids?”

“I wouldn’t. Too disruptive, and it’ll just cause friction you don’t need. ‘Sides, it’s almost dinner time. You can catch up with ‘em then.”

“Fair enough.” I reached into my Bag and handed him a bottle of cheap vodka. “It’s not añejo, but⁠—”

“Do I look like a fucking stereotype? Don’t answer that. But for future reference, I’m a Pappy man myself.” He snatched the bottle from my hands. “Beggars can’t be choosers, though. I’ll infuse this with some dried fruit, and it’ll smooth it right out.”

“Have at it. I’m going to check in on Anna.”

Guerra merely gave me a sympathetic look, then he padded off to stash his prize. I entered the house, pausing just inside to pull some books from my Bag. Then I headed upstairs to the library, where I found Anna taking notes from several grade school texts.

She wore a flowing gown, something that looked to be a recreation of a medieval-style dress. It was white in front, green satin on the sides, and fitted at the waist. The sleeves were floppy and wide at the cuffs, tighter above the elbow, and the neckline was fastened by a criss-crossed lace.

Her brown hair was partially braided, worn wrapped and pinned up in the back. She looked a bit thinner and paler than I’d last seen her, but not nearly as embittered. Or maybe that was because she hadn’t noticed me yet.

“Hello, Anna.”

Her gaze barely flickered from the page as she acknowledged me. “‘How the knowledge of thy sin had burned my heart to ashes.’ Yet, the knight errant returns.”

I didn’t know how to respond to that, so I set the stack of books on the table. “I brought some things for the boys. Maybe it’ll help with their studies. At least to give them some variety in their reading assignments.”

“Perhaps. I’ll look at them later,” she said as she continued to scratch away at the legal tablet in front of her.

“If you need anything else, let me know. School supplies, clothes, bedding⁠—”

“We’re doing just fine. Dinner will be served shortly in the main hall. Do be on time. Even a cur like you should be mindful of setting a decent example for the children.”

“I—” Although I wasn’t sure what I was going to say, I bit off my reply nonetheless. “Of course.”

“As if timeliness were ever your strong suit, but I suppose we’ll hope for the best.” Her expression remained neutral as she spoke, neither disdainful nor angry, despite the bite in her words. “Now, if you’ll excuse me…”

I stood there a few more moments longer, waiting to see if she’d drop the ruse so we could have an adult discussion. When it became clear that I wasn’t exactly dealing with a completely sane person, I simply nodded and left without comment.

Her thinly veiled accusations stung, but no one knew better than I that grief was a bitch. Therefore, I’d continue to take my licks until she came around. It was the least I could do.

Mickey did, indeed, try to get me to taste his hooch. I used a little druid magic to remove the congeners on the sly and then complimented him on his zymological talents. He was thrilled, unfortunately, and promised to send me off with a bottle.

Oh, joy.

The boys were almost muted at mealtime, and not just due to our noise discipline policy. Since we were eating indoors, I expected a bit more conversation, but they seemed more intent on observing their odd, newly adopted rules of decorum. Everything was ‘Page This, would you pass the bread, please?’ and ‘Squire that, thank you for helping me with my draw today.’

It was weird, but I let it pass. Of course, Anna was cold as ice throughout the meal. I wondered if the kids were watching their ‘p’s and q’s’ specifically because they could sense the tension in the room. Children were perceptive like that.

After dinner was over and the boys had cleared the table, I made sure to hang out with them during their free time. It was only then that they cut loose a little, jostling each other to show me this or that thing they’d made, or to display their newly acquired fighting and hunting skills.

Guerra relieved the boys on watch so they could eat and then join us. Remembering previous incidents, I made certain to advise them to stay alert and hidden when on duty. Rather than giving me attitude in response, the boys listened and asked questions instead.

However odd Anna’s approach might be, it was working. These kids were learning to be polite, disciplined, skilled young men. I only hoped it’d be enough to keep them safe in times to come.

Once the kids had shuffled off to their evening chores and bed, Guerra pulled me aside. “They come every night, so Mickey and Anna are on watch. Neither’s worth a damn in close combat, but Mickey’s eyes are sharp, and Anna’s hell on wheels with my crossbow.”

“They’ll be fine. I checked and shored up my wards, first thing when I arrived. Let’s go take a look at these interlopers.”

It was a clear night with plenty of moonlight. I concealed us both with a few spells, then we stole off into the dark. Guerra took the lead, while I kept watch with a suppressed .22 pistol loaded with subsonic ammo. It wouldn’t be completely silent, but the report wouldn’t draw undead from miles around, either.

When we were fifty yards from the perimeter, the ‘thrope gave the signal to halt. From there, we crept forward through some brush, taking advantage of the terrain to keep us concealed while we snuck up on our visitors.

I heard them before I saw them, a line of shuffling, moaning zombies at least two dozen strong. They pushed and jostled their way around the ward barrier, looking beyond the invisible line as if searching for something they desperately needed. Logic told me they had no way of knowing there were humans on the other side, so something had to be controlling them from nearby.

Guerra mimed shooting at the dead. I shook my head and motioned for him to follow me away from the ward boundary. When we were safely out of earshot, I spoke just loud enough for a werewolf to hear.

“How good are you with a rifle?”

The look he gave me could scald ice. “Ask a stupid question, why don’t you?”

Biting back a retort, I reached into my Bag and pulled out a Barrett .50 caliber sniper rifle. “I want to try something, alright? The last time I tangled with one of those things, it poisoned me. Got so sick, I had to go comatose to heal. Rather than risk that again, I want to see just how projectile-proof these things are.”

“That fifty could do it, but what about the noise?”

“I can take care of the noise, but you’ll only get one quiet shot.” I pointed to the shallow valley where I’d picked up the larger set of tracks. “I’ll lead the thing into the open and down to that draw, so you can take him out.”

“Gonna’ need to get some elevation to get a clear line of sight.”

“Do what you have to do. It’s sighted in at 300 yards, so I’ll stop somewhere between 275 and 325. When the moment’s right, fuck him up.” I reached into my Bag and produced a full mag for the Barrett. “Here, use these.”

The werewolf took the magazine and popped a round out to examine it. “SLAP rounds. Where the fuck did you find them?”

“I have my ways,” I said. “Be advised, I put an extra little ‘sumthin-sumthin’ on that round in your hand. Only had time to enchant a single cartridge, so don’t miss. Oh, and⁠—”

“The muzzle brake. Do I look dumb to you?”

“‘Ask a stupid question, why don’t you?’ Just don’t miss, alright?”

Guerra’s scowl deepened until his entire face was nothing but frown lines. “So long as you get me a clear shot, I’ll hit it. If I miss, it’ll be your fault.”

“Alright, Annie Oakley, alright. Go get situated, and let’s rid ourselves of this giant freaking blueberry of a vampire.”

He pulled the bolt back slowly and hand-fed the loose round, then he carefully seated the magazine to avoid making too much noise. After checking the safety, he loped off toward a tall oak that overlooked the valley beyond the edge of the neighborhood.

I followed him at an easy pace, stopping in a crouch beneath the tree until he found a stable perch. It took only a few seconds to cast a silence spell on Guerra and the rifle, then I was off. While I doubted that I’d be able to actively maintain the spell if things got hairy, it’d last long enough to muffle a single shot from the .50 cal.

Let’s hope this plan works.

Instead of sneaking through the line of zombies rambling along my ward line, I headed to the southern border of the neighborhood. Finding no undead there, I crossed over and began to pick my way into the valley to the east. The path I chose was treacherous, but my greatest challenge was avoiding loose scree. If there was a vrykolakas lurking nearby, I didn’t want to alert the damned thing to my approach.

When I reached the bottom of the valley, I continued east, maintaining the high ground on a parallel course with the game trail. A handful of stragglers were on the path, shambling their way toward the castle house. None of them noticed my odd, magically camouflaged outline slinking through the woods, and I did my best to keep it that way.

Soon the path intersected with a utility easement that ran northeast for the better part of a mile. The ground beneath the high-power transmission lines and towers had been clear-cut before things went to hell, so the easement was mostly covered in tall grass and scrub. I stuck to the woods to maintain concealment, subtly applying druid magic where necessary to expedite my passage.

Even at a distance, signs of inhuman activity were evident along the length of the clear-cut. The tall grass had been trampled in random, interweaving patterns, and a few well-marked paths meandered through the light underbrush toward the protected neighborhood to the southwest. I continued along until I came within sight of a power substation located just off RM 2222, no more than a mile from the Castle House.

Two things immediately became clear. First, the substation hadn’t been touched by human hands since the bombs fell. Second, it was definitely where the undead had been coming from recently. The high fence around the power station was in astonishingly good repair, making it the perfect holding pen for the zombie horde that stood stock-still within.

The oddly silent dead were packed inside like sardines, waiting in standby mode for something to set them off. It was like having a ticking time bomb right next door to the Castle House.

Someone or something had gone to a great deal of trouble to set this up. Between the vrykolakas at the safe house, the varcolac at the Pack’s compound, and this, I couldn’t help but think that someone was actively attempting to take me out.

It was probably Ateas, seeking revenge after I’d nearly ended him back in The Woodlands. Or, maybe it was the sorceress Neit sent me to kill. But how would she know to come after me? Could that crusty old lich have put her up to it?

Regardless of the culprit, I’d have to deal with the situation conclusively before leaving the LARPer group again. To that end, I spent some time evaluating just how imminent the threat might be.

Could that many zombies break through my ward barrier? No, not if it were in good repair—but that was a big ‘if.’ Without frequent upkeep, wards failed over time, and that was just the way of things.

So long as they stayed dormant, there wouldn’t be a problem. If something woke them up, the LARPers could be screwed. Thankfully, animals avoided the undead, especially large groups. There was little chance that the horde might spontaneously stampede unless something else triggered them.

Speaking of which, not all the zombies were in a complete state of suspended animation. A large entry gate was located at the southernmost corner of the substation, facing a side road that ran alongside the facility. It was there that I spotted a bit of movement.

The gates had been chained shut at some point, possibly in some vain last-minute attempt to preserve infrastructure when society began to fall apart. Yet, someone or something had bent the gates just enough for a body to slip through. At first, it wasn’t clear what caused the damage. Then, I spotted it, a large bruised figure squatting atop a white utility shed near the center of the mass of bodies.

This vrykolakas—or more properly, vrykolakína—was female, and well over six feet tall. She was bloated and discolored, with long, greasy black hair. Like the others, thick dark pus dripped from her fingertips, eyes, nose, and mouth. She squatted on her haunches like some Tyrian sumo, knees spread wide to accommodate her prodigious midsection.

She had to be stopped. This thing was sending the undead to test my wards, night after night. Should they find a gap, I had no doubt she’d send the entire horde to overrun the compound, likely so she could feast on the occupants within.

I glanced in the direction from which I’d come. Even if he had a clear line of sight—which he didn’t—there was no way Guerra could make such a heroic shot. Besides, we only had one enchanted bullet, and I wasn’t about to waste it on a low-odds attempt.

To guarantee a kill, I needed to get her within easy shooting distance of the werewolf. The trick would be to draw her away without accidentally awakening and stampeding the dormant zombie horde she commanded. That led me to consider another possibility—that she might activate them if she thought she was in danger.

One crisis at a time, Colin.

The best way to get her away from the horde would be to start killing the ones she’d sent toward the house. If I were lucky, she’d think I was a lone human, and she’d come to investigate hoping for an easy meal. Or, she’d get pissed that someone was interrupting her work, and attempt to stop it.

Either way, it’d give me a chance to lure her into Guerra’s sights. Win, win.

With that settled, I picked my way through the trees until I was near a trail bend with a clear line of sight to my man on overwatch. I concealed myself within a thick patch of brush about fifty feet above the path, making certain I’d be difficult to spot and that I was downwind. Then, I pulled out the .22 pistol and proceeded to start dropping bodies.

A suppressed small-caliber weapon with subsonic ammo still makes some noise. While I’d tuned the little Ruger to be as quiet as possible, the f-shikt of the bolt cycling was enough to attract attention from other undead when I nailed the first one in the temple. This was what I wanted. The brush between the trail and my position was dense, and the slope steep, so that slowed them enough to make the undead easy targets.

F-shikt.

Two down.

F-shikt, f-shikt, f-shikt.

Five.

I heard a low screech coming from the power substation.

F-shikt. F-shikt, f-shikt, f-shikt.

Nine. Two rounds left.

Unfortunately for me, four more zombies were coming up the slope. I murked two of them, one with a carefully placed round through its ruined left eye, the other with a shot through the nasal cavity into the brainstem. Then I dropped my chameleon spell, tossed the pistol into my Bag, and pulled my hunting knife from the small of my back.

Zombies were slow and dumb, and these two were no exceptions. The guy on the left made it to me first, a skinny white dude with big yellow buck teeth that were exposed by his partially missing upper lip. When he lunged, arms out, I parried his arms to the inside, and then I spun around him, burying the blade of my knife in the base of his skull.

Twisting and yanking at the same time to relieve suction, I pulled the knife free as the first deader’s body fell. The next was far enough away for me to respond by choice, but something big was crashing through the trees, fast. It seemed the vrykolakína wasn’t bothering to follow the path—instead, it was blazing a trail through the juniper, laurel, and desert willow.

Great.

Knowing I’d have just seconds to position myself so the vrykolakína would approach me in Guerra’s line of sight, I threw my knife at the final zombie. The blade spun end-over-end until it struck, sinking to the hilt in the woman’s rotting forehead. I ran past it as it fell, leaving the knife as I headed for the kill zone.

My feet hit the bare rock and dirt of the game trail, just as the giant blueberry of a vampire burst out of the tree line some fifty feet downhill. From where I stood, I realized I’d have to sprint another twenty yards to get the thing in position.

Shit.

The problem was, I was playing possum, being a good little piece of bait. If I ran at Fomorian speed, I could stay ahead of her, barely. Unfortunately, then she’d know I wasn’t human, and she might break off the chase. If I moved at a human’s pace, she’d be on top of me before I took two steps up the trail.

Decisions, decisions.

I decided to go for option number three. Instead of running, I stood in the middle of the trail, mouth agape, staring at the thing as it approached. Being the predator she was, the vrykolakína smiled broadly, pushing her stringy dark hair from her face as she displayed the ugliest grill I’d ever seen. Her teeth were long, curved, and blade-like, with tiny little serrations along their edges like a shark’s.

The bitch ran a long, thick tongue over the top row, wiping away a bit of the black venom that dripped from her fangs. Then she began plodding toward me, one earth-pounding step at a time. I did nothing in response, except to shake and pretend to hyperventilate.

With each step, the monster increased her speed, until she was running at a slow sprint. Many vampires preferred frightening their victims before killing them, so the blood they drank would be saturated with adrenaline. I could only assume that was the purpose of all that build-up.

I didn’t intend to be eaten, but she didn’t know that. Yet, I didn’t take one step in retreat, nor did I move from that spot until she was just a few feet from me. Then, I sprang into action, leaping into the air and flipping over her arms as she reached out to grab me.

I twisted and turned 180 degrees in midair, landing atop her shoulders in a squat, feet straddling her head with my fingers twisted firmly into her hair. Then I asked the Oak to teleport us both up the trail to a spot where Guerra could get a clean shot.

As soon as we appeared, I leapt clear and to the side, turning to watch even while I was still airborne. I heard no report, except for the dull smack of the round striking the creature square in the middle of the chest. A millisecond after the round touched her flesh, my sunlight spell burst from the tip, burning a hole through her skin that allowed the .30 caliber tungsten sabot to enter her torso.

As the sabot pierced the vamp’s thick, toughened breastbone, the creature staggered and took a step back. I’d seen 7.62 sabot rounds go through level three body armor like it was cardboard, so I was fairly positive the vampire’s hardened bone structure would be no match for the anti-tank SLAP round. Yet, the thing didn’t drop.

She turned toward me, pus dripping from the large entry wound in the center of her chest, and she smiled. Before I had time to react, she blurred forward and snatched me from the ground. Then, she opened her jaws unnaturally wide and sank her teeth into my shoulder and neck.

CHAPTER

TWELVE

Her teeth felt like ice piercing my flesh, then the wounds lit up like fire as the venom entered my system. I struggled and fought to escape, but her strength was well beyond mine in my current form. Fighting her barehanded was futile.

Next, I thought to reach for Dyrnwyn, but she held me with my upper arms pinned to my sides. No way could I draw a weapon—at least, not one that would matter.

Hot blood flowed from my wounds, and I was becoming nauseous from the sounds of the vrykolakína sucking at my flesh. Or, maybe it was the rapid blood loss and a massive injection of vyrus venom being injected into my bloodstream. Either way, it didn’t matter. I was trapped and fucked nine ways to Sunday.

Guerra might’ve been a few hundred yards away, but we could hear each other, plain as day. It was time to call in the artillery.

“Shoot her again,” I hissed.

“I can’t without risking⁠—”

“Stop being a pussy, and shoot,” I groaned.

This time, the report from the rifle echoed through the valley. The round, a standard .50 caliber sniper cartridge with a copper jacketed steel core, struck the vamp in the shoulder. Another hit her in the ribs, close enough that I felt the bullet graze my skin. Neither had any effect, and I was fading fast.

“Go for the eye,” I wheezed.

I was facing away from the ‘thrope’s position, while the vamp was turned at an oblique angle facing him. Best I could tell, only the vampire’s left eye was exposed. He’d be hitting a target the size of a half-dollar from 300 yards, and if the vampire flinched, it might be my melon exploding instead of hers.

“Too risky,” was his reply.

“Knew you couldn’t make the shot,” I whispered.

Guerra growled, and then I heard a third rifle report.

The werewolf did not miss. Hydrostatic shock is a bitch, especially when it’s applied to brain matter, and this leech’s skull was no exception. Gray tissue, bone, and black blood exploded out the back of the vamp’s head, the result of 700 grains of metal traveling at 2,800 feet per second, rapidly decelerating inside a chamber the size of a small pumpkin.

The vampire took two steps back, then she collapsed atop me. Guerra was there in seconds, pulling me from under the bloated vamp’s body. His eyes widened as he clamped his hands over my wounds, which still pumped blood with every beat of my heart.

I pushed his hands away, rolling over with a groan so I could grab a handful of grass. Moving with all the feeble strength of a newborn, I rolled to my back and slapped the grass and leaves onto my shoulder and neck. Druidry flowed through me and into the vegetation, weaving the fibrous material together over my wounds while closing them with tiny sutures that pulled the holes shut.

“I’ve gone septic,” I said. “Help me to my feet.”

Just as Guerra leaned over and extended a hand, the vrykolakína sat up. Half the top of her head was missing, her remaining eye socket was blown out, and she still had that sizable hole in her chest. Yet, her mouth and lungs appeared to be working fine, a fact proven when she took a sharp breath and spoke.

“You are weak, druid,” the vampire said in a sibilant female voice, like scales sliding over desert sand. “Bé Chuille would be ashamed.”

The voice had a distinctive accent, Mediterranean but more archaic in its cadence and inflection. When she spoke the ancient druidess’ name, she practically spat it in disgust. Guerra looked at the vamp, then at me, curiosity and trepidation writ across his craggy face.

Without speaking, I mouthed a single word.

Necromancy.

Guerra nodded. I shivered with fever but hid it from my voice as I replied.

“I don’t believe I’ve had the—er, pleasure—of your acquaintance, necromancer. You are?”

“No mere necromancer. Have this age’s druids fallen so far as to mistake the olden powers for mere conjury?”

“Hmm. I take it you’re the one who’s been sending your creations to hunt me down?”

“I do not know you from Gaia’s sons. However, I recognize my enemy’s sign. Where there is druidry, there are druids. I knew if I staked these places, eventually, I would flush them out.” The vamp cast about with sightless eyes. “Where are the rest?”

“They’re, um, indisposed.”

The corpse cocked its head, then it laughed. “I see. You are all that is left of them. This will be much too easy.”

“I’ve killed two of these monstrosities so far. Whatever you’re up to, it might not be as simple as you think.”

“You’ve won small battles, but not without assistance, and at great cost to yourself. Heed my counsel, young druid—do not seek me out. You’ll be marching to your grave.”

“I’ll take that under consideration,” I said.

“Overconfident and arrogant as all your kind, I see.” The corpse ran its thick, purple tongue around its lips. “If you insist on pursuing me, so much the better. It will save me the trouble of tracking you down—if you survive the night.”

The vampire’s corpse went silent as it collapsed like a stringless marionette. I turned my attention to Guerra. “We need to move.”

He grabbed my hand and yanked me to my feet. In the distance, the moaning of over a thousand undead echoed up the draw.

“How many?” he asked.

“A small horde.”

“Took their sweet time. Figured the rifle would’ve gotten their attention.”

“They were dormant. I think this vamp was keeping them that way.” More moans echoed from behind us, up the hill from the direction of the Castle House. “I’ll need your help to get back to the ward barrier.”

“What about the dead? I can’t fight them off, carry this rifle, and carry you at the same time.” He glanced at his prosthetic and back again. “Least, not with this.”

“Don’t worry, I have it covered.” I could’ve had the Oak teleport us back inside the LARPer compound, but I was worried that the sorceress was still watching us. “C’mon, let’s go. Just speak up when you see a deader heading our way.”

Leaning heavily on Guerra, I gimped along beside him as we headed for home. We had a few dozen undead in front of us and a thousand more behind, but I was mostly worried about getting us past those wards. As we made our way up the hill, I kept an eye out for approaching zombies.

“Group of four up ahead,” Guerra growled.

I opened my mental connection to the Oak. Hinder their movement, nothing more. And stay away from here.

The Oak’s anger at my condition and desire to fight came loud and clear through our bond, but he stayed put and did as I said. For the sake of appearances, I waved my hand at the dead as they approached, but it wasn’t my magic that grew grasses and vines from the ground to bind their feet. We inched our way back to the neighborhood like that, ten steps at a time.

Once we were inside the ward barrier, I shrugged Guerra off and sank to the ground. “Wake the kids and tell Mickey and Anna to get ready to run.”

Guerra looked toward the valley. We couldn’t see the horde yet, but the undergrowth rustled and shook with their passing.

“What the hell are you going to do?” he asked.

“Me? I’m going to keep these wards up long enough for you guys to escape.” I gave him instructions on how to find Luther’s cliffside home. “Go there, get the kids across the gap, and wait for me. I won’t be far behind.”

The ‘thrope pursed his lips and hissed, looking away. He lowered his head, then he clapped a hand on my shoulder before heading toward the Castle House.

“Give ‘em hell, hermano.”

I whispered into the darkness as his footsteps faded behind me. “These days, I don’t have much else to give.”

I had about fifteen minutes before the horde arrived in force, and another fifteen before they dislodged or damaged a ward anchor by nature of their sheer numbers. It would only take a flipped stone or a scratched piece of bark, and the ward barrier would be compromised.

To complicate matters, I was burning up with fever due to sepsis, despite my enhanced immune system. The vrykolakína had envenomated me with huge amounts of the vyrus in a very short period, overwhelming my ability to heal. If I stayed here, my organs would shut down, and I’d die soon after.

Certainly, I could expend vast amounts of magic, slay most of the horde, and keep the barrier patent while Guerra and the LARPers made their escape. But from a strategic standpoint, heroic sacrifices were stupid. When faced with overwhelming odds, a good general wouldn’t commit suicide by launching a single, final heroic charge. Instead, he’d sacrifice a few troops while the bulk of his element escaped.

While I hated to do it, I needed to return to the Grove to heal so I could better ensure the group’s safety. Due to the time differential, I could spend a few hours in the Grove recovering, and still be back before the ward barrier failed.

Yet, a good druid always hedged his bets. In this case, that meant sacrificing some troops. Namely, the forest and the few animals that hadn’t fled before the coming horde.

Shivering from the massive amounts of vyrus running through my system, I gathered what little magic I had left to conjure a series of small fireballs. When I had more than a dozen flaming projectiles hovering above my hands, I sent them flying into the valley floor to ignite the forest below. Then, I dropped into a druid trance, and I called up the wind.

First, it was just a slight breeze, a gentle puff of air moving over the trees behind me and through those below. As I continued to exert my will on the air above, its velocity increased accordingly. Before long, I’d created a cyclonic gale to rival the Santa Ana winds, simultaneously feeding the fire in the valley with oxygen while pushing it toward the swarming undead.

I didn’t wait to see the result, partly because I trusted my handiwork, but also because the thought of burning that much forest turned my stomach. Certainly, natural forest fires made way for new growth, and a controlled burn could be a net positive for an ecosystem. However, starting a forest fire with druidry just hadn’t been on my apocalypse bingo card today.

My only consolation was that the dead were too dumb to avoid a rapidly spreading fire. If things went to plan, most of them would burn up in the blaze. In an ideal situation, I’d stick around and monitor it closely, but I needed to get to the Grove.

To that end, I opened up my connection to the Oak.

Take me home.

One instant I sat on the cold ground in Austin, the next I found myself on the warm grass inside my Grove. Still, I wasn’t home-free. I might’ve had some extra time now, but the differential wasn’t exact. I couldn’t risk being away for even a second more than necessary, not when the kids were in danger.

The Grove noticed my condition immediately, and intravenous lines made from vines and thorns began to grow from the grass all around me. I waved them away, even though I was close to succumbing to the infection that was rapidly overtaking my systems.

“No time. Going to have to do this the hard way. Get ready to isolate and encapsulate whatever my body ejects.”

Gritting my teeth in anticipation of the coming pain, I initiated the change from my half-Fomorian form to the real thing. Shifting like this was one of the most agonizing experiences I’d ever known, and it hurt like a motherfucker, every single time. Yet, it had its benefits, one of which was the healing that always happened while my body rearranged itself.

When I was well, the pain was no biggie. I could exert my will and use druidic mental techniques to block out enough of the pain to make it tolerable. Currently, however, I was not well. Not at all.

When the process began, I screamed. First my skeleton thickened and lengthened, tearing muscle from bone and splitting my skin in the process. Then my internal organs grew inside me, expanding to fill the void left when my skeletal system lengthened some four feet from head to toe. My muscles and nervous system followed next, growing almost from scratch to knit my sinew and synapses back together.

Finally, my skin formed back over all that exposed flesh, expelling gobs of black pus through the gaps before the wounds closed over. When all was said and done, I found myself on all fours in the grass, panting like an animal, as the grass wove itself into tight little baskets that caught the expelled vyrus venom. That was the Grove’s work, gathering all that poison up and isolating it, as I’d requested.

The way it looked, my body had expelled a few cups of the stuff. From the way I felt, I still had a ton of it left in my system. As the Grove spun air and water-tight capsules around the vyral goo it collected, I gathered my will to initiate the entire process again.

Once more, with feeling.

I shifted back into my half-Fomorian form, shedding weight and mass to God only knew where. When that was done, I lay sick and shivering in the grass like a newly foaled calf. Then I did it all over again. And again, and again, and again.

Hours passed as I shifted back and forth, over and over, accomplishing in an afternoon what my body would take weeks to do otherwise. Or, days if I’d have allowed myself to drop into a coma under the Grove’s care. All I knew was that every hour I was away equaled precious seconds that the kids were vulnerable, so I kept at it until I felt well enough to run and fight.

When it was over, I remained in my full Fomorian form, ten feet tall but half as thick and muscular as I should’ve been. While much of my change was fueled by magic, physical energy had to be expended somewhere when I metamorphosed. Subsequently, my body had cannibalized itself.

“Food and liquids, now.”

The Grove did as I asked, growing giant melons, clumps of bananas, and massive papayas straight out of the soil. I tossed them into my mouth whole, barely chewing as I ingested enough produce to stock a small grocery store for a day. When I could eat no more, I shifted again, knowing my body would utilize the matter sitting in my gut to replace the tissues I’d lost over the last few dozen transformations.

Lastly, I allowed the Grove to hit me with a couple of its natural intravenous lines. They would replace fluids and electrolytes while injecting a cocktail of healing herbs and compounds into my system. When I finally felt like myself, I dressed and headed back to Earth to see what had become of the LARPers.

By the time I returned to the eastern side of the perimeter, it seemed only minutes had passed in my absence. The fires had swept from the edge of the neighborhood and down into the valley, covering over a quarter-mile due to the hurricane-force winds I’d summoned. I counted many charred deader bodies within the ash below, but not enough.

Not nearly enough.

I closed my eyes and dropped into a druid trance, then I reached out until I found a Western barn owl nesting in the trees behind me. It took only a moment to merge with its mind. Once I’d settled into its subconscious, I sent it off into the skies, high above the smoke and heat over the valley floor below.

Soon, I discovered what happened to the horde. The bulk of their number had split, half heading north and the other half south, in an attempt to skirt the oncoming blaze. Even worse, those that traveled north had already breached the wards.

Ingeniously, they’d toppled a dead oak at just the right angle to damage one of my ward anchors. The tree impacted a glyph that I’d carved into a fence post, marring the design enough to deactivate the protections.

That sorcerous bitch must’ve been directing their movements from afar. We’d be overrun within minutes, and trapped if the southern half of the horde did the same.

South—that’s where I sent Guerra with the kids. Shit.

I had the Oak teleport me to the southern border of the neighborhood. Above the roar of the fire to the north and east, I caught the moans of the many undead making their way toward me. I was still in contact with the owl, so I sent it wheeling off to the west, hoping to locate the children.

They weren’t far from me, only a hundred yards or so away. Worse, the wind was blowing from that direction. Soon it’d carry the scent of seventeen humans to the horde, and the hunt would begin.

I didn’t have time to locate every single deader in the forest, not even with the Oak’s help. Saving them would require something drastic, an act that would prevent the dead from closing in on their position. Hopefully, I could pull it off in time.

I crossed the ward barrier and took a knee, resting my palm on a bare patch where the bedrock lay exposed by thousands of years of erosion. Such outcrops common in this area, as there was little natural topsoil over the limestone that made up these hills. Eyes closed, I shifted my awareness from the cries of the dead, the scent of the fleeing LARPers, and the roar of the fires nearby.

Moments later, my consciousness floated freely. I sent it down into the earth, deep beneath me, into the limestone depths below. Soon I found a flaw, a natural fracture left by plate tectonics millions of years ago.

Once I’d explored every square inch of that fracture, I invested it with my will and informed it of my desire.

“Scoilt!” I whispered, releasing every bit of druid magic I could muster.

Normally, it might take hours to prepare such a working. I was desperate, so I did the best I could on short notice. At my command, the earth began to shake, accompanied by a low, bass rumbling that rose to a crescendo screech of grinding stone.

A loud crack echoed like thunder, then the ground began to separate. I opened my eyes and stepped away, just in time to avoid falling into a fissure that appeared where I’d knelt just seconds before. The crack widened and spread, parting along a jagged line some thirty feet wide and at least a mile long.

After the ground stopped shaking, I looked over the edge and found I couldn’t see the bottom. Shocked by the results of my handiwork, I realized it hadn’t all been me. The fault had been ready to go, waiting for the right conditions to open and swallow whatever lay above it.

It was a testament to what a properly trained master druid could do. I wondered, what if I were so in tune with my environment that I instinctively knew where such exploits lay? What if I had the knowledge and insight to give nature just the right nudge, confident the effects would be as spectacular as this fluke had been?

Not even the gods would be able to withstand that sort of power, and that was all the more reason to find this sorceress. I’d end her or send her back where she came from, get the staff, and bring The Dagda back to life.

The approaching moans and groans of hundreds of zombies brought me back to the present. I watched for a moment as the dead gathered along the cleft, some marching mindlessly forward until they tumbled over the edge. Shortly, however, the bulk of them headed south to find a way around the unnatural obstacle I’d placed in their way.

We had an hour, tops, before they skirted the fissure and less time before the other half of the horde picked up the kids’ trail. My primary mission right now was to reunite with the children and lead them to safety. Only after they were safe would I feel comfortable tracking the sorceress to her lair.

Just as I was about to head west, I felt eyes on me. There across the chasm, a lone zombie stood at the edge. She’d been a fairly plain woman in life—tall and painfully slender, with dirty blonde hair, a pinched nose, a weak jawline, and eyes too far apart.

Despite having lost much of her brain matter to natural rot, those dull orbs were filled with intelligence and hate. The female deader stared daggers at me for a few moments, then she turned and shuffled off into the darkness. I watched her leave, then I took off at a run to join up with the LARPers as they made their way to Luther’s old lair.

CHAPTER

THIRTEEN

The children were the least of our worries as we made our way to the cliffside mansion just a few miles to the southeast. They were fit and disciplined, and they’d learned how to move quickly and silently under Guerra’s tutelage. Anna and Mickey, however, were an entirely different story.

Over many long months of relative safety at the Castle House, Mickey had taken to drinking heavily and staying within the walls. Most of the difficult chores were done by the children, as it kept them busy while allowing the older man to keep them all in hot meals. Unsurprisingly, he was now out of shape and poorly prepared for a hasty trek through the woods in the dark.

For Anna’s part, she’d allowed grief to get in the way of practicality. Certainly, she’d done a fine job of holding the group together after her brother’s death. By the same token, she’d cloistered herself indoors while she grieved, immersing herself in bookish pursuits while her fitness level gradually diminished.

In short, the two of them slowed us down during our escape to safety. Zombies might not move very fast, but ghouls can, and there were more than a few hidden within that horde. Subsequently, Guerra and I were forced to take turns peeling away from the group to eliminate the odd pursuer that got too close for comfort.

Eventually, we came within sight of an odd, modern cliffside home that rested on tall steel pillars, high above the Colorado River. I wasn’t certain what to expect, so I motioned for everyone to hide along the roadway, with Guerra taking rear guard in case more ghouls arrived. Anna was the better shot with a pistol, so I handed her the suppressed .22, and I took off for the mansion.

Once I’d found a suitable place of concealment, I scanned the area using my druid senses. The small mansion was empty, devoid of life and unlife both. The location wasn’t ideal, but for the moment it was a safe enough place to house the LARPers until I could secure the Castle House compound once more.

Using druidry and sheer brute strength, I uprooted a pair of utility poles, then lashed them together with steel mooring cable to form a makeshift bridge. I used more cable to hang it from a support beam above the walkway. Lastly, I secured one final section of cable to the end so it could easily be pulled and pivoted away. Hopefully, that would keep the dead from attempting to cross the gap left by the collapsed walkway.

A further application of druid magic tightened it all up, ensuring the contraption would work like a charm. Next, I cleared the home while moving at Fomorian speed, making certain the place was empty with a rapid but thorough sweep. When I was done, I signaled Guerra to bring the group up to the entrance.

The crossing was precarious, but despite my nervous hovering the boys managed it just fine. With my permission, they ran off to explore the house while Guerra and I helped a very nervous Mickey across the makeshift bridge.

Meanwhile, Anna stood guard at the road, and a good thing she did. Two ghouls had flanked us while I was clearing the mansion. They emerged from the woods across the road, coming at the woman in an odd, loping run. I was about to leap across to assist when I felt Guerra’s hand on my arm.

“Wait,” he mouthed silently.

She stood her ground, aiming carefully while the two ravenous creatures bore down on her. Anna squeezed off one round, dropping the lead ghoul with a hit to the nasal cavity. Immediately, she swung the barrel a few inches to her right and squeezed off two more rounds.

The first missed, but the second hit the thing in the eye when it was just ten feet away. It tumbled forward and skidded to a halt, right at her feet. She calmly scanned the immediate environment for threats, and then she turned and crossed the timber walkway.

So, not as out of practice as I thought.

Anna must’ve read my mind. She engaged the safety and slapped the little pistol against my chest as she passed, her brow knit with anger.

“One shot too many. Seems I’ve let myself slip,” she said to no one in particular as she walked off into the house.

I opened my mouth to say something encouraging, but a head shake from Guerra warned me to silence. Nearby, Mickey sat on a low landscape wall, panting and sweating like he’d just run the Boston Marathon.

“Gotta… quit… the booze,” he huffed as he stood up and followed Anna inside.

Guerra and I shared a silent look as we hauled the makeshift bridge away from the far side of the missing walkway. Once we’d swung it around, the werewolf looped the cable around a bent piece of rebar that stuck out from the jagged concrete on our side. We could figure out a better system later, but for now, it would do.

More undead emerged from the woods across the road over the next several minutes. This group sniffed around the short semicircular driveway, then they shuffled off into the night. I humphed and glanced at Guerra.

“What do you make of that?”

“What d’ya mean?”

“Why’d they run off like that? It’s not like the dead to give up on a meal.”

Guerra’s nose crinkled in disgust. “Don’t you smell it?”

“Smell what?”

“Pinche vampiro. His scent is all over this place. I started gagging on it a half-mile down the road. Ain’t no zombie or ghoul gonna’ come within six blocks of here, at least not until that smell fades away. Hell, I’m shocked they got that close.”

I stroked my chin with grimy fingers. “It takes a lot of effort to control that many undead from afar. Her influence must be fading. Just the same, I’m going to ward this place up.”

The old werewolf shrugged. “Won’t hurt my feelings. How are we on food and water?”

“This was Luther’s hideout, so I doubt there’s much here but booze. You might find some coffee if you’re lucky.” Guerra grunted, and I patted my Bag. “Don’t sweat it. I have enough MREs and bottled water in here to hold you guys over. Once I finish laying a warding circle around this place, I’ll locate better rations.”

“I hope so. Hate eating MREs. Fucking things stop me up for days.”

“Told you not to eat the cheese and crackers.”

Guerra frowned. “It’s the only thing that tastes like real food to me. You know, the stuff we had before the war.”

“It’s your colon’s funeral. I’ll bring you some fresh game, but first I’m going to poke around and see if I can’t figure out where Luther went. Before the bombs fell, he was a lot more connected than he let on. I have a feeling he’ll have some intel on the piece of shit who sent that horde our way.”

Guerra’s eyebrow shot up. “You going after her then?”

“Do I have a choice? Anyway, I worked out a deal with Samson to set up a sanctuary for the Pack. If I’m right, she’s hiding right smack in the middle of the place I picked out.”

“Doubt she’ll take kindly to being evicted,” Guerra said as he scratched under the edge of his prosthetic cup.

“They never do.”

“This is a weird one, man. Be careful.”

“Don’t worry, Grandpa. I’ll be alright.”

The old wolf snarled and backhanded me on the shoulder, almost hard enough to knock me over the edge and into the chasm below.

“Pinche güero,” he muttered as he turned and entered the house.

I chuckled softly, but my brow was knit with worry as I stared off into the darkness. Guerra’s instincts were right—this was a weird one, stranger than anything I’d come up against in this hellhole of a timeline. Considering the trouble her minions had given me, I wondered how I’d fare when I finally came face to face with this mysterious sorceress.

For the next half-hour, I searched the modest mansion, looking for any clues Luther might’ve left regarding his current whereabouts. Just as I was about to give up, I noticed a small, fray-edged hardcover peeking out atop a high bookshelf. The tome was bound in once bright linen embossed in a gold floral pattern, and it looked old and well-loved.

Poems, by Oscar Wilde.

A silver ribbon was tucked between the thumb-thick volume’s pages, so I opened it as marked. It seemed the previous owner had been reading The Burden of Itys when they last shelved the book. I scanned the page and found the following sections faintly underlined in pencil:

Light-winged and bright-eyed miracle of the wood!

If ever thou didst soothe with melody

One of that little clan, that brotherhood

Which loved the morning-star of Tuscany

More than the perfect sun of Raphael

And is immortal, sing to me! for I too love thee well,

and…

Cry out aloud on Itys! memory

That foster-brother of remorse and pain

Drops poison in mine ear,—O to be free,

To burn one’s old ships! and to launch again

Into the white-plumed battle of the waves

And fight old Proteus for the spoil of coral-flowered caves!

Based on the general decor of the cliffside home, I doubted the previous owner had been a fan of Wilde. This had been a bachelor pad, complete with a pair of Nagel prints from the 80s to mark it as such. The few bookshelves I’d found had been stocked with coffee table books on sports, cars, whiskey, and cigars, and the odd military thriller novel.

I could only assume that the poetry collection hadn’t belonged to the former master of the manor. My friend had left this for me, knowing I’d find it. The question was, what message had he hoped to send by way of Wilde’s prose?

‘Little clan’ probably referred to Luther’s coven, the new one he’d been forming since I helped spring him from a Vampyri prison. As for ‘the morning star’ and ‘the perfect sun of Raphael,’ that took a bit more consideration to decipher. In Kabbalism, Raphael was closely associated with the sun and the planet Mercury, which hugged the Western horizon just after sunset this time of year.

So, you went west. But where?

The next section clinched it for me. ‘Launching again’ referred to his quest to rebuild his coven. Symbolically, Proteus was the Greek god of change. As for ‘caves,’ there was only one place to the west that could refer to—one formerly very civilized place, indeed.

We had caverns a plenty in Central Texas and the Hill Country, and the most well-known of them were located in state parks in the middle of BFE. However, Luther wouldn’t choose an isolated place like that as the headquarters for his new coven. Instead, he’d want all the amenities and comforts of pre-apocalypse civilization at his neatly manicured fingertips.

Bee Cave it is, then.

Of course, there would be a further subtext in Luther’s message. The eponymous subject of the poem had been murdered by his mother and eaten by his father. A prophetic reference, certainly, but whether it referred to me or my friend, I couldn’t say.

As well, ‘Itys’ wasn’t just a tragic figure from Greek mythology. It was also shorthand for ‘I told you so.’ Luther had likely heard what happened when I faced off with Ateas. Just as he’d warned, I nearly lost my life. It was just like the self-certain old bitch to tell me I should’ve listened to him.

I chuckled to myself as I shut the book to replace it on the shelf. Then, I thought better of it and tossed it in my Bag. He probably expected me to return it, now that it’d served its purpose.

Guerra came up the spiral staircase from the lower levels, just as I closed my magic satchel. “Did the leech leave a message for you?”

“You wouldn’t call him that to his face. And yeah, he did.”

The werewolf’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t know if you noticed, but there was more than one vamp here recently. Lots more.”

“I saw.”

“Sure you want to track him down?”

“I’m not concerned about a few vamps. ‘Sides, Luther and I go back a ways. I can trust him.”

Guerra laughed out loud. “Trust a vampire? You’re better off making friends with a rattlesnake. Just don’t let your guard down around him. And remember, you might be the last druid on earth—hell, maybe the last magic user on earth—but you’re still food to them. Watch yourself.”

“I will, I will. Sheesh, it ain’t my first vampire rodeo.”

“Be your last if you walk in thinking they’re your friends. Speaking of which, did you ward this place against them, too?”

“Of course. But I don’t think he’s coming back. This was just a temporary stop for him, a hiding place while he gathered his forces.”

“Whoa. You’re saying he intends to wage war against his people?”

I nodded. “Possibly. The way he talked, not everyone in ‘Stake Land’ is happy with how things turned out after the fall of civilization.”

“They’ll slaughter him. Unless…”

“What?”

“Unless he’s playing you. You’re one of the few things left on this planet that’s a real danger to his kind. Maybe Luther’s just being nice to wind you up and point you at his enemies.”

I chewed on that thought for a count of ten. “Could be. But if his goals and mine are aligned, what does it matter?”

“Oh, it matters, chavalo. You ain’t been around as long as I have. I’ve seen how those pendejos operate. Not much difference between them and the Fae. They play a long game.”

“I’ll keep it in mind.”

“You do that.” He smiled broadly and spread his arms wide. “Now, what’s for dinner?”

With the Oak’s help, I portalled around until I found a couple of nice, fat wild boars, which I took cleanly before bringing them back to the LARPers. I also located a gas camp stove and a supply of propane canisters, along with a big bag of salt, some flour, and some fifty pound bags of rice and beans. The beans and rice would hold the group over for a week or more, and by salting the pork they could stretch the meat out as well.

With that, I gave Guerra instructions to take the group to Samson if I didn’t return. Then I walked out into the woods until I was well out of sight. Once I could teleport in privacy, I had the Oak take me to Bee Cave, Texas.

Bee Cave was a little burg that sat in the hills to the west of Austin, maybe five miles from the little mansion where I’d left the LARPers. It was the sort of community that appealed to both the upper middle class and the moderately wealthy. With at least one master-planned golf course community, easy lake access, numerous bars, and plenty of restaurants and shopping, it’d been a suburban paradise for some 20,000 residents before things went to shit.

Now, it was likely home to that number of zombies, unless Luther had cleared them out. I could’ve easily jogged there if I cared to exert myself, but I preferred to conserve my strength and scope things out from afar. That was why I asked the Oak to teleport me atop a tank at the water processing plant, due east of the downtown area.

The tank wasn’t very tall, but I was high enough to get a good view of the central part of the city. It was still dark when I arrived. Much of downtown was lit, and human figures manned the walled perimeter.

The only walls found in the city before the shit hit the fan had been those of the socioeconomic variety. But now, the entire sixteen-block area had been turned into a fortified enclave of sorts. Much as the Pack had done in Bryan, the vamps had used shipping containers to close off the streets at key points, stacking them three high in most places.

And vamps galore, there were. I spotted several of the shadowy figures zipping around at speeds no human could match. Just as telling, I noticed that none of them carried modern weapons. They didn’t have to, as the lesser undead would avoid them, and no human element would be stupid enough to attack a coven of vampires.

It made me wonder what they did for security during the daytime. They’d done a hell of a job with the fortifications, so it was likely they had that part covered as well. The whole thing, from their site selection to the set-up, had Luther written all over it.

Since the buildings downtown were relatively new, most had been built using tilt-wall construction. Almost all the glass windows and public entry doors faced inward toward the streets and sidewalks, while the rear side of most buildings consisted of bare concrete walls with metal security doors. In places where that wasn’t the case—the condominium complexes, the hotel, the grocery store, and the big box book store—a shipping container wall surrounded those edifices completely.

The entire project had to have taken an extraordinary amount of physical labor to complete. At first, I wondered how they managed to get the third level containers in place, then I spotted two cranes and some other heavy equipment in the background on the far side. The vamps in Dallas had a few refineries in operation along the coast, so I could only assume that Luther and his coven had hijacked a shipment of diesel from them to fuel this enterprise.

Rather than rush in and announce my presence, I spent several minutes analyzing their defenses, taking note of their sentry placements and roving patrol patterns, and absorbing as much information as possible with my other senses. Soft jazz played from somewhere within, not loud enough to carry far, but at a volume my sensitive ears could register. As for the ambient odors, I caught that earthy, coppery smell most vamps had, as well as the more acrid scent of human body odor.

And of course, I smelled coffee. Luther might not drink much of it, but he loved his routines. I had no doubt the fucker had reopened the bookstore’s coffee shop, just so he could grind and pour like he did in the good ol’ days.

He was in there somewhere, and I needed to speak with him, badly. I was just about to pull the trigger on teleporting inside the walls when I caught a familiar droning chorus coming from the opposite direction.

Zombies.

A large group of them, if my ears didn’t deceive. With this many higher vampires gathered in one place, it was likely that the local population of lesser undead had been pushed out a few miles by their presence. That’d cause them to gather in groups as they fled, wandering in search of warm meat on which to feed.

I’d almost dismissed their presence as inconsequential, but then I heard something else besides the constant moaning of that far-off, undead mob. I had to strain to make it out, but finally, I isolated a familiar and unmistakable sound. It was the quiet, lonely weeping of a human, one who’d lost all hope of escape or survival.

Huh.

Undoubtedly, the vamps heard it, and they weren’t doing anything about it. Either a single human wasn’t worth the trouble, or that wasn’t a human at all. I thought back to the way the vrykolakas had mimicked the cries of a human child and wondered if it wasn’t the latter, after all.

Guess there’s only one way to find out.

CHAPTER

FOURTEEN

I activated my camouflage spell and leapt from the tower, landing forty feet away in the hard-packed soil along Bee Caves Road. As the moans grew louder, I ran faster, until I was trucking along at highway speeds down the cracked asphalt road.

There were no zombies to slow me down, at least not until I’d traveled more than a mile from the Coven’s new digs. Only then did I spot a few stragglers here and there, all of them slowly shuffling toward the sound of their gathered kin.

Zombies operated on autopilot most of the time. They couldn’t help but sound the dinner bell when they found their next victim, despite that their moans of hunger only welcomed competition for their next meal. I didn’t know what I’d find when I arrived at the group’s location, but based on the noise, I estimated at least a few dozen would be waiting for me.

Following the sounds took me off the main road and past a dilapidated landscape sign that said ‘LA E OINTE.’ The houses near the entrance of the neighborhood were your typical McMansions—large, tasteless, and completely lacking in any unifying architectural theme. If I had to name the style, I’d call it ‘early 21st century gauche,’ if I were being generous.

As I continued through the neighborhood, the deteriorating homes and overgrown yards increased in size, and the rusting vehicles in the driveways grew ever more expensive. When the abandoned automobiles transitioned from domestic luxury to exotic imports, and the square footage turned from ostentatious to downright ridiculous, I finally spotted a small mass of undead milling around a sprawling stuccoed manor.

The reason for the mob’s excitement wasn’t difficult to spot. Atop the faux Spanish-style roof sat a small group of human survivors, clinging to the steeply pitched tiles for dear life. I counted five in all, including an elderly woman, three teenage girls, and a middle-aged balding man who looked a bit like a skinny Carl Brutananadilewski.

The girls clung to a chimney near the peak of the dwelling’s roof, two of them consoling the third as she sobbed softly. Down at ground level, dozens of deaders swarmed around the home, scraping and clawing at the walls to get at the warm flesh above. I saw more milling around within, which explained why the group were on the roof, instead of inside the home where they’d be relatively safe.

I wanted to help these people, but I didn’t want to blow my cover. Humans had a hard enough time dealing with the fact that zombies and vampires were real, and many of the survivors I’d met were barely hanging on to their sanity. Seeing full-blown magic in action could easily put them in a panic that might very well cost them their lives.

For now, the humans were relatively safe, and I could just toss them some supplies and have Luther’s people get them later. The question was, could I trust this new Austin coven to treat these people like people, and not cattle?

I had no idea what this version of Luther was like, not really. What I did know was that I saw a side of him in that dungeon in Dallas that I did not want to see again.

Besides, it was only a matter of time before this crowd attracted the attention of an enterprising revenant or an emboldened nosferatu. A rev’ would balance the opportunity for an easy meal against the risk of pissing off the nearby coven. And a nos’ just might not give a shit.

Fuck a duck.

To do this properly, I’d have to place myself at risk. Knowing that I was well-equipped to fight off a small zombie horde didn’t make the decision any easier.

First, I cursed softly under my breath for a minute or more. When I was done venting, I hid around the corner of a neighboring home and dropped my magical camouflage. With one last, silent ‘fuck you’ to the universe, I drew my Glock and took the suppressor off.

Then I ‘ran’ toward the house, shooting deaders as I went. Moving at human speed felt like I was purposely running in slow motion as a gag, but I had to make this look good to avoid spooking the survivors. If I came at them doing fifty, they might take me for a vamp and jump, then it’d all be for nothing.

All heads turned my way at the first shot. Before I’d dropped three zombies, I had the rapt attention of five humans and a whole mess of Zed. Soon I was zigging and zagging to avoid many sets of rotting hands, all while yelling commands at the people on the roof.

“When I draw them away, you head west, hear me?” I said as I dodged and ducked my way through the oncoming crowd.

Blam! went the report of the .40 cal. as I shot a portly boomer in board shorts and a Hawaiian shirt. A large chunk of his neck was missing, but he was otherwise mostly intact. At least, he had been before I gave him high-velocity lead poisoning of the brain.

“Are you nuts, mister?” one of the young women shouted. “You’re going to get killed.”

“Hush, Bronwyn,” another of the trio said. “Better him than us.”

“Ain’t gotta’ tell me twice,” Carl replied. He was already heading for the porte-cochère near the front of the house, which was likely where they’d climbed up in the first place.

The old woman pushed back her bloodstained gray hoodie, revealing thin white hair, a pale, deeply wrinkled face, and deep-set cerulean eyes that seemed to look right through me.

“Why west?” she asked, in a voice both steady and self-assured.

“There are fewer dead there,” I said as I stomped a zombie’s knee, bending it the wrong way with a loud crack. “Once you stop seeing stragglers you find someplace to hole up. I’ll be along shortly to escort you to safety.”

“If you make it,” Carl muttered.

By that point, I was already moving away from the house with nearly the entire mob behind me. All I could think was that one wrong move would result in me screaming from the bottom of a dogpile. I’d live, but I wouldn’t like it. And I’d never be able to explain how to these people when I showed up half an hour later without a single scratch.

“I’ll fucking make it,” I yelled. “But you won’t if you don’t move. Now go.”

As a parting gift, I shot two more deaders who were stuck in the shrubs at the base of the porte-cochère. Hitting them on the fly was a bit flashy, but only the exceptionally resourceful, exceptionally lucky, or exceptionally skilled survived in this world. I hoped they’d chalk it up to the latter and not ask questions.

With their path completely clear, the group began to slide and scramble off the roof. The last thing I saw was Carl helping the old lady from the main roof to the top of the porte-cochère. Then I turned a corner and picked up speed, shooting more of the undead until the magazine was spent.

I was six blocks away and just about to ditch the mob when something blindsided me at high speed from my left flank. It was human-sized and cold, with flesh as hard as stone. Before I knew it, I’d tumbled through a privacy fence with my attacker atop me, stiff-arming my head as they rode me down, pushing my face into the dirt and grass.

It was his scent that tipped me off. With his hand plastered to the side of my face, I couldn’t help but get a good whiff. Graveyard dirt, coffee grounds, and an expensive men’s cologne, redolent with a combined aroma of vanilla and tobacco. The patter-shuffling sound of undead feet on pavement as they scattered in all directions clinched it.

I grabbed his wrist and hand, twisting them into an elbow and shoulder lock as I rolled to my right. This effectively put me on top, reversing our positions. He humphed, and I let him go, standing and stepping away as I brushed myself off.

“Was that necessary?”

“As you’ve grown in power, you’ve become careless,” Luther said as he kipped to his feet. “Someone has to keep you on your toes.”

“Well, la-dee-dah.” I sniffed my hands. “Is that… Tom Ford?”

“I’m surprised you recognize it. It’s astonishing what the dead left hidden within all this inelegant architecture. Why, I’ve recently acquired a whole new wardrobe.”

“Hand-me-downs, Luther? Really?”

“Don’t be a boor,” he sneered. “One makes do in an apocalypse.”

“Can’t argue with that. How’d you know it was me?”

He swept grass and dirt off his black Louis-Vuitton tracksuit while giving me the side-eye. “I heard gunfire and recognized the trigger pattern. You’re getting sloppy.”

“I’m getting soft in my old age,” I replied, only half-joking. “Found a group of survivors a few blocks back, stranded on a rooftop. I was drawing off the mob so they could escape.”

He glanced at his nails, inspecting them while brushing the last few stubborn flecks of debris from his clothing. “Yes, we’re aware of them. It seems they heard of our settlement and attempted the journey in hopes of earning sanctuary. Shame they made it so far, only to be caught out at our doorstep.”

My brow furrowed as I cocked my head at him. “You knew their predicament, and you left them out here?”

He gestured dismissively. “Please. We’re not in Kansas anymore, and I’m certainly not Judy Garland, taking in strays as I go. We only have resources to support so many humans, which makes their upkeep a… delicate balance.”

“So you’re keeping cattle now.”

I’d tried keeping my tone neutral, but the accusation had been plain in my statement. The coven master slowly batted his eyes, then he swept his hands wide.

“As always, we choose to see it as a mutually beneficial arrangement. The coven offers protection and various increasingly rare creature comforts. In return, they provide us with sustenance and other pleasures, at their discretion.”

“Luther…”

“Oh, don’t sound so disappointed. It’s no different from the way we operated before the bombs fell. Only now, the humans need us much more than we need them.”

I glanced westward. “Surely, you could make room for a few more.”

“These are dangerous times, and we must be selective about those we admit within our walls. Stupidity is a liability in these times. I have neither the patience nor the desire to act as a nursemaid to humans who cannot look after themselves.”

“As if they’d be the ones doing the nursing,” I replied.

“Touché. So young to be so bitter. I liked you better when you were wide-eyed and innocent.” He pointed loosely at me in zigzag fashion, taking me in from head to toe as he did so. “This gloomy Gus thing does not suit you.”

“If you won’t take them in, at least allow them to hide in the shadow of your influence. It’ll give them time to scavenge and recover, and they can move on when they’ve gotten back on their feet.”

“That I can do, but only as a favor to you.” His affect flattened, and his tone grew serious as he continued. “However, I must warn you that vampires from other covens visit my compound regularly. I cannot be responsible for the safety of those who choose to dwell outside my walls.”

“Oh, come on⁠—”

He cut me off with a sassy finger-wagging gesture. “Ah-ah-ah. You asked, and these are my terms.”

“Fine,” I replied. “But tell your guests that those people are under my protection.”

“I’ll do that.” He glanced around before sitting on an HVAC condenser unit, one leg over the other with his hands resting primly in his lap. “Now, tell me why you’re here.”

I righted a destitute metal lawn chair and plopped into it, sliding my ass forward until I’d found a suitable lounging position. “You left an invitation, did you not? I found it and took you up on the offer.”

He closed his eyes, shaking his head in amusement. “That’s not why you’re here.”

“Then maybe I was jonesing for some of Luther’s special nitro brew. It’s a hard thing to come by in the apocalypse, ya’ know.”

“Child, stop being coy and tell me what you require. I have a full slate of tasks to tend, and dawn is well on its way.”

I twisted my mouth into a crooked frown and nodded. “I need to know everything you can tell me about the vrykolakai and the varcolaci, along with the location of the person who’s making them.”

He raised his eyebrows and glanced skyward. “Sekhmet’s furry tits. You’re involved with that mess?”

“Yes. Can you help me, or not?”

“Of course, I can help you, but this is not a discussion to be had in some deceased stockbroker’s sideyard. Let’s go back to the compound where we can sit down like civilized fiends, and discuss this over a cosmopolitan.”

“I’d prefer a coffee. I wasn’t kidding about jonesing for that special blend you used to roast.”

“Fine,” he replied. “But be advised, a craftsman is limited by the tools he works with.”

Ten minutes later, I sat at a bar inside a small café within Luther’s compound. The place was just off the square, tucked-away between a beauty shop and a nail salon. The decor was quaint—all earth tones, subway tile, and dark wood, with poured concrete counters and mellow lighting.

Luther was a blur as he worked the espresso machine, pulling, stirring, and frothing me up something that smelled delicious.

“Please excuse the texture,” he said as he sat a steaming white porcelain cup in front of me. “I’m working with this Nuova Simonelli, mind. It’s a far cry from my Synesso Hydra.”

“Damn,” I said as I took a whiff, nearly snorting a line of foam. “This is heaven.”

“It’s passingly decent,” he replied, looking at me expectantly. “Are you going to nose fuck it, or drink it?”

“I’m savoring the moment, give me a sec.” He might’ve been bitching, but I knew he appreciated that I was giving his pour proper reverence. I lifted the cup to my mouth with both hands and took a long sip, eyes closed. “That’s good. It’s not your special blend, but I ain’t complaining.”

He crossed his arms as he leaned against the prep counter. “Hard to find fresh beans these days. Dallas is bringing them in from the Caribbean and Central America, but we haven’t been able to get our hands on a shipment yet.”

The staccato echo of a diesel generator kicking on outside sparked my curiosity. “Speaking of which, how long do you think it’ll be before they come looking for their fuel shipments?”

“We only hijacked one of them, which they’ll chalk up to human scavs. My engineers have been hard at work expanding our battery banks. Soon, we’ll be completely powered by wind and solar.”

“Oh, the irony.”

He smirked. “About as ironic as a gunslinging druid.”

“I’m still just a junkyard proprietor who moonlights as a druid,” I replied. “Now, tell me about these monstrosities.”

“They are, indeed, at that.” He looked away, glowering not at me but at the general idea that such things existed. “That magic is old, forbidden, and it was locked away for ages, presumably forgotten. Not without reason, either.”

“Oh? Do tell.”

“You called the bloated ones ‘vrykolakai,’ but that’s a regional term. We consider them all to be varcolaci, albeit of different varieties and abilities. Those derived entirely from human flesh are the least dangerous, yet they’re more powerful than the average vampire by far.”

“No argument there. I’ve tangled with two of them, and I don’t look forward to doing it again.”

Luther’s jaw dropped slightly as he laid his fingers against his cheek. “And you’re still in one piece. My, but they do grow up so fast.”

“Like I said, it wasn’t exactly a walk in the park. What I want to know is, what makes them so tough?”

He tsked, forming his lips into a tight moue. “Magic, old magic. The primordial kind—raw, sinister, and completely indifferent to the laws the gods set in place to reign in such powers.”

“I didn’t know such sorcery existed,” I said as I stared at the foam atop my latte. “The old man never told me.”

“He lived for two millennia, child. I’m quite certain there were many things he failed to share. Not for lack of wanting, but lack of time. You can’t compress twenty centuries of knowledge into a few short years of training.”

“Don’t I know it.” I took another pull off the mug. “Tell me about the hybrids. Samson called them ‘farkaskoldusok,’ I believe.”

“Yes, that’s a Hungarian term for a very specific type of varcolac—wolven abominations. Due to certain necromantic abilities they sometimes possess, I’ve instructed my people to avoid them.”

“You think they’d enslave you?”

“They have before. The Vampyri requisitioned them expressly to hunt and kill werewolves, and they performed their duties flawlessly. As might be expected, the old ones had no idea they were opening a Pandora’s box of unforeseen problems.”

“They couldn’t control them.”

“Can you control a hurricane?” He snorted softly and held up a hand. “Disregard that question. Suffice it to say that the wrath of the varcolaci became more difficult to constrain, the longer they existed. Those on the Council at that time were forced to destroy them, but not before they nearly ended the Vampyri and Lycan races both.”

I scowled. “Isn’t this a movie plot? It sounds like a movie plot.”

Luther shrugged. “Any excuse to wear tight black leather. Perhaps that’s what motivated them to make the same mistake twice.”

“Considering the history, it seems like mutually assured destruction would be a card the Council would want to avoid playing.”

He crossed his arms and ran a tongue over his left canine. “One would think. However, they found a ringer, a sorceress from the old days who not only can create them, but control them. As I understand it, she brought three others along with her, each one a powerful varcolac with unique abilities.”

“Do you know who she is?”

“No. Ateas dragged her out of some deep dark hole. That’s as much as my sources have been able to tell me.”

“Sounds risky. Why would the vampyri go to such lengths? Why deploy a weapon that might destroy you all?”

“I think you know why,” he said. “The war in Underhill drags on. We agreed to assist the fae with their invasion and insurrection, yet we underestimated the resilience and treachery of the Celtic gods. Our numbers dwindle day by day. We can’t very well elevate members of our equally dwindling food supply to make up for those losses. The Council wishes for the war to end, as quickly as possible.”

He said ‘elevate’ like he meant it. Even a moral vampire like Luther believed vampirism to be the apex of existence. Arrogance and xenophobia were part and parcel of every vamp’s nature, regardless of their sympathy for humans.

I sucked air through my teeth as I considered what he’d revealed. “Is their plan working?”

“You tell me,” he replied. “You didn’t stumble into this situation all on your lonesome.”

“Druid gunfighter for hire, that’s me. From the sound of it, I’d end up having to deal with these things eventually. Creatures that powerful and unpredictable pose a hell of a threat to the remnants of humanity.”

“You want my advice? This challenge is beyond you. The varcolaci once nearly wiped out the elders of my kind, who are quite like gods in power, if not by nature. Beyond that, this sorceress is old. Older than your late mentor, and possibly more dangerous by far. You should forget this quest and walk away.”

I shook my head. “Can’t. The guy who sent me has something I need. I take care of his problem, and he helps me take care of mine.”

“It’s a fool’s errand, Colin. This god merely wants to see you die at the hands of his enemies.”

“Maybe, but I don’t die easily. I’m stubborn that way.”

Luther’s expression went neutral. “Fine, ignore my warnings. But after the varcolaci drink you dry, and the witch is throwing your bones, don’t come haunting my doorstep. I’ll refuse to hear your cries.”

“You should talk. You’re entering a war you can’t win. I’ve seen what Ateas can do, and you can’t beat him.”

“I don’t have to beat him, I merely have to undermine his power. It’s a lesson you’d do well to learn if you want to live as long as Finnegas.”

“If I live long enough to see the downfall of the Vampyri and the repopulation of my kind, I’ll be satisfied with that. No offense.”

“None taken. Many of us would like to see things go back to the way they were. Needless to say, your race’s extinction is not exactly to our benefit.”

“Sweet of you to care.”

“Yes, well—even monsters know what it means to be practical.”

“Can your sources get me a definite location on the witch?”

He replied with a smug smile. “I already have it. She’s hidden deep within the Sam Houston National Forest. There’s an old USDA hunter’s camp there. While I find this mission of yours to be ill-advised, I’ll write down the coordinates for you, just the same.”

He scribbled on a notepad and tore off the top sheet, holding it between his index and middle finger as he handed it across the bar. I took it and committed the coordinates to memory before throwing the paper in my Bag.

“Thanks for the coffee, and the pep talk.”

“Yes, yes, ‘your funeral’ and all that. If you need rest, I have suitable guest rooms available.”

A hot shower and a nice soft bed would’ve been a welcome distraction. Sadly, the thought of sleeping inside a compound full of vampires ruined the appeal. I downed the rest of my coffee and stood.

“I’d love to hang out a while, but time is short. The longer this sorceress lives, the more time she has to make more varcolaci.”

“At least I tried.” He gave me what might be called a sympathetic look—if a vampire were capable of such a thing. “Be careful, and don’t be too proud to run.”

“No need to worry. I don’t intend to make a frontal assault.”

“She’s aware of your existence, yes?”

I half-shrugged. “We’ve met, in a roundabout manner.”

“A thing as old as this is already several steps ahead. She’ll be waiting for you.”

I turned and headed for the door. “Hey, it’s me you’re talking to. Trust me, she’ll never see me coming.”

CHAPTER

FIFTEEN

The small group of survivors I’d rescued weren’t hard to find. They’d chosen a home that was only slightly less obscene in its grandiosity than the last, located a stone’s throw from downtown Bee Cave. I heard the girls’ chatter long before I saw Carl’s beady eyes peering out an upstairs window through parted blinds.

Great googly-moogly—how they managed to survive this long is beyond me.

I exited the heavy undergrowth next to a house opposite to the one they’d selected, sans concealment spells. The location was close enough to the coven to ensure there were no zombies about, so there was no need to sneak. Besides, I wanted them to see me coming, as I was in no mood to be shot at.

It took a moment for Carl to spot me, and when he did, he withdrew quickly, allowing the blinds to snap together with force. Surprise registered in his eyes when he noticed me, which meant he hadn’t expected me to make it.

Surprise, motherfucker. Your savior has arrived.

I had a few reasons for stopping by. The first was to lay the ground rules for these idiots, the second was to encourage them to leave as soon as possible, and the third was to make certain Carl wasn’t taking advantage of the teens. He’d been kind to the old lady, but that didn’t mean anything. Predators were experts at appearing nice and helpful—until they weren’t.

I made a beeline for the front door, past a 740i that sat on four flats. As I approached I heard the deadbolt lock into place, which meant at least one person inside that house had some sense. Probably the same person who’d kept the group together and alive.

The sound of my knuckles rapping on the hardwood door echoed across the cul-de-sac, and I tapped my toes as I waited for someone to answer. Instead of Carl, it was one of the teens. She spoke with a slight tremor, but to her credit, her voice sounded firm enough through the door.

“We’re grateful for your help, mister, but we’re good. Move along now, and leave us be.”

With that accent, she wasn’t from around here. I was guessing she hailed from somewhere to the east, in the endless farmland between Austin and Houston. The other girls spoke with more metropolitan accents. That made me curious about how they’d ended up together, traveling with a middle-aged man and a woman in her seventies.

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“Why?”

I stifled a sigh of frustration, morphing my gaping mouth into a smile that I hoped looked friendly. “Because I like to know who I’m speaking with when I’m speaking to them through a door. Mine’s Colin, by the way.”

Hushed, frantic whispering followed. Three voices, two debating on whether to cooperate, with the third arguing to let me in.

“Bronwyn,” she finally answered.

“Good to meet you, Bronwyn. I hate to tell you this, but you can’t stay here, at least, not in this house. It’s too close⁠—”

“We know about the vampires, mis—I mean, Colin. That’s why we’re here.”

“They won’t let you in,” I replied. “I already spoke with their leader, and it seems they’re at capacity. You’re not welcome there.”

More hushed conversation ensued. One girl began to sob softly, moaning something about how she couldn’t go back ‘out there.’ I hated it, but what was I supposed to do, walk with them to Bryan to join the Pack?

As for teleporting them, well—that would likely break their fragile minds. I’d help them however I could, but this was going to require some tough love.

“We’ll let ‘em feed on us. I mean to say, we know how it works. If it means shelter and food⁠—”

“And protection,” another girl interjected.

“Yeah, and that,” Bronwyn continued. “We don’t mind losing a little blood now and then in exchange.”

I wanted to break down the door and throttle them, but instead, I softened my tone. “You don’t understand these creatures at all. They’re not like us. They don’t feel sympathy or empathy, and they don’t form emotional bonds like we do. I’ve asked that they leave you alone, but with you five so close to their compound, you’ll just be tempting them to pick you off.”

“There’s only four of us in here. And what do you mean, pick us off?”

“Wait, what happened to the old lady?” I asked, epically perplexed.

“What old lady? It’s just us three and Katie’s uncle. Now tell me what you meant when you said they’d pick us off.”

The conversation was giving me a headache, but I pressed on. “Just what it sounds like, Bronwyn. If one of them gets a wild hair, they’ll kill you and bleed you dry, one at a time. They enjoy that kind of thing.”

“He’s just trying to scare you,” Carl said. “Don’t listen to him. He’s probably with one of those slaver camps, trying to get us to run so they can swoop in and capture us.”

“Shut up, Danny,” another girl sobbed. “He’s just trying to help.”

“Besides,” a third girl added. “You’re the one who got us in this mess in the first place.”

Bronwyn was silent for a time, and when she answered it was with a bit less certainty. “So these aren’t friendly vampires, like in the movies?”

Oh, for heaven’s sake.

“No, they aren’t. There’s no such thing as sparkly, vegan vampires. Get all those romantic ideas out of your head. If you want to stay alive, you’d do well to steer clear of their kind from here on out.”

“Then what are we supposed to do?” the sobbing girl asked.

I ran a hand over my face and looked at the ground. A scorpion was perched on the toe of my boot. It stood there, arching its stinger, before scuttling off into the tall grass.

I am too fucking young to be too old for this shit.

“You had someplace safe to hide before, I take it?” I said, glancing up once more. “A place where the dead couldn’t get to you?”

“Yeah, but that was all the way out in Thorndale. We left ‘cause we heard rumors of people disappearing.”

People disappeared in the Hellpocalypse all the time. It was the nature of living in a world populated by the undead. Still, they might’ve had good reason for leaving their protected haven.

“Were those rumors substantiated?”

The other girls spoke in hushed tones for several seconds before Bronwyn shushed them. “Like I said, just rumors. Supposedly, a whole group of survivors out in Caldwell got took. They was there one day, and the next, poof, just gone.”

Caldwell was an isolated little burg that sat eighty miles east of Austin and about thirty miles southwest of Bryan. The town’s population had been around 3,000 before the outbreak, with no telling how many had made it. Fifty people? A hundred?

Even if it were only a few dozen, that was a lot of bodies to go missing all at once. If it were true, my spidey sense told me the varcolac I’d run into might’ve had something to do with it.

“Tell him about the animal tracks,” one of the other girls whispered.

Bingo.

“What animal tracks?”

“I don’t know. It’s just what we heard from this couple that came through ‘bout ten days ago. They said they was heading to Austin to take refuge with a group of friendly vamps, ‘cause things was too dangerous where they’d been holed up.”

“Which is how you heard about this place,” I replied, doing my best to sound nonjudgmental. “Go on.”

“They said they was living on a farm south of Caldwell, and they went into town for supplies and to check on their folks. Found nothing but a ghost town. No zombies, no people, nothing. ‘Cept for some big-ass mountain lion tracks.”

And they decided it’d be safer to seek refuge with a group of vampires. Brilliant.

“Did they say anything else?” I asked, hoping to glean more info.

“Nope. But tell me something, mister. How the hell does a mountain lion disappear a whole town full of people?”

We both knew the answer to her question. Yet, I didn’t want to spook her with the truth, since the best place for her and her friends was back where they came from. Thus, I kept my suspicions to myself.

“Mountain lions don’t range this far north and east. Those people probably just saw some wild dog tracks and let their imaginations get the best of them. Wild dogs have nothing on a coven of hungry vamps, and you folks would’ve been a lot better off staying in Thorndale. You should go back there, pronto.”

“Do you know how far that is?”

“At least forty miles. You could make it in two days, moving in daylight and hiding out at night. I’d start now if I were you.”

The girl inside went from sobbing to outright bawling. “I—cuh-cuh-can’t guh-go buh-back uh-out there. I cuh-can’t.”

Great. All that crying’s like ringing a dinner bell to one of Luther’s underlings. I hope he has complete control of his coven, for their sake.

“She’s right,” Bronwyn added. “We’re tired, half-starved, and almost out of water. Ain’t no way we’d make it.”

It was all I could do to resist having the Oak teleport them back to Thorndale, right there and then—consequences be damned. Instead, I gave it some thought, glancing around the neighborhood for ideas.

“What if I helped you get some provisions and transportation?”

“Like, a car?” She sounded hopeful, at least. That was something.

“Yes.” I cleared my throat in an attempt to sound sincere. “One of these electric cars might still be charged up. If I can find you a working EV, you could make it back to where you came from in less than a day, easy. That is, if you’re smart, and you stick to the back roads.”

“You’d do that?”

Yep, cause I’m a sucker for kids in distress.

“Sure.”

Two hours later, I sent the four of them off in a late-model Tesla, along with the bulk of my stored rations and a bit of renewed hope. I’d recharged the car’s batteries with druidry, of course, along with fixing the tires and cleaning out tons of rat poop besides. It wouldn’t do to save them, only for the lot to die of some nasty respiratory disease after they made it back home.

As I watched them go, one of the girls waved from the rear window of the vehicle. I painted a smile on my face and waved back.

Hope they make it.

I was just about to contact the Oak to teleport away when someone spoke up nearby. Oddly, I’d detected no sign of their approach. Not a scuff of a sole on pavement, nor a snap of a twig, and not even the soft murmur of a beating heart sneaking up from behind. Unsurprisingly, I jumped at the sound.

“Don’t worry about them. I’m vested in their survival, and I’ll be certain to keep them safe.”

I identified the voice almost immediately. “Ah. I wondered what happened to you.”

When I turned to face her, the old woman was no longer dressed in faded, dirty jeans and a bloodstained hoodie. She stood there like an apparition in a gray, rough spun cloak, the hood pulled over her head so it shaded much of her face from the sun. Lightning flashed within her stormy gray eyes, eliciting an involuntary shiver from me as I broke eye contact.

“I’ve been watching over them for a time. Tried sending visions to the girl, to warn them away from this foolish scheme. Sadly, she’s addle-brained from hard use of physicks, and chalks my messages up to tricks played by her mind.”

Her rough voice was steady, strong, and self-assured in the way of all ancient entities, conveying a confidence that came from having seen things play out, time and again, and thus knowing what came next. She spoke with a faint Celtic lilt, of the old kind and not the new. Despite her frail frame, leathery skin, and gnarled hands, there was nothing weak about her.

Out of habit, I scanned her in the magical spectrum, only to wish I hadn’t. It was like looking into an abyss—no, more like a dark, wintry maelstrom, one that spun wildly while threatening to drag me in, simply from observance and proximity. The world suddenly tilted on its axis, causing me to stumble and catch myself against the BMW’s hood.

I closed my eyes tightly, shutting off the flow of magic. When I opened them, I saw both amusement and mischief in her smiling eyes. ‘I could’ve warned you,’ the look said.

The dizziness passed as quickly as it came, thank goodness. I righted myself, doing my best to play off the episode, and I inclined my head in both acknowledgment and greeting.

“I thought the gods had all fled to their native realms.”

“Some. Most. But not all. A few of us still have interests in the mortal plane.”

Standing there like a dummy, I racked my brain for some clue to her identity. Then, it hit me like a bolt of lightning.

“What interest does the Cailleach have in mortals these days?”

She smiled at that. “The Seer chose a clever pupil, this time ‘round. Fionn’s descendants were mostly doltish lunks, as the ages passed. It seems fate smiled on Finnegas, in the end.”

“Um, I’m flattered, I guess?”

She remained silent, staring at me for what seemed like an eternity. I couldn’t hold her gaze, not for long, so I busied myself by looking elsewhere while I waited for her to speak. Like the Dagda, the Cailleach was as much a force of nature as a god, and it wouldn’t do for me to insult her by showing impatience.

“I’ve a soft spot for druids,” she finally said. “Especially those who go out of their way to assist lost travelers and the forlorn. In which case, I’ll lend some advice. If you’re willing to hear it.”

I swallowed hard. As legend had it, she’d flattened her husband beneath a boulder, pinning him at the bottom of the River Funshion for all time. Mug Ruith had been a powerful druid, and the father of her child, but he’d been unfaithful. For all I knew, she still held a grudge and had decided to take it out on me for shits and giggles.

Or, maybe not.

Even if her offer was legit, assistance from a goddess as powerful as she wouldn’t come without a price. She seemed to be offering it without condition, but there was always a catch with the Tuath Dé. Yet, I couldn’t afford to become enemies with another god.

“I’m listening,” was all I said in reply.

When she next spoke, the force of it shook me to my bones. Thunder rumbled in the distance, and lightning flashed in her eyes with every syllable she uttered.

“When you break against her magic, when familiar blood is shed, look not to eastward dawn, but instead seek out the dead.”

With that, she vanished into thin air. One moment she stood in front of me, and the next she’d disappeared. As I searched the area in vain, her voice echoed inside my head.

-I hope that Brigid was right about you, young druid. If so, we’ll meet again.-

Needless to say, I stood in stunned silence for quite a while, partly to commit her warning to memory, and partially from the effect of same. When I’d recovered sufficiently, I chewed on recent events.

No doubt, the Cailleach had placed that group in my path. Whether it was meant as a shit test for me or part of some grander scheme, I couldn’t say. What I did know was that I’d attracted the attention of yet one more powerful god, this time one who seemed to be favorably inclined.

She’d mentioned Brigid, her legendary counterpart in seasonal rulership. The Cailleach held dominion over fall and winter, while Brigid was sovereign over spring and summer. The latter goddess had eventually followed her worshippers to warmer climes, becoming Maman Brigitte to Haitian islanders and practitioners of voudon.

How I met Brigid was an odd tale. I’d befriended a voudon practitioner named Janice, back when I lived in Austin. A case put me at odds with the New Orleans coven, and I went to her for help. She sent me to her ‘maw maw’ for advice, who turned out to be none other than Brigid herself.

Shortly thereafter, Janice and I went on a rather insane date, one I agreed to attend as a courtesy to Brigid. Despite the chain of mishaps that ensued, the girl seemingly enjoyed it. That’s how I came to gain the favor of the goddess.

The summer deity had some nice things to say about me, it seemed. That was all well and good, but I still had no idea what the Cailleach wanted with me. The best I could do was to try to remain on her good side, and hope whatever task or request she’d eventually have for me wouldn’t result in too much trouble.

Anyway, I had bigger fish to fry. I put the odd encounter out of my mind and set my sights on the next stop on my itinerary. When I opened our connection, the Oak was ready and waiting.

Take me to Emberlance.

When I arrived at Discovery Green in downtown Houston, she was roosting atop the Hess Tower, some thirty stories above the dilapidated dock where I stood far below. The pond was much as I remembered, full of scum and not much use for either fish or dragons. It was a pity, as the park had once been a nice place to hang out before the war.

I shaded my eyes with a hand as I greeted the Pyre of Nations. “Hello, Emberlance.”

She stood and stretched, cat-like, extending her forelegs while lifting her tail and backside into the air. Then she snapped her wings wide, diving off the building as she tucked them back against her sides. Before I knew it, a building-sized mass of shiny green scales, talons, and teeth was plummeting toward me at speeds exceeding terminal velocity.

Although she’d descended like a meteor, the drake landed on the shoreline like a butterfly, pulling up at the last moment with a swoop of her wings and a precise exertion of dragon magic. As she did, I took the opportunity to admire Smokedancer’s mother, in all her draconian majesty.

Her body was muscular and lithe, reminiscent of Asian dragons depicted in popular fantasy artwork. The great drake’s iridescent green scales glistened in the sunlight, reflecting tones of deep forest green along her back, before fading to chartreuse, then pale green, then light yellow on her stomach.

She batted her eyes at me, drawing my attention there. Those platter-sized eyes were a glistening ruby red at the edges, shifting fleck by fleck to every fiery color imaginable while gradually softening in hue around her slit pupils. Fully aware of how mesmerizing that gaze could be, I lowered mine, shifting my attention to her impressive chasm of a mouth.

Emberlance yawned, displaying upper and lower rows of glistening ivory spears as long as I was tall. A small puff of smoke escaped her throat before she snapped her jaw shut, and then she settled on her tummy with her front legs crossed one over the other. Her automobile-sized head snaked forward, turning so she could look at me with one eye while keeping the other on the hidden realm portal she guarded.

“Greetings, master druid. How do you fare?”

“Very well. And you?”

“Rested. I have much more time for lounging and napping since you chased away that crusty old lich.”

“Not without your help,” I said as I inclined my head.

“It was a rare pleasure, believe me.” She closed her mouth and blew smoke from her nostrils. “Tell me, how are my daughter and her brood getting along?”

“Quite well, although I think I may have insulted her. Unintentionally, of course.”

Emberlance’s nictitating membrane swept across her eye and back again. “Of course. Tell me what happened.”

I briefly explained my bumbling attempt at offering her daughter a permanent place within my Grove. As I described the events, the dragoness prodded for details here and there, but mostly she allowed me to convey the story as I remembered it. When I was done, she remained still and silent for the span of several human heartbeats, before a rumbling, wheezing laughter escaped her throat.

“What’d I say?” I asked.

“Forgive me for enjoying a moment of entertainment at your expense,” she replied. “I am amused because you are mistaken. You didn’t insult her, you embarrassed her.”

“I did what?”

“Dragons are quite sociable creatures when we choose, but we’re not given to public displays of affection, or emotional confessions. While your intentions were true, the manner in which you conveyed them likely made my daughter uncomfortable. She disengaged because she didn’t know how to respond.”

“Oh. So you’re saying I overshared?”

“‘Overshared’? Yes, I suppose that’s one way to put it. But don’t worry, she’ll get over it. She trusts you a great deal, and holds you in very high regard.” The dragon rested her head on her clawed hands before continuing. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say she had feelings of her own for you.”

“Feelings? Like, what kind of feelings?”

“The romantic kind, perhaps? I would have to read the pheromones she releases when she’s around you to say for certain.”

“Wait, whut?” I counted to ten in my head, giving my brain time to shift into neutral before I said something stupid. “How can a dragon—I mean, how would that even work?”

“We are magical creatures, you know. Shapeshifting is not beyond our abilities.”

“Oh.” I thought about it for a moment. “Oh. Right. Sheesh, you learn something new every day.”

“One would hope. Don’t worry, if she knows you’re mated, she’ll not act on her emotions.” Emberlance narrowed her eyes. “You have told her you’re mated, yes?”

“Have I?” I scratched my head as I tried to recall whether it’d come up in conversation. “Maybe, I guess?”

“Well, you fairly reek of she-wolf musk. If she hasn’t figured it out yet, she will. Unless you have designs, try to avoid being so forward in future interactions. It simply isn’t a good idea to lead a dragoness on, you know.”

I may or may not have gulped audibly at that. “Noted.”

She rustled her wings slightly, readjusting them as she settled into a more comfortable position. “Now, tell me what other business you bring to my roost step. I know you didn’t make this trip simply to ask for my daughter’s hand in marriage.”

“Wait, I didn’t—” I stopped abruptly, smiling and shaking my head with amusement. “Oh, that’s just mean.”

Emberlance rumble-chuckled softly. “Forgive me, but I get so little opportunity for amusement these days. By all means, do share what troubles you.”

“Oh, nothing major. I’m about to take out the varcolac den about fifty miles north of here. Just wanted to let you know, in case any of them escape and flee your way.”

The dragoness grew very, very still. “That would be unwise, young druid.”

“Why? Is there something you know that I don’t?”

“Apparently, yes. I know the name of the one who created them, and she is not a sorceress to be trifled with.”

Emberlance failed to elaborate, although I waited quietly for a minute or more. Finally, I broke the silence, my patience having been fully expended.

“I’d be grateful for any information you could share in that regard.”

“As you wish. The Vampyri are in league with Carman, scourge of the Emerald Isle.”

“Carman, Carman—ah, you mean the Greek witch who tried to conquer all of Ireland?”

“And very nearly did, were it not for the intervention of a full quartet of Celtic gods. Your half-brother Lugh being one of them. As I recall, only three returned from that mission.”

I cradled my chin as I considered her admonition. “Lugh does always seem to have a hand in major events. You think it’s a bad idea for me to face her alone?”

“An awful one. You should speak with your kinsman before assailing the witch in her aerie.”

“I’ll take that under advisement. Meanwhile, keep an eye on your northern border—just in case.”

“Duly noted, master druid. Is there anything else you wish to discuss? Marriage venues, perhaps?”

“Hah. Haha. No, thank you. I have enough trouble with the one I have.” Emberlance blew smoke from between her teeth. I raised my hands in supplication. “Not that I think your daughter would give me trouble. I’m sure she’ll make a trouble-free bride. To someone. Someday.”

The great drake rumble-chuckled again. “Do tell her I miss her, and that I look forward to seeing my grand-drakelings.”

“I will, as soon as I see her,” I said as I opened my connection to the Oak. “Take care.”

“And you as well, master druid.”

CHAPTER

SIXTEEN

Despite Emberlance’s warning, I decided against traveling to Underhill to speak with my brother. It wasn’t that I didn’t think Emberlance’s counsel was legit, I just didn’t feel like bothering him. Lugh had his own problems, what with the civil war in Underhill on his doorstep and all. Besides, I’d recently called on him for help in defeating Boann, and I didn’t want to impose on him so soon again.

Anyway, I wasn’t stupid, and I wasn’t about to confront this Carman character on her turf. At least, not without gathering some intelligence on her and her sons.

First, I did another circuit of the public libraries I’d preserved, searching for information on Carman the Sorceress. The legend wasn’t a very popular one, as she rated only scant mention in the few reference works I was able to find on Celtic mythology. What I found, however, was very peculiar, indeed.

Carman and her sons had sailed from Athens to Ireland to conquer the island. They terrorized the Emerald Isle for several years, her sons by might, and she with magic. As the legends went, everything she touched withered and died, and soon the people suffered from famine and plagues alike.

Eventually, four Celtic gods were sent to deal with her—Crichinbel, Lugh, Bé Chuille, and Aoi. After a prolonged battle, Carman was defeated, at the cost of the druidess Bé Chuille’s life. Following their defeat, her sons were banished, and she remained a captive of the Tuatha Dé Danann until her dying day.

Some accounts categorized Carman as a sort of harvest deity, but I didn’t know of any such goddess who only caused ruin to nature. Something was missing in those narratives, some hidden piece of information that had been lost to time. I wasn’t going to find it in old, moldering texts, so I decided to do some personal investigation, to see what I could discover firsthand.

To that end, I had the Oak drop me off at the edge of the Sam Houston National Forest, northeast of the town of New Waverly. My plan was simply to do some recon, map out her magical defenses, and maybe get a firsthand glimpse of her sorcery. From afar, of course.

I’d been to the East Texas Pineywoods before, so I was familiar with the region. People on the east and west coasts thought Texas was all cacti and cattle ranches, but nothing could be further from the truth. There were no fewer than ten distinct ecosystems in the state, the Pineywoods being one of the more lush and, in my opinion, glorious of the lot.

Though mostly dominated by shortleaf, longleaf, and loblolly pine, you could also find areas populated with blackjack and post oak, sweetgum, magnolia, tupelo, elm, and ash. Game was plentiful out this way, the land rife with deer, wild hogs, quail, dove, and squirrels, as well as the odd black bear or two. One could easily get lost in these thickets and marshes, wandering in circles for days, unless you lucked upon an old logging road or hiking trail.

In short, it was the perfect place to set up a sanctuary for a werewolf pack—and to hide a standard, non-teleporting druid oak and grove. Which also made it the ideal place for an ancient Greek sorceress to raise a small army of vampire ‘thropes.

I hit the edge of the woodlands just a short ways south of an old country Baptist church, the sort of clapboard building you’d expect to see in a documentary on Appalachian snake handlers or evangelical splinter cults. It was surrounded on three sides by a bent and battered chain-link fence that time had reduced to little more than rough spun rust. The windows were boarded up, and someone had brush painted ‘REPENT—THE END IS NIGHT’ across the side of the building.

Sadly, I didn’t think the extra ‘t’ was a mistake. The fact that they’d used dark red paint wasn’t lost on me, either. At least, I thought it was paint. Hopefully, the message wasn’t a portent of things to come.

For several minutes, I loitered on the overgrown shoulder of a road with no name, staring at the forest in front of me. Though I might never openly admit it, I’d never felt so uncertain about entering a stretch of woodland in all my life.

Out where I stood, the sun was shining, birds were chirping, and bugs were buzzing. The air smelled of damp loam and clover, and everything was right as rain. In the woods ahead, however, something was just off with the terrain and flora.

Shadows seemed to lengthen within that lattice of brown and green, as if some unseen force altered the very path the light took through the canopy overhead. The place looked alive, but it felt dead. Besides that, there were areas of darkness that shouldn’t have been there, and for the life of me I couldn’t see more than fifty feet into the dappled landscape.

This was no hallucinatory sensation, no false emotion caused by some rudimentary illusion. It was a real fear response triggered by a survival instinct that was as old as the dawn of humankind.

My apprehension was nearly palpable, and it left a bitter, metallic taste in my mouth. My gut told me that corrupt magic lurked nearby, undoubtedly present but somehow defying confirmation by my druidic senses. Every bone in my body said that entering the tree line would be a huge mistake, and that by doing so, I’d be stepping into a virtual Charybdis of greenery and gloom from which I might never escape.

Naturally, I ignored my instincts and got on with the mission, but not without some preparation. First, I readied spell after deadly spell. Then I concealed myself both with my mother’s camouflage glamour and with silence and look-away cantrips. Finally, I stripped to my skivvies and covered myself with bark armor, tossing my gun belt in my Bag while slinging my favorite longsword over my shoulder.

As I’d learned previously, guns would be no use against the varcolaci. Were I to be discovered, I’d have to rely on druidry to save me. If my magic were depleted—an unlikely event for a druid in a forest—I’d be down to my skills with a blade and Dyrnwyn’s desire to destroy evil. And if all that failed, I’d teleport away.

Or, I could just teleport away first. That’d be the smart thing to do.

Yet, I knew I wouldn’t, for the same reason that I was going to walk into that forbidding wood despite the sense of impending doom I felt merely by looking at it. The druid in me felt that I should be the dominant power in the forest, and that part of me wanted badly to confront the evil presence within. I wasn’t being rash, I was obeying my deep sense of duty to protect and preserve the natural order.

The thing was, I didn’t have to confront it right away. I’d sneak in, gather my intel, and steal away. Then, I’d devise a plan that would exploit whatever weaknesses I discovered. As long as I was smart about it, I’d be fine.

At least, that’s what I kept telling myself as I walked into the deep, dark woods, straight into the domain of Carman the Sorceress.

There were no magical traps, no arcane alarms, and no apparent wards to speak of along the border of the sorceress’ wood. I felt only that same growing sense of dread, which again was not the kind provoked by spellcraft. The feeling never subsided, but I did manage to set it aside, calming myself with breathing exercises and light meditation as I entered the forest proper.

I knew exactly where I was going, based on the coordinates Luther provided. The camp was no more than five miles ahead, deep in the thicket that comprised this section of the national preserve. Moving at speed, I could cover that distance in just over six minutes. In stealth mode, it’d take half an hour, tops.

Having referenced the precise location on an old-school paper map and locked in on it using my druidic earth sense, I couldn’t get lost. Or at least, that’s how it should’ve been, as any druid worth their salt could find their way by tuning into ley lines and the earth’s magnetic field. Yet, after traveling for forty-five minutes, I’d found nothing even close to a witch’s lair.

Had I somehow gotten turned around? I stopped within the shelter of a dense patch of tall undergrowth, taking a moment to more closely attune myself to the geomagnetic signals. In a matter of seconds, I opened my eyes, scanning the surrounding area to make certain I was still on the earthly plane.

My disorientation was understandable, and when I reached out to locate those ever-present magnetic patterns, I found nothing. No energy, no emanations, not even an echo of the natural ebb and flow of power that continuously flowed through the poles and around the planet. It was as if I’d been blinded to the natural forces that sustained the earth.

At first, I denied it could be, thinking that surely I’d simply made some rudimentary mistake in my attempt to connect. Never mind that connecting with such natural forces was as automatic as breathing to me these days. Still, I tried again, only to get the very same result.

Rather than panic, I dropped into a druid trance, slowing my breathing until I was in complete control of my body and all its processes. Once I’d achieved a much calmer state, I extended my druid senses outward in the manner I always had, to connect with the plant and animal life around me. What I sensed was absolutely nothing.

No plant life, no animal life, no bugs, birds, fungi, or microorganisms. Either everything around me was dead, or I’d been somehow cut off from the very source of the magic I’d wielded since I became the old man’s apprentice. The sensation shook me to my core, and I opened my eyes a second time to double-check my natural surroundings.

“It won’t answer you,” a raspy female voice whispered. “This place is mine.”

A heavy, dragging sound came from the underbrush to my left, like a rug being dragged through a patch of dry reeds. I turned my head to look, but all I saw was an endless, brindled landscape of gray-brown bark, fawn fall leaves, and dappled shades of evergreen. Something was there, however, no matter how well hidden by skill or magic.

“You must be Carman,” I said, calm as can be.

Now that the moment had arrived, all the nervous anticipation evaporated like smoke. In its absence, I felt only the certain knowledge that I finally had something—or, rather, someone—to confront. I found the thought almost encouraging, in light of how I’d been cut off from the earth.

After all, I’d always been at my best when it was time to kill.

“That is what they called me, long, long ago. I came from my homeland to Hibernia in those days, seeking to conquer the place for my patroness, Athena. ’Twas a druidess that eventually thwarted me, which was why I sought your kind out on my return.” Soft, wheezing laughter echoed through the surrounding landscape. “Imagine my surprise when I found your order decimated, with only a lone druid journeyman remaining.”

“I’m no mere journeyman,” I replied as I scanned my surroundings. “You’ll find that out, soon enough.”

“Pfah. You’re no more than a paidiskos who should still be training in a druid agōgē. Even one as unfamiliar with your heathen ways as I can see that.”

I had no idea what a ‘paidiskos’ was, but I knew what the word agōgē meant. It was a training place for Greek youth, where young males were molded into warriors and statesmen. Essentially, Carman had called me a boy.

In response, I tsked and stood. “If you think me inept, show yourself and face me.”

“Why stoop to such menial pursuits? You lack even the talent to pierce the veil of deception that was woven over your senses from the moment you set foot on my land.” That heavy, dry, rustling sound faded off into the distance as she continued. “Instead, I’ll leave you to my sons. Dubh, Dother, Dian—dispose of him as you see fit.”

Figuring that shit was about to get real, I drew Dyrnwyn, holding it to my side and slightly behind me to avoid being blinded by its brilliance. The sword blazed bright as ever, casting new shadows among the trees while burning others away.

Against all logic and reason, three large patches of gloom remained, despite how the sword’s radiance illuminated those darkened patches of earth. The shadows rose from the ground, each expanding and taking on a three-dimensional shape. Simultaneously, the figures shed the darkness that covered them, shaking it off like water.

Now, I saw what I faced—three giant wolves, just like the one I’d battled outside the Pack’s compound. One of them was the black varcolac I’d fought just days before. The second was nearly all white, save for the black tips at its ears and tail tip, and the third was a ginger red all over, with flecks of gray and charcoal mixed into its coat.

All three shared the same glowing, yellow eyes, the same slavering mouths full of razor-sharp teeth, and the same wicked intelligence staring out at me from within those putrid orbs. The black one slid into the center position with the other two flanking him, moving so quickly and smoothly, I’d have missed it had I blinked. He inched forward, baring its teeth and snarling at me in a wicked, self-satisfied grin that did not belong on a wolf’s snout.

I am so fucked.

There are times in a druid’s life when one realizes discretion is the better part of valor. This was one of them. I opened my telepathic channel to the Oak, and sent a distress signal that essentially said, ‘Get me the fuck out of here.’

All I got was silence in reply. Granted, my oak in this timeline was a moody, angst-driven teen with authority issues, but he’d never let me down. I could only assume that Carman managed to cut off my connection to the Oak, along with my connection to the Earth.

Eventually, I intended to have a pointed discussion with her regarding that slight. But at that moment, as I stared down three sedan-sized wolves, I knew it was time to flee like a scalded skald.

I tossed a fireball the size of a hubcap at them, and then I turned and ran like my life depended on it. Currently, I was in my half-human, half-Fomorian form, and completely unencumbered save for carrying Dyrnwyn in my right hand. My top speed was around fifty miles per hour, fifty-five if I pushed it, and believe me, I was pushing it.

The spot I’d entered was five miles westward. If memory served, I had not been turned around when I traveled into the woods. As well, I could see the sun above through the gloomy canopy. That allowed me to get my bearings and adjust course on a south-by-southwest trajectory.

I’d entered the forest during the daytime on purpose, hoping that the varcolaci would not be able to manifest physically during daylight hours. How they withstood the mottled sunlight that entered the canopy was a mystery to me, but it must’ve had something to do with Carman’s control over these environs. If I managed to reach the forest’s edge before they caught me, I’d be home free.

There was just one problem with that plan, and it was my speed versus theirs. The black varcolac had proven to be much quicker than me on our last encounter, and he was already right on my heels. Moreover, I caught flashes of white and red moving through the trees on either side. Odd, blurry flashes that seemed to be in one place one second, and another the next.

Shit, but they’re so fucking fast.

As I fled, I cast spell after spell to hamper their movements. Lightning, fireballs, spears of ice, and just about anything I could think of to keep them from catching me. Especially the big dark one that pursued from behind—I must’ve launched a dozen spells at him as I ran.

Meanwhile, his brothers appeared to be moving up on either side to cut me off. Worse, it was quite apparent they were toying with me. I did not doubt that the black one would’ve already overtaken me, had I not been tossing spells in his face.

When I ran out of magic, though, I’d be a goner. They were simply faster than me, quite resistant to elemental magic, and I was cut off from the best of my strategic druid tactics. To say I was scared was an understatement, but it was when they started talking to each other that I wanted to shit my pants.

“Dian, Dother—cut him off before he escapes.” That had been the large black one, the same one I tangled with in Bryan.

“Orders, brother?” the white wolf on my right replied. “Such strong words from one who failed so miserably in subjugating the alpha and his pack.”

His tone was mocking, his voice sinister, the vocal equivalent of scratching a blackboard with a piece of broken glass.

“Stop your bantering, and let’s end this druid’s life.”

The third voice was low and threatening, almost demonic in quality. It came from my left, from the red wolf.

“He’s not as helpless, nor as inept, as he appears to be,” Dubh stated.

“Oh? Let’s test that claim,” the white one said.

“Be my guest,” Dubh said. “But remember, I warned you.”

The white one, Dother, came at me like a blur, but I was ready for it. I unleashed two spells, not aimed at it, but at a duo of tall pines up ahead. The trees would be on either side of me in moments, and I timed the placement of the spells to account for the speed at which I traveled.

Just as Dother leapt, I dropped to the ground, allowing him to pass harmlessly over me. Simultaneously, the trees I’d hit with Mogh’s Scythe bisected halfway up their lengths at a downward angle, the upper halves sliding off and plummeting like spears toward the earth.

One missed, punching into the soft soil a few feet from its lower half. The other hit the intended target, impaling the white wolf while it was still airborne. This effectively destroyed the varcolac’s spine midway down its back. The severed pine tree went clean through the wolf’s body and into the ground, pinning it like a bug in an entomologist’s display.

Dother couldn’t even manage a whine as he looked about helplessly, trying to figure out what had happened. I had little time to gloat, as the red one immediately attacked from the opposite side. The fact that I’d injured one of them seemed to enrage Dian, and he came at me in a manner that lived up to his name.

The red wolf charged forth like a bolt, but he pulled up short just in time to avoid being skewered by Dyrnwyn. He circled, just beyond reach, snarling with his head lowered and hackles raised. I maintained my guard and kept my eyes on the threat, wondering where his brother was all the while.

Finally, Dian came at me in a blur, and then the fight was on. Like his brothers, his speed was unsettling, allowing him to dance in and out almost like a fencer, but instead of a sword, he used his teeth and claws. It was all I could do to keep Dyrnwyn between us, continually engaged in combinations of parry and riposte, attack and recover, with no time to cast a spell for fear of taking a hand from the blade’s hilt.

I was near the edge of the wood, as I could sense that the witch’s oppression had diminished. How close, though, I couldn’t say. All I knew was that I felt less fearful when I moved in a certain direction, so I kept angling that way, doing my best to make a strategic withdrawal without being eviscerated by the varcolac.

There was an ebb and flow to the exchange, and when it shifted in my favor I knew one of two things was about to happen. Either Dian was about to seriously attack with all he had, or his brother was sneaking up on my flank. I couldn’t do much about the latter, but I was prepared for the former. When the red wolf paused and crouched, I cast my final spell.

I released my left hand from the sword’s hilt, extending my arm and pointing my hand palm out at the wolf. It was a dumb move, handing him something to bite like that, but it was intentional. Thankfully, the wolf took the bait.

When his mouth snapped over my hand and wrist, ‘Colin’s Planetary Maelstrom of Scythes’ erupted from my hand, spiraling out in a cone from the point of origination. The blades spun outward, expanding as they shredded the varcolac’s innards like an inside-out blender. Blood and guts burst from within the beast’s body as the invisible compressed air blades emerged, slicing the wolf into ribbons from the chest down.

At the same moment, Dian’s jaws closed, crushing my wrist like kindling just before the effects of my spell registered in his brain. From his mid-torso back, his body looked like bloody strips of furry bacon, a grotesque bouquet of dangling flesh that was barely attached to his front legs and shoulders. Still, he held on, gnawing at my arm with a frenzied madness that might’ve been fueled by pain, rage, or sheer madness.

Even crazier, the wolf was pulling me forward using his front legs alone. Despite having half of his body missing, he had enough leverage to yank me off balance.

Then, I realized what he was doing. The fucker was feeding on me, draining my blood through the wound to heal his own body. Right before my eyes, all those crimson strips of flesh were starting to knit back together.

Worse yet, his brother was still out there, waiting to pounce. The longer I fought, the more this one would heal, the worse this battle would get for me, and the more likely I’d get attacked from behind. If I didn’t act, I’d be done for.

Fuck it.

I brought Dyrnwyn’s blazing blade down on the wolf’s face, midway down his snout. This close to a creature so evil, the blade practically shimmered with heat, and it sliced through the varcolac’s flesh and mine like a hot knife through butter. The wolf’s head and upper torso fell away as I stumbled back, staring at the cauterized stump of my left wrist in disbelief.

I can’t believe I did that. Son of a bitch.

Next, the pain struck, and that brought me out of my stupor. Somewhere behind me was freedom, and I had to reach it before Dubh reached me. Cradling my arm while holding on to Dyrnwyn for dear life, I turned and ran toward a glimmer of unadulterated sunlight shining through the trees ahead.

It felt as though I ran forever, although it must’ve only been a few seconds before I exited the forest into the full light of day. All I wanted to do was collapse, teleport away, and heal. Instead, I turned, blade held before me, waiting for the third brother to continue his pursuit.

A minute passed, then two. Finally, a pair of sickly yellow eyes emerged from the gloom within the greenery, and the elder varcolac spoke in a gravelly, but very human sounding, voice.

“I’ve allowed you to live, little druid, a fair exchange for the lesson you gave my brothers. Go, rest and heal. The third time we meet, I’ll not be so merciful.”

I held his gaze as his eyes slowly faded into the shadows. Daylight served as a poor shelter against these strange creatures, so I kept watch for a good long time, just in case his retreat was a ruse. It was only after I’d convinced myself of my safety that I turned and limped off down the road, wondering what exactly I’d gotten myself into with this damned quest.

CHAPTER

SEVENTEEN

After I’d put a few miles between myself and the church, I looked for someplace from which I could teleport away, free from scrying eyes. As I searched, I came across signs that a large party of humans had marched through the town. Not zombies, but living humans. I could tell due to the pattern of their footprints, and by the trash they left in their wake.

Discarded water bottles, food wrappers, an empty pill container—things that people on a long march might jettison along the way. Their tracks indicated they’d come through town perhaps a week before, headed eastward, toward the forest. Even worse, a werewolf had accompanied them.

Not just any werewolf, one of the varcolaci, by the scent of it. Had this been the group of survivors from Caldwell who went missing? And why were they being herded to Carman’s lair?

For food, perhaps? Or even worse, test subjects. Carman would only need one werewolf to turn a number of those people into ‘thropes. Then, she could create more varcolaci, or failing that, she could turn the rejects into vrykolakai.

Damn it to hell. Seven days—they’re probably all dead by now. And if I keep fucking things up, even more lives will be at risk.

I needed a place to hide ASAP, so I could teleport back to the Grove and heal. Eventually, I settled on an abandoned service station, the old-school kind, with pumps out front, a small concession area and checkout counter inside, and two service bays next door. The unmistakable scent of death hit me like a sledgehammer as soon as I neared the property, mingled with more familiar smells of oil, gasoline, and tobacco.

Somehow both unsettling and comforting. Fuck. I’ve become way too accustomed to life in the Hellpocalypse.

Thankfully, that mixed bouquet had long grown stale, which told me the interior of the station was probably safe. Just the same, I observed due caution as I entered, keeping Dyrnwyn at the ready. Inside, ancient oil company signs decorated the walls, and the floor was littered with trampled cigarette cartons, candy wrappers, crushed potato chips, and a frantic montage of bloody, shuffling footprints.

A further survey revealed a pair of deader corpses, one lying halfway out of the bathroom, the other resting behind the counter in an undignified sprawl. Two teens, a boy and a girl, from the looks of it. Their shared state of partial decomposition indicated they’d been infected before they passed. Even in the absence of brain activity, the vyrus sometimes lingered, proof of the strain’s stubborn defiance against the natural order.

The one behind the counter wore a name tag with ‘Danny’ written on a piece of white tape that covered the original lettering. As for the girl, she’d once been thin, perhaps pretty, but not wealthy. Her clothes were hand-me-downs and thrift store finds, her shoes worn across the soles.

As for personal details, I didn’t look further than that. I was long past bearing witness to the endless tragedies one saw in this timeline, past committing each tableau to memory in some vain attempt at honoring their suffering. When the dead were gone, they were gone. There was no sense in mulling over non-essentials thereafter.

What did matter, however, was deciphering information that could indicate a lingering threat. Both kids were painted in gore. It was all over their partially decomposed faces, down the fronts of their shirts, on their hands, and under their fingernails. Each also had .38 caliber-sized holes in their skulls, with similar exit wounds opposite.

Hmph. Wadcutters. Somebody wasn’t fucking around.

A trail of blood led to a metal door that separated the retail area from the service bays. The security glass had been cracked, but it was intact. Avoiding the trash on the floor, I snuck to the garage entrance and peered inside.

I found the shooter propped up against a stack of tires in the corner, semi-seated with his legs splayed out before him. The man’s light blue coveralls were stained with equal amounts of grease and blood. His face and arms had been mauled by human teeth, and by the looks of it, he’d lost a lot of blood before he passed.

To his credit, he’d cheated undeath at the end by ventilating his skull with lead, just like the two kids out front. The man gripped a gleaming nickel-plated revolver, his clenched, bony fingers showing all and sundry that ‘from my cold dead hands’ had been the man’s unspoken maxim.

Traced in blood on the floor next to his corpse were three words:

Forgive me Jacey

Instinct drew my eye to a bulletin board on the wall behind him. It was covered with business cards, bumper stickers, old receipts, and every other manner of printed detritus. But there in the middle hung a single snapshot, printed in color on inkjet paper and carefully clipped to size.

It featured a bearded, physically imposing, pot-bellied middle-aged man, dressed in those same light blue coveralls. He wore an expression that was a mix of fatherly seriousness and barely restrained pride as he extended a set of car keys to the teenage couple who faced him. The pair were dressed in formal wear, and they were headed to an event like homecoming or prom.

They had the same build, same hair, same everything as the kids I’d found up front. In the image, they were alive, joyous, and carefree. Now, they were just slowly rotting meat.

I could picture the scenario in my head. The girlfriend—and daughter, maybe—gets bitten on Z Day. Next, she comes to the shop in a panic to warn her boyfriend, and-or dad. She turns on arrival, attacks and kills the boy, then the shop owner comes to investigate. The rest was written in blood in the adjoining rooms.

Damn. I shouldn’t have looked.

Despite myself, I felt a familiar pang of guilt, knowing my arrival in this timeline had indirectly caused their fates. I wondered, did the shop owner try to reason with them first, not understanding the danger?

What went through his mind as his reaction turned from confusion to concern, to shock and horror as the attack commenced? How long did it take before his survival instincts overcame his love for those teens? Finally, did he kill himself out of remorse and grief, or because he didn’t want to become like them?

“One of these days,” I whispered as I straightened the photo, “the ones who did this are going to pay.”

With a rueful head shake and a silent prayer, I turned my back on the photo and retraced my steps. Although my missing hand and wrist were sending phantom pains up my arm, I took the time to secure the steel door all the same.

I also checked the bay doors to make certain they were fully down and latched, and then I looked at the rafters and the tire storage area in the back. Only when I was certain the place was secure did I sheathe Dyrnwyn, slump down against a wall, and examine my injury.

The amputation had been cleaned, the wound cauterized, and the infected flesh removed. That was both good and bad. Good, because I hadn’t been infected, and bad because it was never a great idea to leave DNA with an enemy magic user.

I needed to rest, heal, and regroup, just as Darkness had suggested. I began to open a channel to the Oak, but for some reason, I never completed the connection. Instead, I took a deep breath and gnawed on my remaining thumbnail, activating the magical wisdom Fionn had stolen from my mentor some seventeen centuries past.

As the fey magic took hold, a certain calm came over me, along with a lucidity that beat caffeine and Ritalin by a mile. As my thoughts settled and cleared, one simple truth bubbled up from the depths of my subconscious.

Whelp, that was an ass-kicking for the ages.

Sure, I’d survived. But only due to sheer luck and the mercy of my enemy. Darkness—Dubh—could’ve offed me at any time while I was tangling with his bros.

Speaking of which, they still lived. Or rather, they were still undead. I’d not had the time to finish the job properly, which meant all three would be waiting for me when I returned.

If I return. ‘Cause I don’t know if I can beat these things.

Even worse, I hadn’t yet faced their maker. Carman had deemed me beneath her notice and left me to her sons. If I couldn’t deal with them, how was I going to defeat her?

Luther was right. Neit sent me on this mission in the full knowledge that I’d be destroyed. No surprise there. Not like the gods weren’t known for sending mortals on impossible quests, after all.

So, my Herculean task is defeating a Greek sorceress. That’s funny. Heracles would approve.

If this fight had proven anything, it was that I couldn’t do this solo. The fact that I’d tried revealed another hidden truth, that I was still under the subtle influence of Gwydion’s magic. I thought I’d broken it after I left Neit’s isthmus in Underhill, but the Salmon’s Wisdom said otherwise.

The question was, why the fuck was Gwydion messing with my head? He was a trickster, sure, but we’d always shared an odd sort of bond. Had the guy gone completely off the deep end, or was he being forced to meddle for reasons other than his usual random acts of madness?

Wait a minute—was he working with Neit?

It was entirely possible, but where those questions were concerned, the fey magic had no answers. I only knew that activating the talent allowed me to shed the last tendrils of the immortal magician’s influence from my mind. In so doing, it became clearer than ever that I needed counsel and backup, both.

Along with facts, the magic laid my emotions bare, revealing what I’d formerly denied. I couldn’t hide anything from myself when I exercised this power, no matter how much self-delusion I’d engaged in previously. And oh, how deluded I’d been.

This whole mission was about rebuilding the druid order, so I didn’t have to do things alone. Despite that, my pride said a druid master should be able to handle a few petty leeches and a dried-up sorceress from ages past. I mean, Finnegas would’ve rolled these motherfuckers up like crêpes, so why shouldn’t I be able to do the same?

Nope, that’s where you’re wrong. The old man would’ve planned, schemed, and plotted first. Then he would’ve chosen a time and place to act that would virtually ensure his success.

Additionally, he’d have recruited help. Hell, even Heracles needed assistance from Iolaus to defeat the Lernaean Hydra. Finnegas might’ve been a lone wolf, but he also knew when to call in the cavalry.

Yeah, I needed help. There was no shame in it. The only shame was in allowing my cockiness to get the best of me.

Yet, who could assist me? I couldn’t bring Crowley here, not with Ateas and Le Boucher waiting to finish him off. Samson and the Pack had proven ill-equipped to face even one varcolac, so asking them for help was a non-starter. And Luther?

Though he’d tried to conceal it, Luther was as frightened of the sorceress as I’d ever seen him fear anything. Vampires and necromancers didn’t mix, after all.

Though she wasn’t a necromancer, not really. No, she was something worse. Honestly, I couldn’t blame the coven leader for keeping his distance.

For the moment, at least, I was still flying solo. The realization made me well and truly pissed that I’d been backed into a corner where Carman was concerned. It was almost as if Gwydion had intended for me to face her on my own.

In the end, it didn’t matter. I still had no idea how to deal with the varcolaci, much less how to defeat Carman. Especially when she could strip me of my link to nature anytime she damned well pleased, the moment I set foot on her turf.

Face it. She’s not just a sorceress. She’s some sort of god.

Would’ve been nice to have been told that before agreeing to the mission. Neit was working hard to get on my shit list, that was for damned sure.

The one good thing about these changing circumstances was that they made the path forward much clearer. To beat a god, you had to consult a god. Despite my pride and reticence, I had no choice. It was time to visit my elder brother.

It took three full cycles of shifting back and forth between forms to fully regenerate my hand. I did it in the Grove, under the watchful, worrisome supervision of the self-same entity. While my oak in this timeline was like a gruff, brash, combative teen, she was more like the doting daughter who looked after everyone better than they looked after themselves.

My innate magical healing factor had its limits, and limb regeneration was typically the domain of centuries-old alpha werewolves, certain elder vamps, and trolls. Yet, I’d discovered that shifting back and forth allowed me to ‘hack’ the process of healing, even to the extent of growing back entire body parts. There was a time when it would’ve taken more effort—now, however, such feats came more easily.

When the process was finished, the Grove sent me a series of images that were impossible to misinterpret. The first was a honey badger picking a fight with a young grizzly. The second was the badger being eaten by a momma grizzly and her three cubs, and the last was an image of everyone I cared for weeping at my funeral.

That final image shook me, and not just because it was rare for her to communicate using visual depictions that weren’t purely based in nature. There was something about seeing yourself lying in death’s repose with a few dozen people mourning all around your funeral pyre. It was damned unsettling.

“Alright, already,” I said as the image faded from my mind. “It was dumb, I know. But not entirely my fault. Gwydion clouded my judgment, which caused me to make dumb mistakes.”

The Grove scolded me with a few more chastising images, then she relented and grew a mess of food out of the ground. I pigged out on fresh fruit that was so juicy and nourishing it was almost like eating meat. Then I took a nap, allowing the meal to replenish all I’d lost while shifting and healing.

When I woke, I felt fully rested and clearheaded for the first time in days. Following a breakfast of more nutrient-dense fruit, I groomed myself and kitted out for a trip to Underhill. Now fully presentable, I asked the Oak to portal me to a hidden spot adjacent to Lugh’s castle.

The place I’d chosen was a dense stretch of maple and willow trees on the banks of the marsh, just within view of Lugh’s home. Little did I know, I’d instructed the budding nature deity to plop me down in the midst of utter chaos. No sooner had I arrived than a concussive wave of energy blasted me off my feet, tossing me deeper into the swamp and at least a hundred yards away from my destination.

Seconds later, I rolled to a stop against the trunk of a tall willow, with dirt and bits of splintered branches landing all around me. My ears were ringing, my heart was pounding, and my clothes and skin were shredded. I had no idea what was going on, save that I’d been attacked by an unknown enemy, and I was losing blood fast.

Through the muddled haze of my shell-shocked brain, instinct kicked in, and I began to shift into my full Fomorian form. Fifteen seconds later, my mind had cleared, my body had healed, and I found myself sitting beneath a giant willow tree in a pile of torn and tattered clothing, wondering what the hell had happened.

Dyrnwyn lay next to me, the baldric strap having been snapped during the shift into my Fomorian form. I fixed it with druidry and tossed it in my Bag, along with a now ruined gun belt and what remained of my clothing.

In the process, I almost reached for Tethra’s greatsword, Orna. Yet, that blade was a motormouth, and I worried it’d reveal my location to any enemies who might still be close by, waiting to attack. Wisely, I stayed my hand, instead choosing to remain still and silent within the canopy of willow branches until I knew what was going on.

No one had pursued me or followed up on the attack, which indicated they either thought I was dead, or the blast hadn’t been intended for me. Strangely, although shifting had healed me fully, I couldn’t hear a damned thing. Heck, I hadn’t even heard the explosion or spell that nearly killed me moments before.

Though the Fomorian side of me was raring for a fight, I calmed myself and carefully extended my druidic senses outward, a few feet at a time. Immediately, I recognized the presence of a powerful silence spell that had been laid over the swamp. The enchantment had Lugh’s distinctive magical signature all over it.

There was only one reason my half-brother would do that, and it would be to keep another magic user from vocalizing spells. Everything clicked into place at once, and I knew what was going on. Lugh was under attack.

I pulled Orna from my Craneskin Bag, nine feet of blackened steel, forged by my mother’s people for the express purpose of slaying gods. It had no magical properties, other than being incredibly tough and sharp enough to split the hairs on a gnat’s ass. Well, that and the fact that it was intelligent and chatty as all hell.

When I’d fully drawn it from within the pocket dimension inside the Bag, I sensed that it was speaking to me. The blade had been enchanted to recount the deeds of its original owner, Tethra the Fomorian, and it loved to spin a yarn. Since I owned it now, it tended to talk shit to others about me, but when we were alone it mostly just narrated past events.

While the blade was useful, it was also highly annoying. The mass silence spell might’ve been unsettling, but at least I wouldn’t have to hear the thing yammer. Or, so I thought until I heard Orna’s effete, posh British accent echoing in my head.

-Ah, so we’re communicating telepathically now. That’s wonderful, master. Tell me, what or whom shall we be slaying today?-

I’m not certain, but I think we’re hunting gods. Please keep quiet so I can think.

-Of course, of course. I’ll recite only your greatest deeds and at a background volume. Rest assured, you’ll not even notice me.-

Please don’t.

-Are you certain? Hearing of your past accomplishments might bolster your confidence. Bardic inspiration often proves to be a great boon before engaging such formidable enemies.-

Absolute quiet, Orna. Until the battle is done, that’s all I ask.

The sword remained silent for a few seconds before responding. -Fine. I’ll be here and ready to expound on your magnificent achievements when you’re done. Shall we go slay some gods?-

That’s the idea.

Before departing, I cast my mother’s chameleon charm over myself and the sword. It settled in like it was meant for me, and in a way, it was. Fomorian spells worked best when cast by or on Fomorians, and in this form, the magic fit me, hand in glove. Suitably concealed, I queued up a few more spells and crept through the swamp toward my earlier arrival point.

Although I still couldn’t hear a damned thing, I saw signs of the conflict through the thick vegetation and above the canopy as I approached. I’d fought gods before and had a reputation for being a god-killer, one that was somewhat undeserved. To this point, however, I’d never witnessed a full-on battle between deities.

On reaching the edge of the swamp, my eyes were opened to the power and potential of the beings I fought for so long. When I’d battled gods in the past, they’d vastly underestimated me, and thus withheld the bulk of their power. Or, I’d caught them unawares before they could bring the full weight of their potential and abilities to bear.

Those present exercised no such restraint here. Lugh stood in the center of the stone roof of his castle keep, glowing like the sun with a level of magic and power I felt from hundreds of yards away. The Tuath Dé sorceress Fuamnach flew around him on the back of a great black drake, hurling base elemental spells at my brother, over and over again. He deflected each of her attacks with a flick of his hand and a sunburst flash of light, even as he directed a sunbeam down from the heavens on the last remaining troops attempting to assault his walls.

Where the beam struck, the ground erupted in an explosion of light and concussive energy. I recognized the power he wielded—in fact, I’d used it myself on another world, in another timeline. Channeled properly, actual solar energy possessed unfathomable destructive power, one that few mortals could comprehend or imagine.

The resulting blast sent bodies flying everywhere along the fringes, while outright incinerating those caught at the center of the strike. When the light faded, none of the enemy’s troops were left standing. All that remained of their position was a huge, smoking crater and an array of corpses and dismembered limbs that spread out from the center like some grotesque mandala.

My gaze swept the battlefield, taking in dozens of similar craters and hundreds of bodies strewn about in the cleared ground between the swamp and the castle. Fae of every type lay dead or dying in the grass and mud, some moaning, a few crying, others gasping their final, agonal breaths. The place looked like it had been strafed by artillery rounds and antipersonnel bombs, such was the destruction that had been wrought by my brother’s magic.

As for his defenses, much of Lugh’s perimeter wards were still intact, but entire sections of the massive stone walls surrounding the outer bailey had been destroyed. In some places, the moat had spread inward, flooding Lugh’s carefully tended gardens and walking paths. A quick peek in the magical spectrum revealed he was using magic to buttress those areas where the protective shield had been breached. Why he didn’t abandon the place, I hadn’t a clue.

Two more gods were occupied at one such breach below, forcing their way through my brother’s magical defenses with a combined effort of brawn and witchcraft.

Well, looky there—two of my least favorite immortal fuckwits.

Herne had thrust his brawny hands directly into the glowing golden barrier that protected the castle. He worked to rip a hole in it, while Badb gesticulated rapidly as she manually cast an incantation to widen the rift further. I recognized the two of them mostly by their stature and clothing, though each possessed features that made them easily identifiable, even at this distance.

Though the lithe, dark-haired, black-clad goddess stood at least seven feet tall, the Celtic god of the hunt towered over her by five feet or more. I might’ve picked him out by height alone, but his broad, hairy shoulders and massive antlers provided me with absolute certainty as to his identity. As for Badb, the large crow on her shoulder was the most telling clue, marking her as my old nemesis beyond any shadow of a doubt.

In truth, it’d be difficult for me to mistake her for another goddess. She’d been responsible for the death of my master in the primary timeline, and she facilitated the torture and murder of my friend Sabine at the hands of the Dark Druid. Badb stood tall amongst the darkest members of the Tuatha Dé Danann, and her long, lissom figure cast a long shadow over my past.

Not that I allowed her to darken my world for long after she committed those heinous crimes. With the help of a mountain troll, Ásgeir, I destroyed the Fear Doirich in exchange for what he did. As for the goddess, I sentenced her to a fate worse than death, lobotomizing her with the Gae Dearg before I cast her into the Void.

Despite my eventual victory, she’d taught me a lesson I wouldn’t soon forget. Before those events, I spent much of my time running and hiding from the gods, operating under the false assumption that if I stayed out of sight, eventually they’d lose interest. I’d been so naïve back then.

Now, I knew that the gods rarely forgave a slight. Moreover, once they identified a threat, they’d do whatever it took to eliminate it, by force or subterfuge. Thus, the final insight I’d gleaned while under the care of Badb’s cruel hands was a simple application of Machiavellian brutality.

That being, the best way to deal with the gods was to screw them before they screwed you. And by ‘screw,’ I meant erasing them from the board entirely, with prejudice.

I certainly wouldn’t mind killing her again, and doing so would even the odds drastically. The Dagda had fallen to a surprise attack by just two other gods, Neit and Badb’s fellow member of the Morrígna, Nemain. While Lugh was as formidable as a god came in the Celtic pantheon, I doubted he could stand against all three of them at once.

For that reason alone, my mind was made up. The chance to murk Badb a second time was just the icing on the cake. I quickly devised a plan, then I contacted the Oak to teleport me into position.

CHAPTER

EIGHTEEN

Surprise, speed, and stealth were key, so I instructed the Oak to transport me atop the rubble directly behind Badb. The gods weren’t omniscient, and thus, they couldn’t fight what they didn’t know was there. I raised Orna high before I blipped to the castle wall. A millisecond later, the blade met the deity’s flesh before my presence had registered in her overconfident, immortal brain.

The downward, diagonal slash cut the goddess from the right side of her neck to her left hip, bisecting her body cleanly at a forty-five-degree angle. Blood spurted from her upper half as it slid away, flooding from her descending aorta as her heart pumped with supernatural vigor to keep her alive.

Rather than finish the job, I raised the sword and lunged into a long thrust, hoping to skewer Herne in the same stroke. He disappeared just as Orna’s tip pierced the grotesque human and fae skin tunic he wore. I scanned the area to locate him, but the god of the hunt proved to be far stealthier than expected.

Meanwhile, Badb’s bisected corpse was slowly knitting itself back together. Tendrils of blood twisted into tiny ropes between the two halves, working through magic and will to make her whole. I glanced down, making eye contact long enough to ensure she knew who had taken her out.

The goddess’ chocolate eyes shot daggers at me as she mouthed silent curses that would never reach my ears. My Fomorian blood was up, and that part of my mind took over by acting in the most practical manner possible. I leveled my gaze to watch for Herne as I stomped on Badb’s skull, crushing it underfoot like a rotten pumpkin.

Despite the damage I’d dealt, I wasn’t done—gods were very hard to kill, and this was not the time to take chances. On stepping away, I swept Orna through her neck and the stones beneath, severing what little connection remained between her brain stem and the rest of her body. I knelt and grabbed that ruined meat sack by a shock of dark, lustrous hair, noting that the ropy tendrils of blood between her two halves had now lost form and purpose.

-Toss it in the air.-

Lugh’s voice was clear and commanding, ringing inside my head rather than in my ears. I did as he asked, slinging Badb’s ruined skull in a high arc out over the battlefield. A tight beam of bright golden light shot down from the heavens in response, enveloping the goddess’ airborne remains and reducing them to ash.

One down, two to go.

Killing her a second time was just as sweet as I’d imagined, but I had no time to celebrate. As the afterimage of Lugh’s sunbeam faded in my vision, I felt a sharp pain in my left shoulder. To my surprise, an arrow the size of a spear stuck out of my chest, just to the right of my armpit.

Fucking Herne.

I spun Orna in a circle before me, slicing the shaft off as I searched the battlefield for some sign of the god. Now that I knew his powers of concealment were far superior to mine, I realized he could be anywhere. That made me a sitting duck, standing there against the castle wall. I needed to move.

The only problem was that I didn’t want Herne to see me teleporting. It was one thing to portal in for a surprise attack but quite another to teleport away in full view of a god as old and powerful as he. Doing so could clue him to my Oak’s unique powers; as a nature god, he’d be among the most likely to recognize and locate the source.

Instead, I used my druidic command of natural material to erect a stone barrier before me. And a good thing I did, as three more shafts pierced that wall just as I formed it from the rocks and earth at my feet. I tried peeking around the hastily summoned barricade, only to nearly get an arrow through the eye for my trouble.

Damn it, I’m pinned down.

-I kin see that. Try ta’ avoid dyin’ while I deal with the witch. Once she’s gone, Cernunnos should flee. Then I’ll come ta’ yer aid.-

Lugh’s tone wasn’t mocking but amused. Typical of a big brother, he seemed to derive personal enjoyment from observing the predicament I’d gotten myself into. Rather than risk exposing myself further, I built the wall up, doubling its height and thickness while bringing the ends around to buttress the castle wall behind me.

Subsequently, I focused on healing while waiting to be rescued by my older sibling. Time dragged on as I kept one eye on the skies above and the other on the thick bulwark that protected me. All the while, Herne’s projectiles thunked into the other side, over and over, in his attempts to destroy the barrier.

The giant, antlered god soon gave up on archery and instead resorted to hurling boulders at me. I felt them smash into my wall one after another, weakening the exterior and causing thick sections to slough away. I responded by magically replacing each ruined section while staying hidden until the attacks ceased as Herne seemingly gave up on avenging his fellow immortal.

When the constant sorties against my protective wall ceased, I settled in and watched the battle above. Although I couldn’t see Lugh and Fuamnach from where I sat, bright flares, massive explosions, and multiple lightning strikes indicated the conflict had reached a crescendo. While the fireworks lacked any accompanying sound, I felt the vibrations of each magical clash through the castle walls and ground.

Finally, there was a tremendous burst of illumination, much brighter than before. Immediately, the sorceress’ black dragon wheeled off toward the barbican, swooping low and trailing smoke as Fuamnach made her escape. The drake and its rider disappeared behind the wall and into the swamp, somehow gliding through the trees without crashing into them.

-I’m comin’ down ta’ walk ya’ through my ward barrier. Sit tight.-

Aren’t you going to follow her?

-And leave ya’ ta’ face Herne alone? Nay, little brother. Besides, Fuamnach is wounded. It’ll be some time afore she attempts this again, especially without The Crow ta’ back her play.-

Lugh appeared before me in a flash of light, just inside the wall I’d constructed. He snapped his fingers, and suddenly, I could hear again. A strong wind whistled over the parapets above, snapping the castle pennants that waved in the breeze. Crickets and frogs sounded in the distance, a sign that all was safe within the marshes surrounding the broad expanse of cleared land around the castle proper.

My half-brother glanced up at the crumbled section of the wall behind me. “Not lookin’ forward ta’ repairing that. Laid every stone by ha⁠—”

He was cut off as one of Herne’s spear-length shafts emerged from his chest, right over his heart. Lugh’s eyes widened for a second, and then he collapsed to his knees, with the god of the hunt standing tall behind him. The hunter’s entire body was patterned precisely like the stone in the wall I’d created earlier, and if I hadn’t seen him move, I’d never have known he was there.

Herne swung his long knife at my brother’s neck, but I was there with Orna, blocking the attack and driving him back with a quick riposte. Rather than stand and fight, he disappeared into the wall. I stabbed and slashed through earth and stone in an attempt to cut him down, but I raised nothing but rock chips and dust for the effort.

In frustration, I collapsed the whole thing with a thought, exposing myself to the field beyond. “Herne, you diseased, wart-covered testicle of a wood god—come face me!”

His response echoed from somewhere in the vast swamplands beyond the cleared approach to the castle. “An eye for an eye, isn’t that what your law says, halfbreed? You cost me an employer, and I still owed you for freeing the two hounds. Now, the scales have been leveled.”

What does he mean, I freed two hounds? I don’t remember that ever happening.

I cast the thought aside, thinking he’d mistakenly attributed someone else’s actions to me. Or, that it was a ruse. The gods were deceitful, and while they couldn’t easily lie, they’d happily dissemble until you didn’t know up from down.

His trickery was enough to force a growl from my lips unbidden. “We’ll be even when I find you and flay your corpse, you cannibalistic, inbred excuse for a Neanderthal.”

“Too late—my work is done,” he taunted. “Couldn’t have you gettin’ help from Samildánach, you know. The sorceress and her offspring have work to do yet.”

“I swear I’ll kill you,” I snarled. “Better start looking over your shoulder, hunter, because I’m coming for you.”

“You’ve threatened to slay me before. Yet, I live. Be seein’ you, druid.”

“Herne. Herne!”

My shouts echoed across the cleared expanse, unanswered. The Fomorian rage within me surged, my desire for blood overshadowing logic and reason. I almost ran after him, but my half-brother’s grip on my wrist stopped me cold.

By the time I shifted my gaze from the swamp to Lugh, blood ran down his chin in rivulets with every breath. He’d gone pale, and he swayed precariously from side to side.

“Don’t,” he coughed. “He wants ya’ ta’ follow him.”

“Ah, shit,” I said as I cast Orna away. I knelt and lowered the wounded god to a recovery position on his right side, hoping it would keep the blood from pooling in his left lung. “Hang tight—I’ll get this arrow out and fix you right up.”

He gripped my wrist, although his normal-sized hand barely cupped one side. “Nay, I’m done fer’—that enchanted reed pierced heart and lungs, both. I’m drownin’ in ma’ own blood. The Hunter knows how ta’ kill a fellow god.”

Frantically, I tried to think of a way to save him. It occurred to me that I knew exactly how, with a stasis spell. I’d freeze Lugh and then find Dian Cécht, Lugh’s grandfather. He’d know how to repair the damage Herne’s arrow caused.

As I prepared to encase my brother in a stasis bubble, he pulled me off balance with surprising strength. “Don’cha feckin’ dare. Pryin’ eyes lurk everywhere, e’en here. I’ll be damned if I let ya’ expose yerself on my count.”

Despite the battle-hardened side of me that dominated in this form, tears welled up in my eyes. “I can’t let you die. You’re the only family I have left.”

He coughed a little blood and smiled. “Not quite, lad. Ta’ find what ya’ lack, seek Deichtine’s light.”

With that, my older brother shuddered and went limp. As his hand slipped from my wrist, he exhaled softly and went still.

“Deichtine’s light?” I shook him ever so gently. “Lugh? Lugh, come on, man. Don’t leave me, not like this.”

When I failed to get a response, I stood and grabbed a stone block the size of a washing machine. With a roar, I threw it far into the swamp, toward where I’d last heard Herne’s voice. After it crashed through the trees in the distance, I collapsed to my knees and laid a hand on my brother’s chest.

I felt no heartbeat, no rise and fall of breathing, no stir of divine magic within. His spirit had left his body and crossed the Veil, where all immortal creatures waited to return to physical form. For some, it took centuries; for others, it took millennia. For all I knew, I might be dead and gone by the time Lugh gathered enough energy to travel back to this plane of existence.

Not if I get the staff.

My path was as straightforward as ever, although I had zero clue how to defeat Carman and her varcolaci offspring in their lair. Sure, I’d just helped kill a goddess, but I had that bitch’s number. Most of Badb’s magic involved clouding your mind, confusing you so you couldn’t fight. Offing her had just been a matter of getting the jump before she could bring her talents to bear.

But this Carman character was different. Crafty, mysterious, and possessing a magic that seemed to negate my own. Neit had sent me on an impossible mission with little chance of success.

I wiped the tears from my eyes and looked down at my brother’s lifeless body. According to Herne, this was my fault. They’d come after Lugh to prevent him from offering me guidance and assistance.

In trying to help, I just made things worse. He could’ve held out if I hadn’t shown up. Or, he could’ve fled. Not that Lugh would, especially not from his own lands. But he would’ve had the option.

Damn it. I can’t leave him out here like this. Better find a way into the castle.

Sweeping him into my arms was like picking up a child. He was heavier than a mortal of his stature, as he possessed the dense musculature and nearly unbreakable bones of our kind. Yet, his limp form felt so frail now that he’d passed.

Lugh Lámfada, killed with a long-range weapon at close range. If that’s not irony, I don’t know what is.

Rather than carry him around the wall and through the barbican, I decided to try the breach, hoping the wards might be weakened there. To my surprise, my hand slipped right through when I pushed against the nearly invisible barrier. My guess was that it yielded because I carried the master of the castle.

Either that, or there’s an intelligence behind the wards.

Tucking that thought away, I entered the outer bailey, sloshing through moat water that had seeped through the breach. Lugh’s gardens and grounds were a mess of mud and shattered stone that fell inward when the nearby wall section was destroyed. After briefly surveying the chaos, I trudged toward the main entrance, where I laid my brother’s body on an outdoor worktable.

“Damn it to hell,” I whispered.

Then, I wept.

Once I’d shifted into my half-human form and dressed, I buried Lugh under a towering ash in the courtyard. The area got plenty of sun in the morning and shade in the afternoon. I figured it was as good a place as any for Lugh Lámfada’s grave.

I fully intended to complete my mission so I could return with the Dagda’s staff to resurrect him. Despite those plans, I took all due care in preparing my brother for burial, just in case I didn’t make it back. After wrapping him in fine linen, I encased his body in an airtight coffin I made with druidry. Once he was buried, I spelled the entire thing so nothing would disturb his rest in my absence.

Then, I set about repairing his walls and shoring up his wards. Despite my command of natural materials, my stonework wasn’t as neat as his, and my magic wasn’t as strong or elegant. I finished the job despite those comparative shortcomings, determined to ensure that none would trespass while the master of the castle was away.

When the work was done, I sat under the great ash tree, staring at his grave and wondering what I should do next. Not only did I lose a brother—one who actually seemed to care about me in this timeline—but I lost my source of divine guidance as well. From a strategic perspective, the loss was devastating, as he was the one person who might’ve known how I should proceed.

Now, I was as lost as the day I started. I had no idea how to combat Carman’s magic, and I wasn’t nearly strong or fast enough to handle the varcolaci alone. Yet, if I returned to Neit empty-handed, that’d be the end of our deal. With the Dagda and Lugh locked away on the other side of the Veil for centuries, I’d likely never get another chance at the staff again.

When they returned, the remaining humans on Earth would be wholly enslaved or nearly extinct. My boys would be dead and gone, Mickey and Anna along with them. Crowley and I would be no closer to a cure, and I’d have failed to fix the mess Gwydion and I created.

Who’s the fuckwit now, eh Colin?

I leaned against the warm bark of the tree, watching wispy clouds pass overhead as I tried to calm my mind. After a time, the clouds reminded me of something recent, or rather, someone I’d recently met. I was thinking of the Cailleach, that Old Woman of Winter with the stormy gray eyes. No sooner had the thought occurred than I heard her raspy voice echo in my mind.

“When you break against her magic, when familiar blood is shed, look not to eastward dawn, but instead seek out the dead.”

‘Look not to eastward dawn.’ That referred to something representing sunlight—nature magic, maybe. Since I tried to use it against Carman’s varcolaci and failed miserably, I could only assume the Cailleach meant the answer would not be found there.

“But ‘seek out the dead?’” I said aloud. “Who, Lugh? Sadly, I don’t think he’s in a talkative mood right now.” I glanced at my brother’s grave. “No disrespect.”

At that moment, the tall, arched double door to the castle proper slowly creaked open. There was no breeze within the walls, and the thing must’ve weighed a ton. It’d also been latched shut, as I’d noted earlier when I was burying Lugh.

I patted the fresh, moist soil that covered the god’s grave. “You trying to tell me something?”

There was no reply, although I hadn’t expected any considering the circumstances. Yet, something was at work here, some unseen force or presence. Not the Cailleach, as she’d be hard-pressed to trespass in Lugh’s home, even after his demise. But something.

If it’s not the old woman and not Lugh, then who or what is it?

My half-brother’s final words came back to me.

‘Ta’ find what ya’ lack, seek Deichtine’s light.’

I let his words roll around inside my thick skull a few times, considering what they meant. Deichtine had been Lugh’s lover, and together they’d produced a son, Cú Chulainn. Sualtam had been Deichtine’s mortal husband, but I was fairly certain it had been Lugh who loved her to the end.

Or at least, that’s what I’d gathered when I visited my half-brother’s home in the primary timeline. A spark of hope flickered within my chest when I remembered what I’d seen there.

Deichtine’s light. Of course.

I headed for the castle, pushing the door aside and bustling through the antechamber into the grand entry with the double staircase and balcony walkways above. I looked up, and there it was, a circular stained-glass window depicting five distinct scenes, four of which were of a blonde-haired man courting a tall, fair, auburn-haired woman.

The middle panel showed the same lady cradling a babe with strawberry-blonde hair. A fierce, dark-haired woman in a Scottish tartan stood beside her, wielding a spear. On the mother’s other flank, a large wolfhound stood guard.

Deichtine, with Cú Chulainn, Scáthach, and Failinis. I never knew that Lugh sent his loyal hound to watch over them. And where is he, anyway? The dog was never far from his master.

All mysteries to Failinis’ whereabouts aside, Deichtine was the key. Not only had she been Lugh’s lover, she bore a unique heritage as well. Her maternal grandfather was Aengus Og, but even more importantly, her father was Cathbad, one of the greatest battle druids in history.

The question was, what the hell did Lugh mean by ‘Deichtine’s light’? I stepped away from the pattern made by sunlight filtering through the stained-glass window, taking note of where each panel’s rays landed. The beams that passed through Deichtine’s face hit a specific stone in the polished floor, one with a faint yet peculiar pattern in its natural veins.

I approached the stone opposite the light filtering through the glass and knelt so I could trace the pattern with my fingertips. The tingle I received in response indicated the presence of magical glyphs hidden just beneath the surface—a seal of some sort. In other words, it was a magical lock, a protective ward that concealed something under the stone or within.

Lacking the spell or key required to unlock the seal, I did what any impatient druid would do. That is to say, I imbued the stone with druid magic and willed it to reveal its secrets.

CHAPTER

NINETEEN

The moment my magic entered the stone, I felt as if I were being drawn in with it. A jolt ran through me, forcing an abbreviated gasp from my lips. Next, the world seemed to invert, with everything turning upside down as I was physically pulled through that single cobble on the floor.

The next thing I knew, I was kneeling in the grand entrance to Lugh’s castle home, touching the same stone but with everything situated backward. The light was streaming in from the opposite angle, the walls and furniture were arranged in a flip-flopped manner, and even I was ‘backward.’

I’d touched the stone with my right hand, but now it was my left. Having been right-handed all my life, I generally cast magic from that side of my body. Unless I was holding a weapon, then I cast with my left. Yet, it felt completely natural to be leading with my left side.

Weird.

Something else had changed as well. The runes hidden in the stone were now glowing with a soft, golden light. They were still indecipherable, as they weren’t written in any language I’d studied, but they were visible.

“I was wondering when we’d meet face ta’ face.”

The voice was soft and pleasant, with a welcoming, almost motherly warmth. I looked up to find a tall, graceful, fair-skinned woman with flowing auburn hair standing at the entry to the formal dining hall. Her floor-length dress was of a simple, early-Celtic cut, made from a bright plaid pattern of blue, green, and gold, pulled tight at the waist with a broad leather belt. The dark blue shawl wrapped over her shoulders was clasped with a gold brooch at her neck, and she wore several gold rings and bangles on each hand and wrist.

The woman’s nose was straight, perfectly symmetrical, and classically European—not quite pert, and not bulbous or sharp. Her cheerful, almond eyes were slate blue and slightly upturned at the corners, set above pronounced cheekbones lightly dusted with freckles that accentuated her cream-colored skin. She had a thin upper lip offset by a full lower crescent, balanced by a shapely, tapered jaw with a subtle cleft that stopped just short of looking masculine.

If ever there were to be an Irish version of Galadriel, this woman would be it. I could see why Lugh had been so smitten with her, and why her likeness still adorned the glass skylight in his entry hall. Yet, while expertly wrought, the stained-glass depiction failed to do her justice.

“Lady Deichtine, I presume,” I said as I stood. She inclined her head just enough to show acknowledgment. “Your English is excellent for someone born in the pre-Christian era.”

“And who appears stuck in those times.” She pointed a graceful finger at me. “That’s the part’cha left out.”

“I rather like your manner of dress,” I replied. “It’s very fetching.”

“Aye, you are a charmer, just as your brother claimed. As fer’ my Béarla, Lugh taught me.”

I nodded politely while averting my gaze. “If you don’t mind my asking, where exactly are we?”

“You are where you were, but inna’ place set apart.” While her speech was somewhat antiquated, her accent was unique, the same not-quite-Irish lilt I’d heard in the speech of many gods and demigods whose origins lay in Ireland’s distant past. “This is a mirror realm, one that reflects the other side in Tír na nÓg. Lugh created it for me, my own undying realm. I lacked the divinity ta’ enjoy immortality and had no desire ta’ walk the path of ascension.”

“You stay here all alone?”

“Alone?” She flashed a playful smile. “Not quite. Failinis sometimes stays with me, but Lugh’s around more often. Tis’ a place beyond time, much like that within Fionn’s Craneskin Bag. I hardly notice his absence when he’s away.”

“Do you get any other visitors?”

I asked for reasons that were obvious to me and, apparently, to her as well. Her eyes narrowed as she pulled her mouth into a hard line.

“He’s been slain, hasn’t he?”

“I’m sorry, but yes,” I replied, choking on the last syllable.

Deichtine clasped her hands at her waist and closed her eyes. She took three slow, deep breaths, and as she did, her facial expression relaxed until it was almost neutral. When her eyelids fluttered open seconds later, she smiled tenderly and somewhat wistfully to my reckoning.

“Do not grieve, young mac Cumhaill. Death does not keep one such as Lugh Lonnansclech o’er long. He’ll return soon enough, ta’ avenge those who wronged him, an’ right what was set amiss.”

I allowed my head to droop at an angle. “Perhaps, but he died on my behalf. You see, Badb, Fuamnach, and Herne were trying to stop him from helping me.” I shifted my gaze from the floor to meet hers again. “That, I can’t let pass.”

“You want vengeance, but there’s more than that.”

“I lost my master before my training was complete. The Dagda has also been slain, and now there’s no one left to guide or train me in the ways of druidry. I’m the last, you see, the final keeper of the oak and grove. Sadly, no matter how much power I acquire, it never seems enough for the challenges I face.”

“Yet, you stand before me, mostly mortal an’ not yet slain.”

“Sure, but by what? Luck? Trickery? By benefit of being underestimated? I don’t know how much longer that’ll last, and when it runs out, the druid order will be no more.” I exhaled heavily and shook my head. “People are counting on me, and I fear I’m about to let them down.”

Deichtine’s response was a wry but not unkind smile. “I see now why Lugh led you here. Come, I’ll make us some tea, an’ then I’ll hear your tale.”

We sat in the garden outside Lugh’s study. It was a bright, sunny day, much as any day in my half-brother’s lands. Birds sang, dragonflies flitted about, and a soft breeze carried the mixed scent of woodsmoke, grass, and wildflowers. If I closed my eyes, the tranquil surroundings were almost enough to make me forget recent events.

Despite the peaceful setting, I found much about the flip-flopped world unsettling. For one, the angle of light and shadow was off, and I kept getting confused about using my dominant hand. When I noticed that my heart was beating on the wrong side of my chest, I almost had a panic attack.

I focused on sharing my story with Deichtine to keep my mind off the disquieting backdrop. We had all the time such a telling might require, and for her part, she was an excellent listener. In fact, she seemed to enjoy my story more the deeper I got into it. By the time I finished, I’d shared nearly everything, from my childhood, to how I became Finnegas’ apprentice, to the many losses I’d suffered, and the old man’s death.

When I got to the part about Neit and my current mission, she began to ask questions. What did I hope to do with the staff? Did I consider there might be a cost for using it? Wouldn’t it be better to let the gods kill each other off so they’d be less likely to interfere with my plans? And so on.

Once we’d thoroughly explored my past and delved into my present predicament, she took a sip of clover tea and humphed. Her gaze wandered out over the parapets, and she ran a finger halfway around the rim of her wooden mug as she considered all I’d told her. While waiting, I took small sips to make my beverage last. Despite that, I’d nearly emptied my cup by the time she finally stirred and spoke.

“Carman’s a tough one, with three sons who take after her. Dubh, Dother, an’ Dian.”

“Darkness, Evil, and Violence. Yes, I’ve made their acquaintance.”

“She’s a kind of harvest goddess, with power granted ta’ her by Athena herself. Turned the whole o’ the land barren, she did. Like ta’ starve everyone on the isle. Followin’ Bé Chuille’s sacrifice an’ Carman’s defeat, Lugh made her put things back the way they were.”

“So she killed all the crops, plants, and trees with magic, then she brought them back? That sounds like druidry to me.”

“Nay, not the livin’ art. The goddess o’ wisdom gave that witch knowledge that’s been long forgotten—the sean-draíocht, magic from primeval times.” Deichtine’s lips curled into a moue of disapproval. “Standard druidry’ll be no use against her. Leastwise, not in her lair.”

“So I discovered. Neit sent me on a suicide mission, it seems.”

“Don’t forget, Gwydion set you on this path as well, him and those he’s aligned with, ta’ be sure. They hope ta’ make you their tool, lad. A weapon o’ their own making.”

“Who do you think he’s working with?”

“Immortals who want ta’ see you ascend ta’ godhood. Mayhaps ta’ change the balance o’ power between men and the gods.”

I scratched my head. “I don’t know, Deichtine. Most gods I’ve met seem to want to kill me.”

“Most, but not all. You’ve noticed this, yes?”

Her question brought to mind my seemingly random encounter with the Cailleach. “Some have been neutral toward me, while others have provided assistance. But I can never tell if their help is well-meaning or self-serving.”

“They’re gods. Everything they do is fraught with ulterior motives. Yet, some have decent ways about them—when they’ve a mind ta’ do so.”

“It sounds like you speak from personal experience.”

She cradled her cup as her gaze wandered. “I’ve god-blood in me. Not so much as thee, but some, and I know their ways. Although the Fomori were always keen ta’ leave well enough alone. The Tuath Dé, though, they’re meddlers and schemers, one and all.”

“The legends say my people enslaved the Tuath Dé.”

“History’s writ by the victors.” One delicate eyebrow twitched upward. “Though I suspect you know that already.”

I shrugged. “Maybe it simply helps to hear it from a neutral party.”

“Oh, I’m hardly neutral, young mac Cumhaill. Lugh’s one of the Fomóire, through and through. I hitched my horse ta’ his cart long ago, and there it remains.” She took another sip of tea. “But you didn’t come here ta’ speak of my loyalties. You came for help, or at least that’s why Lugh guided you here.”

“I don’t mean to sound rude, but I have to ask, for obvious reasons. How exactly can you help?”

She set her cup on the small table between us and drew herself up, hands in her lap. “My da’ was none other than Cathbad the Battler, court druid ta’ King Conchobar mac Nessa. Cathbad won many a battle for that scheming murderer, often against overwhelming odds.”

“Wait, I thought Conchobar was your brother.”

“He was, but I hesitate ta’ claim him, e’en now that time and legend have eased the sting of the shame he brought us all in his lust fer’ Deirdre.” She spat, somehow making the gesture seem elegant rather than crass. “He’s gone now, though, and good riddance. I’m the only one fit ta’ carry on Da’s legacy.”

I sat up straighter in my chair. “You’re telling me you learned druidry from Cathbad?”

“None other. And not just druidry, mind—battle druidry. In those times, each druid selected an area of specialty. My father was responsible for protecting the king, and thus, he chose battle magic. Knowing what a gobshite my brother was, he entrusted the bulk of his craft ta’ me.”

“Hang on a second—you’re a battle druid?”

“And why not? Can’t a lady be skilled in the arts of war and killing?”

“Well, sure,” I said, backpedaling. “I know several kick-ass women, my girlfriend being one of them. It’s just that you’re so…”

Deichtine glowered at me. “If ya’ say ‘frail,’ I’ll smack ya’ stupid.”

“I was going to say ‘elegant.’”

Her expression softened to a weak frown. “I s’pose I can let it pass. I’ll have you know, battle magic can be elegant as well.”

“How so?”

She settled into her chair, propping her elbows as she steepled her fingers in front of her. “Think of how careful you have to be when directing the forces o’ nature. Summon a breeze carelessly, and you’ll have storms the next fief o’er. Battle magic’s the same. It requires just the right touch at precisely the proper time ta’ achieve the greatest effect.”

“You’re saying it’s an art of skill and leverage. Sounds like jiu-jitsu.”

“I don’t know much about the Giúdach fighting arts, but you’re not wrong.”

“Giúdach?” I scratched my head. “Oh, that’d be krav—never mind. I just want to know if you can show me how to defeat Carman and the undead werewolves that serve her.”

“I can give you tools against them, yes. Whether you can use them well enough ta’ triumph’s up ta’ you.” Deichtine pointed at me with praying hands. “The question is, how much are you willing ta’ give up in trade?”

I stifled a put-upon sigh. “Are you going to send me on a quest in exchange for teaching me? I don’t mind a little tit for tat, but I’m on a deadline here.”

The ancient druidess chuckled. “Nay, that’s not the price of which I speak. I’m talking about giving up a bit of your soul in exchange for the power you’ll gain.”

“What do you mean? In all the time I studied with Finnegas and others, I never had to enter a contract with a demonic being.”

She gave a quick shake of her head. “It’s not that kind of bargain. When it comes ta’ divine power, everything has a price. Chanting the teinm láida had a cost, using your ríastrad has a cost, even assuming your other form carries a mystical burden. Divine magic takes a toll on the user—especially the forbidden art you wield.”

I went blank-faced as I replied. “I’ve no idea what you mean.”

“‘Course you don’t. Your brother’s the god of doing many things well. Think I’ve ne’er seen chronourgy afore?”

My face flushed at being so easily found out. “How’d you know?”

She parted her hands and gestured at our surroundings. “Look around, lad. This place is timeless. Lugh used what he knew of those forbidden arts ta’ make it. You couldn’t enter without being attuned ta’ the same.”

“Ah.” I stroked my chin and tsked. “That still doesn’t explain the price.”

Deichtine cocked her head like a confused pup. “No one e’er explained this, child? Not e’en your master?”

“Nope. Lugh once warned me that certain powers were trying to turn me to the path of immortality, but I honestly don’t understand how it works.”

“It’s a simple thing. Mortals were ne’er meant ta’ possess the powers and faculties of the gods. Yet, they always had the capacity for it. Make sense?”

“I think so. Please, go on.”

“Thus, humans are quite capable of grasping for power they neither comprehend nor deserve. Ta’ attain and possess those powers means a mortal has ta’ give up something of themselves in exchange. The more power you amass, the more of your humanity you give up. Until one day, you become a god.”

“That’s—” I struggled to respond in a way that wouldn’t be disrespectful. “It sounds farfetched.”

“Farfetched tho’ it may be, it’s a fact.” She stared at me through narrowed eyes. “Think about how much you’ve changed since you came ta’ control the beast within. Have you noticed anything about how much easier it is these days? ‘Bout how you can slide in and out of that form, like a snake shedding its skin?”

I considered what she’d suggested. “It has gotten easier to shift forms, yes.”

“That’s because with every transition, your human side diminishes, and the Fomóire ascends. Keep usin’ that power flagrantly, an’ soon there’ll be nothin’ mortal left.”

“Is that what happened to Cú Chulainn?”

“You’ve heard the tales. When Lugaid and his followers came for my son, Cú Chulainn refused ta’ die, such that the cowards were afraid ta’ approach his corpse. Yet, Sétanta had the last laugh. The fey magic in him took his killer’s arm off long after his death.”

I tongued a molar as I considered the parallels between her son’s life and mine. “The ríastrad has brought me back from the brink of death more than once.”

“I’m not surprised.” She grunted as further implications came to mind. “And that fey power o’ wisdom you inherited from Fionn. How’s your thinkin’ of late? Your manner o’ speech? E’er wonder if some o’ that magic hasn’t stuck?”

The truth was, I did feel sharper than I once did. There was a time when acquiring new languages would’ve seemed a monumental task. Yet, through self-study alone, I’d learned enough to decipher the many tomes and scrolls Finnegas had left behind. I couldn’t exactly chalk that up to mere diligence.

“Now that you mention it, I’m not as boneheaded as I used to be.”

She stabbed a finger at me. “Are you starting ta’ see? An’ time magic’s e’en worse. Power such as that’s the province of the gods. Traveling back and forth betwixt timelines and worlds, seeing into the future, peeking into others’ pasts—that’s a quick road ta’ temporal permanency and a place within the pantheon, for sure.”

That gave me pause. “Well, shit. Time travel has become easier the more I’ve used it. But I’d chalked that up to practice.”

“That, and losing parts of you that gum up the gears. Divine magic’s ruthless, lad. It’ll chew through anything that keeps it from becoming ascendant.” She leaned in and tapped me on the chest. “If you don’t care ta’ live a life with no end, I suggest you consider the repercussions carefully afore you ask me ta’ make you a battle druid.”

I ran a hand down my face and spoke in the most earnest tone possible. “Tell me, Deichtine. How’ve you commanded the knowledge of your father’s art all these years without losing yourself in the process?”

The druidess chuckled self-deprecatingly. “Isn’t it plain, lad? I’m feckin’ dead. That ship sailed long, long ago.”

After concluding our discussion, Deichtine said I should take time alone to ponder my decision. Before she departed, she assured me that no matter how long I stayed in the mirror realm, I’d exit at the same time I left Underhill. I took full advantage of that feature of her odd domain, wandering the nearby fields and swamps while considering the decision before me.

On one of those romps, an elephant-sized missile of wet hair and slobber set upon me. One moment, I was vaulting a fallen tree; the next, I was on my back in the mud, licked and sniffed by an eight-foot-tall cross between an Irish wolfhound and a greyhound. Despite being doubly assaulted by his enthusiasm and the overwhelming smell of wet dog, I giggled like a child as I pushed the lovable brute’s face away.

“It’s good to see you, too, Failinis. Where’ve you been all this time, boy?”

He backed up and sat on his haunches, panting and looking self-satisfied. I stood and removed the filth from my clothing with magic, and then I walked over to the dog and gave his head and neck a good scratch and rub. He whined and pumped his rear leg when I hit a spot he’d have difficulty reaching, so I worked it over a little more before taking a seat on the log.

“I guess there’s plenty to explore in this place and not much else to do, eh?” The dog’s ears perked up at the word ‘explore,’ and he barked sharply in response. “As far as I can tell, this realm mirrors Underhill in every respect, save that it’s empty of gods and fae. I guess that makes it a hell of a playground for you, eh?”

On reflection, I realized Failinis’ sudden appearance made me feel less alone and more comfortable inhabiting the strange opposite landscape. I wondered what I might learn by fully exploring Tír na nÓg from this side, creeping into places I wouldn’t be welcome in the original version. Could I unlock Fuamnach’s secrets and find where she kept her most valued artifacts?

What about Neit and Nemain? I bet their island held mysteries that could unravel the war god’s reasons for sending me on an impossible quest.

The only problem was that I couldn’t communicate with the Oak and Grove from here. Everything on the other side of the portal stone was cut off completely. I might have all the time I needed to investigate this place, but I didn’t care to walk across Underhill to do so.

Yet, there might be things I could learn right here, close to Lugh’s castle. I glanced at the hound. He looked at me expectantly, seemingly waiting for me to dictate the day’s activities. The spark of intelligence within his eyes gave me an idea.

“How do you feel about tracking someone, Failinis? Someone we both have reason to hate a great deal?” He cocked his head at me, every inch of his body language posing an unspoken question. “You know who I’m talking about. Herne, the Hunter.”

Failinis growled, his hackles raising slightly as he came to his feet. He barked once and bounded off into the marsh, with me following close behind. We’d gone no more than a half-mile before the hound led me to a briar thicket so dense that no light could pierce its depths.

“Is this where he’s at?” The dog gave me a look that said he questioned my intelligence. “Alright, alright—I believe you. Let’s take a look, shall we?”

I parted the briars with a wave of my hand and entered while Lugh’s faithful hound waited outside. A full twenty feet of impenetrable undergrowth stood between the perimeter and the heart of the thicket, the center of which held a small encampment, complete with a bedroll, fire pit, game cleaning station, and well. Giant footprints crisscrossed the camp, and the bedroll showed signs of having been slept in recently.

Looks like Herne decided to remain close by, waiting for his chance to off me, once and for all.

The wood god might once have been worshipped far and wide among the Celtic peoples, but his fame and power had faded. These days, he was nothing more than an assassin for hire. Admittedly, he seemed uniquely skilled for such work, as he’d well proven in slaying my brother.

Stealth seemed to be his forte, which made him a deadly adversary. Dangerous, but not omniscient. Now that I had an exact time and place to find him, I could pop in and off the fucker after I’d dealt with Carman. Maybe I’d bring Lugh along with me, making the revenge twice as sweet.

Yet, it wasn’t only vengeance that motivated me. If Fuamnach or some other god had hired him to eliminate me, he wouldn’t rest until the job was done. That’d considerably complicate the task of setting up a new druid order in this timeline. He’d have to be disposed of when the timing was right.

My, my, but how quickly things change.

Lately, I’d been trying to avoid angering the gods, doing my best to keep my list of divine enemies as short as possible. Despite those efforts, I always seemed to end up with a target on my back. It made me wonder how Finnegas had gotten those pricks to leave him alone, especially in his twilight years when his powers waned.

Sure, he’d cut a deal with the Celtic gods, but he still represented a threat. As long as the old man was alive, the gods knew there was a possibility the druidic order could return. Doubtless, they’d wanted him dead, but something stayed their hand all those centuries.

I was starting to believe it was fear. Finnegas had easily been one of the most powerful druids ever to practice the mystic arts. While he certainly exercised restraint in using his skills during the time I knew him—a necessity to prevent him from shortening his lifespan—I’d seen what he could do when his blood was up.

Heck, I was there when the old man marched into Queen Maeve’s court, splitting the earth and shaking the foundations with impunity. That was no small feat, considering how a faery queen’s demesne is an extension of the very magic she wields. However, that was only part of what made his actions so impressive that day.

Although few knew the truth, Maeve wasn’t just the queen of the fae. She was actually the goddess Niamh, daughter of Manannán mac Lir. Meaning, Finnegas had walked right into the home of one of the more powerful goddesses of the Celtic pantheon and taken a colossal steaming shit in her living room.

This, he did with no ill consequences thereafter. We walked in, he wrecked her throne room, and we walked out without Maeve or anyone else doing a damned thing about it.

That was power—real power. The power of being feared by your allies and enemies, both. It was a strength that kept me safe while the old man trained me as his successor, and it kept him alive through all those centuries while he engineered my eventual birth.

If the druid order were to return, someone had to stand in the gap, just like Finnegas had for me. The gods needed to learn how to fear again, to worry more about what the druids might do when angered than what they’d do when left alone. In short, I needed to put the fear of man in their hearts.

I didn’t know what taking this path might bring. Would I become a trickster god despite refusing their offer? Was there such a thing as a god of druidry, and would I eventually assume that position among the beings I hated most?

Or would I be transformed into something different? Say, a supernatural, semi-divine guardian to humankind?

I didn’t want to live forever, and I damned sure didn’t want to be worshipped. Maybe there was a middle path, a way to walk the razor’s edge between losing my humanity and beating the gods at their wicked games.

But there’s always a price to pay for power. Always.

Someone had to make that sacrifice, and saving humankind in this timeline and mine was more than worth the cost. If becoming a battle druid brought me closer to that goal, so be it. I’d learn what Deichtine had to teach me. Then I’d go on the warpath—starting with Carman and her unholy offspring.

CHAPTER

TWENTY

“You must be quicker in your transitions.” Deichtine stood over me, staring with a pitying yet pained expression. She fanned smoke from her face with one hand and gestured at my charred, missing lower leg. “Heal yourself, and we’ll repeat the exercise anon.”

“It’s a good thing I can’t feel this, or I’d be pissed at you right now.”

As she tucked a stray lock of hair away, she gave me one of her detached, ‘I could give a fuck’ looks. “Less whingeing, more healing, mac Cumhaill.”

The druid battle master retreated a few paces as she adjusted the leather band that held her hair away from her face. Seeing her attend to such trivialities almost made her seem like a living, breathing woman. Yet, she was anything but.

Lugh’s mirror realm made it possible for her to manifest physically, keeping her somewhere between the dual provinces of life and death, between incorporeality and material existence. She felt pain yet couldn’t be injured. She enjoyed food, though I never saw her retire to the privy, and she took rests yet never slept.

At first, I thought Deichtine enjoyed the best of both worlds, but as time passed, I realized her life was a prison. She couldn’t pass on to the other side, yet she’d never be fully mortal again and thus remained trapped in a sterile, semi-anesthetized existence.

Had she volunteered to remain in the world Lugh created? I never asked, and she never said, yet I strongly suspected she’d been brought here without her consent. It was yet another example of the cruelty of the gods, though in this case, I chose to think it had been done out of love rather than selfishness.

Despite her unfortunate peculiarities, she was an effective teacher, albeit an uncompromising one. Her amiable, easygoing personality disappeared when she was in teaching mode, and a tight-lipped, humorless, tyrant of a war witch came to the fore. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say two different specters haunted the mirror realm—Lugh’s lifelong love, and her evil twin, my tutor.

Deichtine believed pain was the best teacher, and she doled it freely each day in our sessions. We’d been training nonstop for what seemed like months, although I couldn’t put an exact duration on it due to the mirror realm’s distortion of the fourth dimension. I only knew that the days were long, and the grueling nature of my education in battle magic lengthened them.

She wasn’t completely heartless, however, as she had equipped me to deal with the rigors of her tutelage. One of the first lessons Cathbad’s daughter taught me was how to fully turn off the pain receptors in my body. Technically a skill of druidic healing magic, she insisted it’d be necessary during my instruction in Ealaíona Cogaidh na nDraoithe, the druidic war arts.

She did not lie.

Despite my horrific wounds, I was as clearheaded as I’d been when we started the lesson that morning. Of course, shock would still set in if I didn’t repair the damage quickly. As I prepared to shift and heal, I reflected on the training I’d thus far received at Deichtine’s punctilious, merciless hands.

As it turned out, battle druidry was an art designed for killing gods and magicians. Purely the creation of human druids, it represented an advancement in magical technology that the Dagda had not foreseen when he gifted humanity with the living art. Apparently, it was an unintended consequence that eventually caused the big, hairy guy to regret his decision.

Previously, I’d merely scratched the surface of what it meant to be a battle druid, having only learned a few spells haphazardly from the archives Finnegas left me. For that reason, Deichtine insisted we start with the basics. Little had I realized, druid battle magic was more than just wielding the elements to deal maximum destruction. At its highest standard of practice, battle druidry could turn a practitioner into something akin to a god.

Yet, not indestructible—not by a long shot.

Druid war magic, known as Draoíocht Cogaidh, was the art of wielding the forces that held the cosmos together. Needless to say, those selfsame energies could be used to tear matter apart. Control of these forces was taught to battle druids in the form of ‘The Twelve Powers,’ each a talent that augmented and multiplied a druid’s abilities in combat.

Yet, Draoíocht Cogaidh had one major drawback—the wielder’s ability to apply the Powers in real time. While gods and vamps used these energies naturally and without conscious thought, we druids had to strategize and plan ahead to apply druid battle magic in sufficiently useful combinations.

An apprentice battle druid might be able to apply a single talent at a time in battle. A journeyman might use two at once or three in a row when executed in a premeditated combat sequence. Typically, this meant that an apprentice or journeyman battle druid used the powers singly and sequentially in reaction to an opponent’s attacks.

This could be effective if done skillfully, but it meant that the battle druid was always one step behind when fighting powerful vampires and deities. According to Deichtine, however, a druid battle master like Cathbad could apply multiple Powers simultaneously, almost without thought.

That was yet another reason why the gods feared the druids. Given enough time, the best of us had the potential to achieve power on par with their own.

While training with his daughter, I quickly learned I was no Cathbad. By her admission, neither was she. Yet, Deichtine’s command of the Powers was formidable enough to make me feel like a child during our training sessions. After every spanking I received at her hands, I wondered if I’d ever learn to wield Draoíocht Cogaidh well enough to defeat Carman and her offspring.

Seeing that my mind had wandered, Deichtine cleared her throat, stirring me from my reverie. I refocused on my recovery, shifting back and forth between forms to heal my missing limb. All the while, I remained keenly aware that the transformations were slowly but surely bringing my Fomorian DNA to the fore.

Similarly, the powerful magic I was now learning to wield would erase my humanity, bit by bit, with every usage. Needless to say, it weighed heavily on my mind. The last thing I wanted was to end up like Gwydion, mad as a hatter and twice as confused.

Deichtine was well aware of my concerns in that regard, and during our time away from training, she did her best to reassure me. She claimed that if I were careful and judicious in using my abilities moving forward, it could be decades or even centuries before I lost all trace of my mortality.

What she didn’t say was that I was already halfway there. That was the subtext when she repeatedly reminded me how the combined acts of shifting forms, using battle druidry, and traveling timelines could result in a compounding, synergistic effect.

Regarding how much it might take to push me over the edge, Lugh’s life partner was reluctant to say. My distinctive combination of talents and genetics made me a unique case with unprecedented variables. Who knew the specific effects they might exert together over time?

On other matters, she was much more forthcoming, namely in that I possessed advantages that made me a distinct threat to the gods. That was why they’d tried so hard to have me killed, why they’d caused Finnegas’ death, and why they came for Lugh as well. The druidess was confident that, once the gods discovered I’d mastered battle druidry, the danger I posed would not be allowed to stand.

Displaying my newfound skills would almost certainly trigger a domino effect, with word of my abilities rippling throughout Underhill. When that happened, all bets were off. The Celtic pantheon would pull out the stops to eliminate me before I came into the fullness of my power.

Therefore, she was determined that I should possess the druidic skill, destructive ability, and tactical wisdom to eliminate a god at first contact. Her plan for me to do so was straightforward and unadorned. I was to be an assassin, taking out those who opposed me before they could let others know what I’d become.

Carman and her litter of varcolaci would be my first trial, a litmus test resulting in victory or death. That was why Deichtine had blown off my leg for being a millisecond too slow in evading her elemental attack. She wasn’t being cruel—she was trying to save my life.

After I healed, she reached down and clasped me by the wrist with her cold, semi-spectral hand. Without so much as widening her stance, she yanked me to my feet with almost casual ease. That brawn came not from her ghostly qualities, but by bending the laws of nature to her will.

“Name The Dozen Powers of Draoíocht Cogaidh,” she commanded as she retreated a pace.

“I take it I won’t be getting dressed before we continue?”

My clothes had been burned and then shredded during my transformations. I now stood before her in my Lycra undies, but it wasn’t the first time. In fact, after losing a good portion of my wardrobe to Deichtine’s not-so-gentle ministrations, I’d taken to training in bark armor. Not only did it offer some protection, it was also easily replaced.

“You may conjure some covering while you recite the Powers.”

“Fine, but HR is going to hear about this.”

“Goibniu’s portly cow,” she cursed with an exasperated toss of her head. “Would’ja get on with it already?”

“Alright, alright. Sheesh.” I counted off on my fingers as I listed the magical talents that comprised the core skills of battle druidry. “The first ten powers of druid battle magic are physical, and they include rooting, clinging, repelling, pulling, springing, gliding, lifting, dropping, yielding, and enveloping. The final two powers, duality and emptiness, are metaphysical, and unlike the other powers, they’re mostly used for deception in battle.”

“Explain the First Power.”

“Rooting utilizes gravity and magnetism to make the wielder unmovable⁠—”

She cut me off with a single raised finger. “What’s the chief drawback of the first power?”

“‘When an unstoppable force meets an immovable object, the stronger thews prevail.’”

“Meaning?”

“You better not root yourself to the ground without shoring up your body.” Deichtine’s eyes narrowed a hair. “Also, control is of the utmost importance. The wielder has to release the power before the opponent can turn it against them.”

I discovered that disadvantage soon after Deichtine taught me how to ‘root’ myself. During one of our early sparring matches, I’d posted myself to the ground in an attempt to toss her across the bailey, anchoring my body in such a way as to make myself completely immovable. The idea had been to achieve greater leverage so I could use one hundred percent of my strength to throw her.

In response, she’d yielded to my attack. As she did, she enveloped her body in a contiguous layer of protective energy while clinging to me and pulling herself toward the castle wall. In so doing, she tore my arm off at the shoulder. My only consolation was that Deichtine didn’t beat me with the limb after the fact.

“An’ what was the mistake that cost you that leg earlier?”

I almost rolled my eyes, but somehow, I refrained at the last second. “I should’ve pulled myself away or repelled you instead of rooting. Not every attack should be met head-on, force with force.”

During the exchange that led up to my injury, she’d attacked me mercilessly with her fists and feet. I’d fended off most of those blows quite well and finally decided to root myself to deliver a counter. That had been a mistake.

There was a reason rooting was the first power, as it was the easiest to learn. Once acquired, it was a skill more physically aggressive draoi cogaidh tended to lean on instinctively. Deichtine had been trying to break me of that habit, which was why she’d used physical attacks as a feint. As soon as she felt me root, she’d blasted me with Tlachtga’s Fiery Wheel at close range, taking my leg off.

“A hard lesson ta’ learn—doubly so it seems for thick-skulled druids with more talent than wisdom.” She leapt backward a good ten yards, landing halfway up the castle wall while clinging to the surface with both feet and one hand. “Come then, young mac Cumhaill. Let’s see if you can display more finesse this time ‘round.”

There was only one reason why she chose to start the match clinging to the wall. Wall walking facilitated the use of centrifugal force in traversing the periphery of a space. Hence, a battle druid only needed to focus on using a single power to keep moving. Once in motion, you weren’t fighting gravity and impetus but instead using it in your favor.

Deichtine knew of the challenges I’d soon face when I confronted Carman, so much of my training focused on using battle druidry to counter magical attacks. Since she’d left me stationed at the center of the yard, I could only assume she intended to attack me with magic and from multiple angles. I instinctively triggered the cantrip that allowed me to see in the magical spectrum, ensuring I’d not be surprised by invisible attacks.

True to form, she gave no warning before commencing the match, as there was no such thing as a fair fight where battle druids were concerned. The first onslaught came in triplicate—three renditions of Mogh’s Scythe loosed in sequence at different angles and levels. This left me only a narrow window through which I could avoid the attack, and it required the use of multiple Powers in succession.

First, I leapt and sprung, amplifying the stored energy in my legs to propel me upwards much faster than normal physics might allow. This was different from using repulsion to shoot off the ground, as it allowed for greater precision and control. Repulsion was better used on enemies and inanimate objects, as modulating the force necessary to achieve the desired effect could prove difficult.

Once I was airborne, I twisted to avoid the first attack, which narrowly missed bisecting me at the waist. The spell had come at hypersonic speed, and I’d moved that much faster to evade it. This feat was made possible by the strength of my Fomorian anatomy and by enveloping myself in energy that held my skin and organs in place. Lacking either, I’d have been torn apart by the forces necessary to propel flesh and bone so quickly.

The second attack followed on the first scythe’s heels, this one arriving on the vertical plane. With a thought, I pulled myself toward the wall to my right, changing direction and moving at a ninety-degree angle to the vector I’d traveled milliseconds before. The second blade of compressed air passed by harmlessly, even as the third arrived on the diagonal plane, just in time to catch me as I avoided the second.

If I’d gone the other direction, the third spell would’ve missed me completely. Unfortunately, Deichtine had memorized my patterns and knew I favored moving to my right. It was a habit developed from years of sparring right-handed fighters, circling counterclockwise to avoid the heavy rear cross.

There was no time to scold myself for being predictable. Instead, I focused on dropping by magnifying the realm’s gravitational pull on my body, managing the maneuver in the nick of time. Deichtine’s last invisible blade trimmed a lock of my hair as it passed overhead, even as my body nearly slammed into the ground.

I stabilized the gravitational force with a countering lift to avoid being pancaked by my battle magic. Immediately after, I sprung forward with my hands and feet into a glide across the ground. With all the friction between myself and the cushion of air molecules I traveled on removed, I closed the gap between us almost before she could cast another spell.

Almost.

While I’d intended to grapple and pin her arms to prevent her from directing more spells, I never got the opportunity. Just before I reached her, a tendril of water vapor and rapidly rotating air descended from the sky above, directly in my path. Before I could react by pulling myself left or right, I was sucked right into it.

Amergin’s Waterspout was an unfamiliar spell, one that created what was essentially a water tornado on dry land. Not only was it an incredible application of the basic skills of druidry, it was tough to counter.

The first thing that made it such a bitch to deal with was the vacuum the vortex created, as it was damned hard to breathe inside one of those things. The second was that every breath you managed to take was like being waterboarded. The third was being put in the spin cycle on high while being sucked upwards—it was an incredibly discombobulating experience.

The spout took me nearly as high as the castle parapets in under a second, spinning me so fast that I immediately became completely disoriented. Rather than remain inside the thing and be torn apart or targeted by more of Deichtine’s spell craft, I converted the power of the glide I’d been on, pulling it around me with enveloping energy. Now essentially frictionless, I stopped my spin and exited the waterspout with the slightest pull in a random direction.

Dizzy but stabilized, I flew out of the spout and across the yard toward the castle wall at a downward angle. Moving in any direction for that long against a master battle druid like Deichtine was a death sentence, so I dropped and pulled rapidly. Sure enough, Tlachtga’s Fiery Wheel passed overhead, singeing my hair but leaving all my body parts in place.

Following the path the Wheel had traveled, I drew my gaze to a brown-clad blur moving horizontally along the wall across the yard. Like every other druid I’d known, Deichtine had to prepare her druidic spells ahead of time to allow her to ‘instacast’ them in battle. Since the druidess was increasing the distance between us, she was either prepping more spells or laying a trap.

I’m gonna go with ‘trap.’

I had several spells prepared, so I chose the one that would be most disruptive to her current chosen strategy. When I cut loose with Cathbad’s Planetary Maelstrom, every loose stone in the yard levitated off the ground, and all began to orbit the axial location of the casting.

In the past, I’d assumed the spell’s central point had to be the caster, but Deichtine had shown me otherwise. Actually, the spell could be anchored anywhere within sight. On this fine day, I picked a spot that placed all those missiles in my teacher’s path.

She was quick to react, countering with a combination of enveloping and repulsion to avoid being pummeled into goo by my working. After all, her father had invented the spell, so she would be the expert in negating its effects. Yet, Cathbad’s Maelstrom wasn’t the attack—it was merely a distraction.

While Deichtine was busy protecting herself from flying debris, I used basic druidry to soften the stone blocks on which she ran. The woman was moving fast, and a lot of centrifugal force was pushing her into the wall. As a result, she sank to her knees in what was essentially very thick quicksand while doing over sixty miles per hour.

If it hadn’t been for the field of envelopment surrounding her—and the spectral peculiarities of her anatomy—she’d have been torn in two. Instead, she came to an instant halt, hyperextending both her knees as her body folded forward and slammed into the wall with a loud oof.

Even before her head bounced off the stones, I’d canceled the Maelstrom and pulled myself toward her. Just when she was about to recover, I tapped her lightly at the base of the skull, signifying a killing blow.

“Tag, you’re it.”

Deichtine gave a low, wheezing moan before casting the counter-spell that released her from the wall. “Feckin’ hell, that hurt.”

She fell to the ground, clutching her ribs with one arm and her skull with the other. One at a time, her dislocated knees snapped back into their normal anatomical position with a loud pop-pop. I did my best to maintain a poker face as her body returned to its default condition, diverting my attention to avoid causing any unintended insult or shame. After I’d spent a few moments standing at a lazy parade rest, she looked up at me and scowled.

“After you resurrect that bastard man o’ mine, I swear I’m going to kick him in the bollocks for spellin’ this place ta’ make me feel pain.”

“Look on the bright side. Your injuries are always minor and easily rectified. I swear, I'll leave here with post-traumatic stress disorder from seeing myself get dismembered, immolated, and skewered nine ways to Sunday every day we train.”

“‘Post-trauma whazzit’?” she spat as she forced herself to a sitting position. “The feck izzat?”

“Nothing,” I replied, realizing the futility of complaining to someone born before the Dark Ages. “Forget I mentioned it.”

Deichtine scowled. “Just for that bit o’ cheek, we’re moving on ta’ integrating weaponry with The Powers.”

“Now?”

“Right feckin’ now.”

“Yes, ma’am.” I gulped as I began reinforcing the bark armor that protected me.

CHAPTER

TWENTY-ONE

So my training continued until Deichtine proclaimed she could teach me no more. By then, I’d mastered all but the final two Powers, talents that must be explored by the practitioner alone and then refined in the internal landscape of the battle druid’s mind.

During our time together, Deichtine had been more than generous in sharing knowledge of her father’s art of Draoíocht Cogaidh. For the first time since I assumed the mantle from Finnegas, I felt I might have a shot at surviving what lay ahead. As the druidess and I shared a cup of tea in Lugh’s garden, I thanked her and said as much.

The auburn-haired beauty graced me with a melancholic smile. “Aye, ‘tho I’ve been tempted ta’ slow your progress in hopes you’d extend your stay. O’er the centuries, I’ve grown accustomed to the pleasure of my own company, but you’ve reminded me that I miss regular human interaction.”

“I appreciate your saying so, and I promise to have Lugh back to you soon.”

“That’s my point, lad. Lugh might be the one I love, but he’s a god. They don’t always make the best companions.”

I remained silent on that subject for fear I might say something offensive. “I’ll return to visit—if Lugh allows it.”

“He’ll be damned if he keeps you from it. I feel as ‘tho I’ve gained a little brother, and that’s not something I’d be so willing ta’ lose.”

“I—I never had a sister. I’m honored that you think of me as such.”

“Aw, you’re blushin’ like a spring rose.” Deichtine reached over and ruffled my hair. “Amazes me that you’ve managed ta’ retain some innocence, despite the shite lot you’ve been given.”

After fending her off, I finger-brushed my hair back into place before settling into my chair. “Sometimes I worry that I’m too soft, too merciful, too eager to see the good in others. I wonder if my mellow nature’s a liability I can no longer afford.”

“Nonsense. That kind heart o’ yours is a strength, not a weakness. When things get tough, you’ll think o’ those relying on you, and it’ll carry you through.”

I chuckled mirthlessly. “You’re not the first to tell me that. Maybe you’re right, but avoiding conflict has cost me a lot. I’ve lost friends, family, and loved ones. Sometimes, it was because I ignored my responsibilities; other times, I wasn’t ruthless enough from the start. Time and experience have hardened me. With every loss, I question the path I’ve taken more and more.”

“Ah, but kindness doesn’t require pacifism, nor does it mean you always avoid confrontation. Sometimes, the kindest thing you can do is protect the ones you love—at any cost.”

“I can’t disagree. It’s just that I’m so angry at times, and it’s not just the Fomorian side of me that’s to blame. Deep down, there’s a part of me that wants the gods, vampires, and fae to pay in blood for all the people they’ve hurt. I worry that my thirst for revenge will overtake my desire to protect the people and things I care about.”

She sipped her tea before giving a knowing nod. “Pickin’ a fight with the gods is a rocky road ta’ travel. It’ll make you bitter if you let it. That’s why you’ve got to hang onto the good. The happy memories, the love, the joy. You must choose ta’ remain who you are.”

“So, it’s a choice.”

“All of life’s a choice, lad. ’Tis the only true power mortals possess.”

I humphed. “If only I can make the right ones. That’s the real challenge.”

“You will when the time comes.”

We sat in stillness for a time, me staring into my mug, hoping to find an auspicious augury in the leaves, she listening to the birds and basking in the odd, warm sunlight. When my gaze wandered to the wall that hid the marsh from view, Deichtine broke the silence.

“Be honest—are you ready ta’ face Carman?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be. I won’t lie and say I’m not nervous.”

“I’m not prone ta’ exaggeration, so when I say you can best her, I mean it. You’ve been a fine pupil, and your skills as a battle druid are on par with the druids o’ my day. Just stick to the plan, an’ you’ll come out on top.”

“‘No plan survives first contact with the enemy.’”

“That’s true. Did Finnegas teach you that?”

I shook my head. “No, but he made me learn it. Some military strategist named von Moltke said it, but not in so many words. Honestly, I prefer Mike Tyson’s version better.”

“Oh?”

“‘Everyone has a plan until they get punched in the face.’”

She chuckled. “I prefer the latter as well.”

“He’s a great fighter where I come from, sort of like a modern gladiator.”

She raised her cup. “To Tyson and being the first ta’ land a punch.”

“Cheers,” I said, matching her gesture. After a few more minutes, I sighed softly and set my cup on the table. “Well, I think it’s time.”

“As you will. Take Failinis with you. He’ll be of service, and he’ll find his way back here when he wishes.”

“The dog can time travel?”

“That horse of a mongrel can do many things when he’s of a mind.”

I stood and lightly clapped my hands on my thighs. “Guess I’ll be off, then.”

“Colin, wait a moment.” Deichtine placed her cup on the table. With deliberate poise, she steepled her fingers while looking me in the eye. “Finnegas chose well in taking you as his apprentice. Know that I have no qualms about passing my father’s legacy on ta’ the likes of you.”

“That means a lot, Deichtine. Really, it does.”

“The future of the druid order’s in your hands, and capable hands they are indeed. More important tho’s the heart that guides them. Keep sight of what matters most, an’ you’ll never stray the path.”

As corny as her little speech was, it hit me in the feels all the same. Deichtine might’ve been a hard ass, but she’d treated me like a little brother during my time here. I was going to miss her.

“I will,” I said, my voice breaking slightly.

“An’ don’t forget about Herne. I want you ta’ kick his arse good. Not just for Lugh, but for stealing our feckin’ dog.”

“Until we meet again, Deichtine.” I turned to leave, fearing things would get maudlin if I stayed much longer.

“Until then.” Before the castle door closed behind me, she offered a final bit of advice. “An’ if you kill any gods, don’t forget ta’ hide the bodies when you’re done.”

When I reached the grand entry, I found Failinis waiting beside the portal stone. He watched me as I walked in, panting with his tongue lolling and looking quite pleased with himself.

“You overheard Deichtine, eh boy?” The dog yawned. “You should know, I’m about to face some bad dudes. The thing is, I have to go through them to bring Lugh back from across the Veil. Sure you’re up for this?”

The overgrown hound stood and licked my face, coating me in slobber with his cow-sized tongue. I laughed and wiped it away while adding a bit of druid magic to remove the dog breath odor.

“I take it that means you’re in, but I need you to stick close. No running off on your own unless I tell you to, alright? I can’t be worrying about you while I’m dealing with Carman and her kennel of varcolaci.”

He sat on his haunches and cocked his head at me. For an animal who couldn’t speak, the dog was highly expressive. I was tempted to mind-meld with him to communicate directly, but I worried he’d see it as a violation. Better to engage in a one-way conversation than to insult the bestest boy in all of Underhill.

“Carman’s this ancient Greek sorceress who once nearly conquered Ireland. It took four gods to defeat her. Lugh, a druidess named Bé Chuille, a comic named Crichinbel, and Aoi the poet.” He cocked his head the other way and perked an ear. “Yeah, I’ve always wondered how that team worked. I like to think that Lugh and Bé Chuille were kicking ass and taking names while Aoi spun dope rhymes and Crichinbel roasted them with insults.”

Failinis whined as he scratched the floor four times, then twice more after a pause. I had no idea the dog could count, much less engage in higher-level logical analysis. The notion that I was about to go into battle with a giant, real-life version of Scooby-Doo was not lost on me.

“I realize we’re outnumbered. We aren’t going to do this alone, but I have to be careful about who I bring with us. She has three powerful varcolaci working for her. They’re like a cross between a vampire and a werewolf—nasty bastards.”

Failinis growled, seemingly not at me, but at the very concept of varcolaci.

“Agreed, we’ll have to take them out first. The problem is, they’re exceptionally quick and heal faster than I can. That’s where the help comes in. After we leave Underhill, we’re going to make a pit stop to recruit some friends of mine, then we'll murk these fuckers. You ready?”

In reply, the dog licked his chops and stared at me expectantly. I laid a hand on his chest and knelt to touch the stone. Instantly, the world turned topsy-turvy, but this time everything went right side up. After the unsettling sensation passed, we stood in the same room, albeit with everything flipped back to where it belonged.

I took a moment to check my equipment and orient myself to my usual right-handed method of doing things. It felt odd and a bit off, but I figured I’d get used to it over time. After I was situated, I noticed Failinis staring at the wall, straight toward Herne’s camp.

“Not yet, boy. We’ll deal with him after we get your master back. Hang tight, it’s teleportation time.”

The first place we stopped was in Houston at Emberlance’s lair. When we arrived, she was right where I’d seen her last, roosting on a nearby high-rise while scanning the surrounding area for any sign of an incursion. Who might be foolish enough to try invading the dragons’ home world was a mystery, but the dragoness was ever vigilant and utterly dedicated to her duties. I admired her for that.

She swooped down as before, this time perhaps a little less aggressively. Failinis remained calm about the whole ‘giant dragon nosediving at us’ thing, and he simply stood next to me while we waited for her to land. After alighting on solid ground, Emberlance gave the dog a cursory glance before turning her formidable gaze on me.

“Greetings again, Emberlance.”

“Greetings, master druid, and greetings, Rí na gCon.” She inclined her head, not at me, but at Failinis. “To what do I owe this honor?”

Failinis returned the dragon’s gaze and lowered his head in kind. I thought the exchange was odd, but then again, I found them both to be more than a little enigmatic. To avoid appearing uninformed, I chose to ignore it and get on with the reason for my visit.

“I’d like to request your assistance if you’re willing to give it.”

“If you’re asking me to accompany you to the witch’s forest, I must decline. My duties require me to defend my post unceasingly. I range as far as the borders of Hugh’s Town and no further.”

“Though I would feel a lot more confident with you at my back, I’d never ask you to abandon your post.” I paused and clasped my hands imploringly. “Rather, my request is much more unconventional in nature.”

“And that is?”

“I came to ask you for a sample of dragon’s bile.”

Failinis turned to look at me as he gave a soft, disbelieving whine. It was almost as if he were saying, ‘Are you serious right now?’

She cough-chuckled in her odd, draconic manner, blowing smoke from her nostrils. “You don’t ask for much, do you?”

“I know you don’t normally do such things, but⁠—”

“But you need a fire that’ll burn hot and fast. Hmm.”

Emberlance remained very still for quite a while. I knew enough about dragon behavior by this point to wait until she was ready to give a definitive answer. Showing impatience in the presence of dragons was poor form, as I’d learned during my interactions with her daughter.

Five minutes later, she answered. “Were it anyone else, I would refuse. For you, Dragonfriend, I will oblige your bold request—on one condition.”

“Anything, just name it.”

“When the battle’s done, you must destroy the weapons you’ve created and burn what remains of my ignis humour. Am I clear?”

“Absolutely. I give you my word.”

“Then I will do as you ask. Have you brought a suitable receptacle in which to hold the liquid?”

I pulled a wide-mouthed metal flask from my Bag. After etching it with a few runes, I removed the lid and placed it on the ground before stepping away. Failinis turned around, nudging me with his snout as he did so. Taking the hint, I followed suit.

Emberlance made some very unladylike noises behind us, and then she spoke. “It is done. Use it wisely.”

“I will, and thank you,” I said as I turned around.

I capped the flask, holding my breath and keeping the contents well away from my face as I did so. Once it was tightly closed, I checked the wards to ensure they’d hold before placing the bottle inside my Bag for safekeeping. When I finished, Emberlance stepped away and spread her wings.

“Continue safeguarding my daughter and grand-drakelings. That is all the thanks I need. And druid, the next time you bring royalty to visit, do me the courtesy of informing me in advance so I might properly prepare.”

The ancient dragon inclined her head at Failinis one more time. After he returned the gesture, she flapped her wings and took to the sky. The dog watched her fly off, and then he turned his gaze on me, panting and drooling like the silly pup he wasn’t.

“Royalty, huh? Man, am I going to have questions for Lugh when this whole mess is over.”

While the varcolaci had proven immune to elemental spells and druid fire, Dyrnwyn was another matter. The only problem was that I was too slow in comparison to have any chance of using the sword against them in a fair fight. But if Dyrnwyn burned hot enough to harm them, why couldn’t I use another source of flame that blazed even hotter?

Thankfully, I knew just what could do the trick.

All the tomes and scrolls Finnegas left me were back in the primary timeline, so I had to recall the recipe for Greek fire from memory. It wasn’t difficult, as the formula itself was pretty simple. It included naphtha, any flammable oil, and, oh yeah—dragon bile. No wonder archaeologists and chemists couldn’t deduce the recipe or develop a modern equivalent.

I used an abandoned winery in the Hill Country to mix it all up. Then I bottled the lot, sealing each one using their floor corking machine and a little druidic magic. When I was done, I had a dozen magic Molotov cocktails that’d burn hot enough to melt steel.

With that job completed, the only task left was recruiting help. Even with my newfound skills, I couldn’t fight the varcolaci, not in a three-on-one battle. That meant I’d have to divide and conquer, and for that, I needed willing bodies.

I couldn’t ask Luther to assist me, as he’d made it clear that he didn’t want to get involved. Bringing Crowley back was out of the question, not with Ateas and Le Boucher watching and waiting to ambush him as soon as he returned to the Hellpocalypse. Regarding Samson and the Pack, they were vulnerable to varcolaci magic, making that a no-go as well.

Finding volunteers who were as strong and as fast as Darkness, Violence, and Evil would be a tall order. That didn’t mean I couldn’t find warriors who were just as hardy, though. In all The World Beneath, the only creatures that could out-heal a werewolf were common trolls—and I knew where to find an entire tribe that owed me a life debt.

My old friend Guts, short for “Eats-Guts-With-Bare-Hands-And-Salts-The-Earth-After-Battle,” was the current chieftain of the Toothshank Clan. After I saved him and several of his warriors from Fuamnach’s dungeons back in Underhill, I relocated his whole tribe to a cave system in the Texas Hill Country.

Before I left, Guts promised that if I ever needed their help, all I had to do was ask. It was time to call in that favor.

I showed up at their new home, posting up outside the main cave entrance in clear sight to let them know I’d arrived. Just after dark, Chief Guts came out to greet me with a retinue of his warriors. They were all dressed in their finest battle gear, replete with bone armor, feathers, fangs, beads, and human jewelry collected from years of scavenging abandoned habitations.

Trolls were lanky and generally taller than human males, averaging over six feet in height up to seven feet. Their skin was mottled, grayish-green, and lumpy, possessing a rugged, rubbery quality that was difficult to pierce with standard weaponry. Like most fae creatures, they weren’t as fast or as strong as vamps or ‘thropes, but they were agile and known for being highly aggressive and fearless in combat.

They also stank to high heaven, like a cross between skunk spray and smelling salts, but at ten times the potency. It was a natural defense, as the odor could incapacitate many of their natural enemies and even deter larger predators. Usually, their shamans covered it up with magic when they had visitors or went out to hunt. Just in case, I’d cast a cantrip to protect myself from the stench beforehand, so I wasn’t worried about being overwhelmed.

The fact was, they didn’t need that funk for protection. Despite their lowly status, trolls can take a punch. As I said, trolls were top of the heap when it came to magical healing factors. Cut off a finger, and they’d grow it back in an hour; cut off an arm, and they’d sprout a new one in a few days. It was rumored that was how they procreated, by chopping each other in two to grow a clone of the original. I knew that to be a myth, but it spoke to how revered they were for that unique physical trait.

Like ‘thropes, fire and acid were two ways you could stop a troll from regenerating. Essentially, you had to overwhelm their healing factor with continual damage until their organs shut down and they died. Or, you could behead them, take your pick. This made them a hell of a good choice for providing me with an assist against the varcolaci.

When Guts rolled out with his crew, he approached and extended his hand. For some unknown reason, trolls always spoke in verse, so I braced myself to suffer lots of bad poetry. We clasped arms, wrist to wrist, and he smiled broadly.

“The Toothshank Clan is pleased by the druid’s arrival. Let us dance, sing, and feast to celebrate our survival.”

Guts knew I’d come to call in that favor, but it’d be rude to broach the topic off the bat. Rather than hit him up with my request immediately, I nodded and clapped him on the shoulder.

“I’d like nothing better, my friend. Lead on.”

Despite their fierce reputation and outcast status among the supernatural races, trolls were gracious hosts who knew how to throw a party. We ate, drank, and told stories into the wee hours, until things finally wound down enough for Guts and I to engage in a little quiet conversation. After everyone but his retinue of bodyguards had stumbled off to bed, the chief leaned over and spoke.

“You did not come here to laugh, drink, and feed. Tell me, old friend, what is it you need?”

I explained the situation in brief, capping off the story with my request. “What I need are warriors, Guts. Three teams to help me ambush these clowns and then fade away into the darkness.”

“Warriors, I will provide, and this we can do. Fade away, we cannot, as we’ll fight beside you.”

“Nope, I can’t allow it. These jokers are tough, as in ‘on another level completely.’ Even Luther and Samson are afraid of them.” I held a hand up. “Don’t repeat that, but it’s true. That’s why I need your people to do their part and step back so I can handle them.”

Guts leaned back and frowned, stroking his chin. “Toothshank Clan does not run from a fight. I’ll promise to strike and then stay out of sight.”

He meant that his boys would stick around in case I needed backup. Honestly, I didn’t like it because his clan was already short on warriors. Yet, it was probably the best I’d get from him regarding compliance with my plan. If I didn’t want to get his people killed, I’d have to do my job in taking Darkness, Violence, and Evil out quickly once they’d been weakened.

With no small amount of reluctance, I rubbed my face stubble and nodded. “I can’t do this alone, so it’ll have to do. Now, here’s what I have planned…”

CHAPTER

TWENTY-TWO

The only thing worse than heading into an uncertain battle was bringing others along to die with you. That said, trolls lived for fighting, and each warrior hoped for a glorious death in combat. I’d learned this early on in my friendship with Guts, and I kept reminding myself of that as our small war band marched out of Toothshank territory.

The trolls were dressed in typical trollish battle finery. In their hands, they bore spears and javelins made from wood and bone, festooned with bright feathers and charms, and blessed by their shaman. Shunning armor on principle, the warriors wore loincloths and little else, save for war paint and whatever odds and ends of jewelry they’d each collected over time.

In contrast to the spare minimalism of trollish fighting kit, I was covered head to toe in druid battle armor. It was a refinement of the bark armor I’d devised previously, segmented and form-fitted to allow for better protection with no loss of mobility or speed. Essentially, this was my interpretation of Alexander’s ancient Greek linothorax armor, only upgraded.

As always, Dyrnwyn was slung over my shoulder. I also wore a new gun belt with my sidearm and spare mags around my waist, since there was no telling what else we might run into besides varcolaci on this night.

As we proceeded to the cavern exit, the clan’s women and children sent us off with drumming, chanting, and applause. The clan shaman had done well in warding the cave entrance and surrounding areas against the undead, so there was no fear of attracting unwanted attention. This left the troll people free to praise their departing warriors, safe in the depths of their underground home.

I was only taking a dozen with me—certainly not every last warrior in their clan. Yet, I couldn’t help but notice how few of their men remained, a mere remnant of their numbers before Z-Day. That count was written on the faces of those they left behind, and only a fool could fail to notice it.

For many of those cheering, it was clear they were merely putting on a brave face. They shed no tears, for Toothshank wives and mothers came to grips with the realities of war at a young age. Yet, I noticed the tightness around their eyes, the stiff set of their shoulders, and the looks the women gave me as Guts and I led the retinue of eleven brave trolls out of the safety of their den.

At that moment, I resolved to do what I could to return those warriors home. If I wasn’t here to ensure the continued existence of Guts’ people along with my own, then what was I here for, anyway? They deserved a future just as much as humans did, and I swore they’d see it come to pass.

Our war party marched until the shouts and drums had faded away in the distance, and then I contacted the Oak for transport. We were greeted in New Waverly by an overcast sky with no moon or stars in sight. Darkness was no challenge to varcolaci eyes, so I took time to cast concealment spells on us all, Failinis included. Then we were off, heading east on foot toward the forest’s border.

I stationed Guts and his people in three separate locations, splitting them into teams of four warriors each. Smaller groups were easier to hide, and it also reduced the likelihood they’d all be wiped out in one fell swoop. It’d be up to Failinis and me to lead the varcolaci into each ambush point, and my secret responsibility to see that the trolls got home after the traps had been sprung.

First, I had to draw Dubh, Dother, and Dian out of the safety of their woods. I left the hound with the first ambush team and marched to the very place I’d entered the forest two Earth days before. The memory of the beating they’d given me would be fresh in the minds of the varcolaci, as would the injuries they’d sustained at my hands.

Dominant werewolves were proud and instinctually inclined to respond to challenges with violence. On the other hand, vampires were haughty creatures, prone to taking vengeance on those who insulted them. I was counting on those tendencies to be combined in the varcolaci, making each more than eager to get revenge on me for doing them harm.

Darkness had it in for me anyway, for interfering with his plan to dominate the Pack. Based on what I’d gleaned during our last encounter, he wanted to savor the experience of ending my life. The feeling was mutual.

A cold mist hugged the ground, stirring through the weeds and clinging to my ankles as I entered the yard behind the church. The tall pine and oak trees loomed ahead, the forest having transformed in the darkness to look like something straight out of a Washington Irving tale. Terror gripped me, and in my mind’s eye, those towering arboreal giants reached out with overly long limbs to snatch me up and rip me in two.

How odd for a druid to be afraid of nature.

Despite the miasma of fear the forest projected, I walked within thirty paces of the wood line, as close as I dared approach without giving up my ability to evade a blitz attack. Twenty running strides might seem like a lot of space, but as quickly as the varcolaci moved, it might not be enough. To pull this off, I had to walk the razor’s edge between enticing them to emerge and committing certain suicide.

Time to get this show on the road.

After going through several cycles of druidic breathing exercises, I felt calm and clearheaded enough to act. With a final ‘let’s hope shit goes right for once’ sigh, I faced the forest, dropped my concealment spells, and cast a voice amplification cantrip. Then, I drew Dyrnwyn and shouted my challenge, injecting as much contempt in my voice as possible.

“Dubh, Dother, and Dian—listen up, you trio of festering boils on Mother Nature’s ass. I’m here to finish what we started. Come out so we can end this, once and for all.”

Despite the druidic magic I’d used to amplify my voice, it faded when the sound hit the trees. The effect made my challenge seem wan and toothless despite my intent to the contrary. It was a stark reminder that Carman’s sean-draíocht gave her complete command of her environs within the boundaries of her lair.

That was why I needed to get her sons good and pissed off. Even with my new talents, I was at a distinct disadvantage within the borders of the witch’s lair. The only way I’d stand a chance against all three varcolaci was to have all my druidic skills at my command.

Even then, it might not be enough, so it was a good thing I brought backup. I just hoped the brothers were crazy and dumb enough to fall for my insults.

Speaking of, all remained silent within the wood’s murky depths, and only a few weak tongues of flame flickered down Dyrnwyn’s blade. I gazed along the forest’s edge before scanning it again in the magical spectrum. Not a single leaf stirred on the wind, and nothing rustled in the darkness. For all its greenery, the place was a graveyard.

“Are you cowards, then, hiding behind your mother’s skirts?” I scoffed and spat on the ground. “I was told you three nearly brought Ireland to its knees, and at the height of the reign of the Tuatha Dé Danann, no less. Surely, you’re not afraid to leave the safety of Carman’s protection for fear of facing a single druid?”

Then, Dyrnwyn flared up, instantly casting the churchyard in light as bright as the noonday sun. I dropped into a crouch, sweeping my gaze across the wall of trees, searching for the brothers.

“You’ll find none craven here.” Dubh’s voice came from behind me. “You called, and we’ve answered. Turn and see.”

Since they had the edge in numbers and home-court advantage, I’d assumed the trio would attack outright. To my great disappointment, they’d learned their lesson during our previous encounters. When I turned around, the trio stood in a reverse triangle formation less than twenty feet away, blocking my escape to the west, north, and south.

Well, ain’t this just the biggest shit sandwich ever.

So formidable had the varcolaci been in physical form, I’d overlooked their ability to shapeshift. They’d hidden within the mist on the ground, and I’d walked right past them on my way in. Each was in giant wolf form, licking their chops like hounds at dinner time—and I was to be the main course.

Now I had two choices, to break through their line, or to retreat into the forest in hopes of losing them there. I liked my odds better out here. Besides, the last thing I wanted was for Guts and his warriors to follow me to certain doom.

Better make this look good. Don’t want to tip my hand too soon.

Dubh stood in the center, with Dother on my left and Dian on my right. Dian, the ginger, seemed like he was most prone to brawling. Dubh was more reserved, while Dother was the brashest of the bunch. The white one stood between me and the first ambush point, so I rushed him with a burst of Fomorian speed.

He bared his teeth and crouched, but I led with Dyrnwyn ablaze, and the varcolac wanted no part of that. Just as the blade was about to pierce his chest, the giant white wolf turned into a pale mist that parted and floated out of reach.

Their transformations were shockingly fast. Undoubtedly, he meant to retake physical form and attack me from my flank. Yet, I’d seen the extent of their talents before and spent plenty of time in Deichtine’s mirror realm thinking about how to deal with them.

With my next step, I sprung forward, adding just enough speed so that Dother’s teeth snapped on empty air as he solidified behind me. Then I ran like a startled mare, directly for the church.

My intended destination was the small, wood-paneled, pew-filled worship hall within. To get there, I had to go through the pastor’s entrance in back. I burst through the door fast enough to knock it off its hinges and sprinted up a short flight of stairs. To avoid losing my footing on the slick tile floor, I used druid battle magic to cling to the floor as I made the sharp turns necessary to traverse the space.

Dother had been right on my ass, but once we entered the church those tight spaces slowed him down. The giant wolf smashed through the doorframe on entering, sending splinters and debris everywhere. I gained ground as I neared the worship area, with the white varcolac demolishing doors and walls alike as he tried to catch me.

After passing the sanctuary, I took three long strides and turned, just as the white varcolac burst through the church office doorway behind the altar and baptistery. When he leapt from the preaching dais to the center aisle, I rooted him to the earth beneath the building, hard enough to make the floor planks and joists beneath him sag and crater.

“Now,” I whispered.

Shadows shimmered at the room’s corners as Guts and three of his warriors tossed magic Molotovs at Dother. Earlier, I’d armed the trolls with all the magical incendiary devices, save for a single bottle I held in reserve inside my Bag.

The four wine bottles converged, with two smashing at the varcolac’s feet while the others collided above the beast’s head. The runes I’d etched on the glass ignited the concoction instantly, dousing the vampire in flames hotter than Dyrnwyn’s blade.

Dother howled, first in shock and rage and then due to being burned alive. He shifted into mist to escape, but dragon fire seemed to care little for whether it burned flesh and fur, or vapor and smoke. To my shock and his, the transformation only quickened the process of his magical immolation.

By the time the varcolac realized his mistake, half the cloud of white fog had burned away. He shifted into several other forms out of pure desperation, hoping to find one that could survive the flames. Despite his efforts, I kept him rooted, ensuring he’d continue to burn.

With every transformation, Dother lost more of himself to the dragon fire. By the time he’d chosen his wolf form again, there was so little left I could barely identify the species. All that remained was a charred head, his shoulders, and one foreleg, with the skin drawn and blackened over atrophied flesh. Despite all that damage, the tough bastard was still moving.

I enveloped myself in protective energy and thrust Dyrnwyn through Dother’s skull, leaving it in place so the sword’s heat could boil and vaporize what remained of the varcolac’s central nervous system. Within seconds, Dother was reduced to a single, soot-stained piece of jawbone on the floor.

As for the building itself, the place was a tinderbox, and it hadn’t fared much better. Already, flames had spread across the floor, pews, and ceiling above.

Trolls were vulnerable to fire, and the last thing I wanted was for them to be trapped and burned alive inside this place. But before I could signal the Oak to teleport them away, Dubh smashed through the wall behind one of the warriors, snatching the troll up in his jaws and snapping him in two.

“No!” I shouted as the troll warrior’s upper and lower halves fell to the carpeted floor of the church hall.

I fired off a lightning bolt at the great black wolf. He disappeared in a cloud of mist, and the spell ignited another wall section instead. With the building going up in flames, it was time to evac Guts and his people.

As I opened my mental connection to my druid oak, Dian lunged through a window to grab another troll in his mouth. He yanked his massive muzzle out again quickly, taking the troll with him and disappearing into the night. I cursed both remaining varcolaci under my breath, even as I sent a command to the Oak.

Get the trolls out of here—now.

The oak complied, teleporting Guts, the other warrior, and the bisected corpse away, even as the room became engulfed in flames. Likewise, I allowed my rage to grow until pure anger seared away all doubts and concerns about facing the remaining brothers.

With my blood simmering in my veins, I plucked Dother’s jaw from the fire by one long tooth and stuffed it in my Bag. Then, I strolled through a hole in the wall and into the night, on a mission to kill me some varcolaci.

My shadow stretched long before me in the tall grass, framed as I was by the light from the flaming church behind me. I cast about looking for Dubh and Dian, but they were nowhere to be seen. They’d likely intended to harass me all night long, wearing me down while savoring the hunt and stretching the kill out for sport.

Little did they know, I was about to piss on their party plans. I spoke clearly in a low and dangerous tone, projecting my voice to ensure they heard me.

“Your brother’s dead. This time, for good. You two are next.”

“You lie, druid.”

Dian spoke first, indicating he hadn’t seen what happened to Dother. If he had, I’d already be under attack. Their brother had been reduced to cinders by the time the others smashed through the church walls, which meant they missed out on that show.

Likely as not, the other two assumed he transformed to escape the flames. They were probably waiting for him to reappear so they could finish me off as a team. Man, were they going to be disappointed.

I reached into my Bag and tossed Dother’s charred jawbone on the ground.

“See for yourself.”

Two sets of large yellow eyes appeared out of the gloom. One moment, nothing was there, and the next, I was in a staring contest with a pair of giant, undead wolves.

Their ability to disappear and reappear at will was worrisome. I could see quite well in low-light conditions, and if the varcolaci had been there before, I would have spotted them hiding in the shadows. I had not.

As they stepped into the firelight, wisps of vapor clung to their paws and ankles, and it wasn’t smoke. They’d been hiding in their mist form within the tall grass again, just as they had earlier. It was a predictable but reliable ploy, considering they were nigh on invisible while doing so.

Dian glanced at the jawbone fragment and scoffed. “Druid trickery.” The large red wolf surveyed the surrounding gloom. “Dother! Show yourself and prove this whelp false.”

“You think you’re invincible,” I replied, subtly shifting my Bag behind my left hip. “That those who could defeat you are gone from this world, dead or passed into Underhill. You’re wrong.”

Dubh strolled closer, his crafty citrine eyes level with mine as they searched my face for any sign of deception. He lowered his head to sniff at the chunk of charred bone on the ground. He recoiled after getting a good whiff, crinkling his nose and muzzle.

“He speaks true, Dian,” Dubh growled, shifting his attention to his remaining brother. “That is, or was, Dother.”

Dian looked at the jawbone. “It cannot be.”

The red varcolac nudged the bone with his paw and sniffed his foot, then he lifted his head and howled his grief to the sky. When Dubh joined him, I took that as my cue to act. With both of them distracted, I slipped a hand inside my Bag.

They didn’t know how I managed to take Dother out, which was to my advantage. I planned to douse them both in Greek fire, then root them in place and watch them burn, just like their brother.

Unfortunately, they were too far apart, and I only had one bottle on me. Once I took my shot, chances were good they wouldn’t fall for the same trick again. I needed to catch them together so I could get them both at the same time.

Time to poke the bear.

“Sheesh, I came here to fight, not to sit around listening to a couple of sad pups whine,” I said in the most mocking tone I could muster. “Are you two going to stand there and cry, or are we going to finish this?”

The brothers responded with instant silence, turning their full and combined attention on me. Dian lowered his head and crouched as if to pounce. Dubh stepped in his way while keeping his hate-filled yellow gaze locked on mine.

“Caution, brother. The druid’s more dangerous than he appears.”

“There’s wisdom in that,” Dian replied. “Dother may have fallen to treachery, but he fell all the same.”

“I’m standing right here, you know,” I spat.

Dubh ignored my outburst, though he kept his attention on me as he spoke. “Then we’re of one accord. We’ll treat him as any of the druids of old, giving no quarter and making no mistakes.”

“Agreed. Let us finish him properly so we can bury our brother.”

I tensed slightly in preparation, setting my nerves on a hair trigger to respond as soon as they acted. The fact that I’d likely only get one shot at diminishing them weighed heavily on my mind. But rather than attack, the two varcolaci vanished into clouds of mist that floated off into the darkness.

“Um, guys?” I shouted after them. “I’m right here. Come get me, damn it.”

They did not, in fact, come get me. Search as I might, I failed to spot either wolf moving in the dark. They’d effectively disappeared, and now they could attack at any moment and from any direction.

Well, son of a bitch. Nothing’s ever easy, is it?

With Dyrnwyn in one hand and the other inside my Bag, I retreated step by cautious step, as close to the blazing building behind me as I dared. Even with druid battle magic enveloping my skin, the heat from the inferno was hot enough to singe the hair on my head. I ignored the pain, scanning all around for some sign of Dubh and Dian.

Finally, I spotted movement in the dark—a large, black, four-legged shadow stalking the edges of the firelight. Dubh lurked out there, eyes focused on me as he prowled back and forth. But where was the other?

I’d find out soon enough. A loud groaning sound came from the church’s roof as it collapsed with a crash, sending flames and superheated air shooting out in all directions. The blast of heat forced me to move closer to Dubh, and when I did, his lip curled in the slightest hint of a wolven smile.

This is it—they’re making their move.

I crouched and spun just in time to see Dian leaping over the collapsed church and through the flames. In the same instant, I caught his brother blurring toward me from the corner of my eye. They’d decided to take me out in tandem, and I’d given them the space and positioning to pull off a combined attack.

I couldn’t throw Greek fire at this range without dousing myself. I’d burn up with them, enveloping magic be damned. Besides, I had no time to do so. The big red varcolac moved so fast that his jaws were nearly at my throat before I could defend myself.

Would the enveloping battle magic save me from being torn to shreds? This would be a hell of a way to find out. Just before Dian’s teeth snapped shut around my head, a giant gray blur crashed into him from my left, folding the varcolac in two while taking him out of frame.

Acting on instincts I’d developed over many long months of nearly being killed by Deichtine daily, I pulled myself toward the forest. Dubh’s jaws snapped on empty air as druid battle magic dragged me forty feet across the rough, weed-strewn earth.

Unfortunately, I’d forgotten to glide, making it a damned bumpy ride. I’d feel those bruises in the morning, even with the enveloping magic protecting me.

If I make it to morning, that is.

As I slid across the field at over a hundred miles an hour, I had a split second to assess what had just happened. Dubh had been forced to turn to mist to avoid sliding into the blazing remains of the church. Meanwhile, Dian tussled with a mass of gray fur and teeth whose ferocity was equal to his own. On realizing what I was seeing, I opened my mental connection to the Oak.

I thought I told you to evacuate everyone.

The Oak’s response gave the impression of a mental shrug. He sent me an image of a big gray boulder in the middle of a rushing stream. No matter how much the water surged against the rock, it stubbornly refused to move.

Huh. You couldn’t teleport him away against his will?

The Oak sent me another image of a reed bending in a gale. My druid oak and grove were practically nascent nature deities, and their power was nothing to sneeze at. For Failinis to resist the will of the Oak in trying to remove him from the battlefield, well—it was uncanny.

The Oak sent me an image of a male fox ignoring a misbehaving pup.

No, I’m not angry with you. I’m just shocked, is all. Next time, let me know if something like that happens.

Then, the tree sent a jumble of images. Rain falling on a peaceful forest scene, the sun rising over the desert, nighttime on a mountain peak, and so on. They came so fast that I couldn’t hope to interpret them individually. Finally, I realized the kid was telling me we had communication issues.

I would’ve pursued the topic if the timing had been better. However, Dubh was currently stalking me somewhere out in the darkness. Filing the exchange away for later review, I returned to the task at hand—killing varcolaci.

CHAPTER

TWENTY-THREE

I certainly didn’t want to be flat on my back when Dubh attacked, so I pushed myself off the ground and back to my feet. I glanced over to see how Failinis fared—surprisingly well, from the looks of it. He didn’t have the upper hand, but he gave as good as he got, snapping and snarling back and forth in a classic wolf versus hound battle with Dian.

If it looked like Failinis needed my help, I’d intervene. For now, I had to focus on taking Dubh out. In his mist form, he appeared as nothing more than a cloud of black smoke, which allowed him to blend in with the shadows and remain nearly invisible. He could attack from anywhere at any time, forcing me to scan the surrounding dark continually.

If shadows are keeping him hidden, then let there be light.

“Solas,” I said, raising my left fist high overhead.

Cold silver light shone forth from my hand, chasing all shadows away and laying bare everything hidden by the dark. I quickly did a full circle scan of the area, searching for places where gloom remained that didn’t belong.

After the eldest of Carman’s three sons had evaporated into mist, Dyrnwyn’s flames had dimmed significantly. However, when I turned toward the forest, the blade glowed a bit brighter in response. At first, I thought it was just a reaction to Carman’s presence beyond the border of the wood, but something told me to look that way again.

There.

Twenty feet away, thin wisps of dark mist slithered toward me through the tall grass and weeds. The black vapors hugged the ground so tightly as to be almost imperceptible to the naked eye. I wouldn’t have noticed it had I not cast the light spell and been tipped off by Dyrnwyn’s reaction.

To avoid tipping my hand, I continued scanning in a circle as if I hadn’t noticed him coming. My deepest survival instincts screamed at me to face the threat. Instead, I turned my back, leaving myself exposed.

I silently counted the seconds in my head, waiting for the perfect time to respond based on how quickly the mist had traveled. When I thought it was close enough, I tossed the ball of light in the air and reached in my Bag for the last bottle of Greek fire.

I yanked the bottle from the Bag and threw it backhanded as I spun to face the threat. Even as I did, Dubh’s massive form rose from the ground, coalescing from mist to physical form as he sprang at me from less than ten feet away. Dyrnwyn flared in response, adding to the illumination my light spell provided. That allowed me to see every last whisker on Dubh’s muzzle as he opened his jaws and swallowed the bottle.

Son of a bitch.

The varcolac was on me before I could bring Dyrnwyn to bear. As in our last encounter, he moved so fast that it seemed he had a dozen heads instead of one. The varcolac bit me multiple times in less than a second, all over my face, arms, and upper body.

Acting from sheer panic, I repelled Dubh away from me, throwing him across the yard and into a tall oak tree at the edge of the woods. He bounced off and landed on all fours, shaking his head as he recovered. With the beast stunned, I took the opportunity to check myself for injuries.

Thankfully, the enveloping druid battle magic protected me from the bone-crushing injuries I’d suffered the last time Dubh mauled me. Yet, my druid armor had been shredded, and I bled from dozens of wounds all over my body.

The varcolac licked drops of blood from his muzzle as he paced back and forth. “You’ve more tricks than the last time we fought.”

“Maybe last time I was holding back.”

“A dubious claim, at best. I’m about to end your miserable life, little druid. Then Dian and I will track those trolls back to their lair and kill every last one of them—foul taste be damned.”

While Dubh was monologuing, I knelt and snatched a handful of weeds and grass from the ground, slapping it to my chest. Instantly, fibers within the strands spread over my torso, stitching wounds closed while weaving bandages that crisscrossed my body. Having stopped myself from bleeding out, I stood on unsteady legs while stealing a glance at the vicious battle that ensued between wolf and hound.

Though the red varcolac struggled, Failinis pinned him to the ground with his jaws around the wolf’s throat. Dian was attempting to stand, but the massive wolfhound was having none of it. He clamped down tighter and shook the varcolac like a rag doll until his neck snapped with a loud pop.

Failinis then began chewing through the varcolac’s throat, gnawing and ripping methodically in a race against the undead creature’s ability to heal. I couldn’t tell whether the hound would ultimately be able to put the varcolac down for good. At the very least, he managed to keep him out of the fight while I dealt with the older brother.

Now, that is a very good boy. If I survive this fight, I’ll definitely treat him to a mastodon bone later.

I turned my attention back to Dubh, chuckling sarcastically. “Dian looks like he’ll be in no mood to hunt anything when Failinis is done with him. Maybe you two should cut your losses and call it a night.”

“You speak in riddles,” Dubh growled as he inched closer to me. “How can one cut what has been lost?”

“It’s a gambling reference. When you’re on a losing streak, sometimes it’s best to quit before you go broke.”

“I am not broken.”

I sighed, realizing that modern euphemisms were lost on this moron. “I’m saying you should give up.”

“You should be so fortunate,” he said, crouching to pounce.

Somehow, I knew he’d say that.

Even with druid battle magic on my side, this was a fight I’d be hard-pressed to win. The varcolaci outclassed me in every way, and their unique talents allowed them to avoid or negate my elemental spells. The dragon fire had been my equalizer, an ace in the hole I’d intended to use to slow them down so I could bring my magic and Dyrnwyn to bear.

Without it, I was at a distinct disadvantage, still wounded and weak from blood loss. The bandages would keep me from going into shock before I healed, but another exchange like the last one could do me in. I had to keep Dubh off me while I figured out how to defeat him—without the benefit of first diminishing him with Greek fire.

Or, maybe I can still use that magic Molotov after all. But the timing needs to be just right.

When Dubh leapt at me, I pulled and rooted him to the earth, slamming him flat on the ground ten feet away. As expected, he turned to mist to escape the pull of the druidic magic on his physical form, leaving the bottle of Greek fire behind.

I tossed Dyrnwyn to my left hand, moving my right hand to my hip while the sword was still in the air. In one smooth, quick motion, I drew my Glock and fired, shattering the wine bottle before the dark cloud of mist rose more than a few inches from the ground.

As soon as the contents were exposed to the cool night air, the Greek fire expanded in a cloud of flaming liquid and fumes, enveloping much of the black fog above it. In response, Dubh released a mental scream that shook me to my core.

The shadowy mist separated from the flames, shooting like a rocket toward the forest with streaks of fire trailing after it. Dubh shifted into his physical form on the fly, landing on all fours as he bounded into his mother’s territory. I sprung off the ground to get an extra boost of speed as I ran after him, holstering my pistol so I could shift Dyrnwyn back to my dominant hand.

The Greek fire just fried that fucker like the last piece of chicken at Popeye’s. How can he still run like that?

Undoubtedly, the stuff had done its work. The varcolac’s body was a wreck, a patchwork of charred flesh and skin over exposed bone. But despite the damage, his body was already starting to heal, covering his skeleton with new muscle while replacing his missing hide.

If I let him escape, he’d recover and return. Then, I’d have to face him on equal footing without dragon fire to assist me. I could not let that happen.

He was almost in the woods, so I had to act fast. All at once, I rooted his right rear leg and pushed myself into a standing glide.

Dubh was moving fast. When his rear foot became immobilized, the rest of him kept going, breaking and tearing his leg off with a sickening ripping sound.

The varcolac yelped and slowed, and that loss of momentum proved more than enough to allow me to catch up. I slid past him at speed, chopping downward with practiced timing gained during my long months of training with Deichtine. Dyrnwyn’s blade caught Dubh right behind his ears, severing his head from his neck and ending the varcolac’s reign of terror.

“Now that’s how you cut your losses,” I said, watching his head tumble into the darkness.

I barely had time to gloat before I realized my trajectory had taken me straight into the forest. Although my first instinct was to end the spell immediately, I resisted the urge. Cutting a glide on uneven terrain while moving over a hundred miles per hour was a terrible idea.

I slid perhaps thirty more feet before I managed to slow myself by repelling against a tall pine tree. Once I skidded to a stop, I allowed the glide spell to end, dropping six inches to the forest floor as the frictionless air cushion dissipated beneath me.

How I’d avoided going splat on a random trunk was beyond me. It was almost as if the trees had moved out of the way to allow me to pass. When I looked around to get my bearings, it seemed the forest had closed behind me in similar fashion.

I’d only traveled twenty-five yards or so past the wood line. Yet, I saw nothing but an endless expanse of forest in every direction. Eager to escape before I lost my bearings, I headed straight back the way I came.

After I’d walked fifty yards, I began to doubt my innate, human sense of direction. A hundred more, and it became clear that witchcraft was at work. I may as well have been walking on a treadmill for all the progress I made. Carman had complete control here, and she was bending the laws of nature to keep me trapped.

Fan-fucking-tastic.

Though I knew what to expect, I attempted to connect to the natural world using my druid senses. All I received as a result was a complete absence of nature. I detected no signs of life, no magnetic fields or ley lines, no waterways or aquifers coursing beneath me—nothing.

I’d intended to draw Carman out like her sons, not confront her on her home turf. But without my connection to the earth, I’d never find my way out of this place. If Carman wished to keep me here, she would.

Strangely, she hadn’t yet shown herself. Either she didn’t know her sons had been defeated, or she intended to choose her moment to attack. Honestly, I didn’t care to be ambushed again. Hoping to force her hand, I craned my neck and shouted at the treetops.

“Carman, your sons are dead. I defeated Dother and Dubh, and Dian’s good as done for. Come face me, witch!”

My challenge faded quickly like it had before, sounding weak and muffled in the still silence of the forest. She had to know I was here, and I knew she heard me. A sorceress kept tabs on everything in her lands, and Carman was not your run-of-the-mill witch.

I waited several minutes for her to show or respond, but she never did. By the time my patience thinned, Dyrnwyn’s light had likewise died out. No great evil lurked nearby—or at least, none the sword could detect. After sheathing the blade and dropping my battle magic protections to save energy, I chose a direction and started walking, foregoing all attempts at stealth.

Before long, I spotted a sickly yellow illumination coming through the trees. Knowing there was no hiding now, I marched ahead bold as can be, seeking the source. The glow soon led to a trail, lit on either side by braziers set atop long shafts made from rough, black iron, each towering several feet above my head.

The fire within each fixture was unnatural, with no clear fuel source. The way the flames danced and flickered caught my eye, and as I stared, indistinct shapes appeared in the torch’s midst. Those shapes soon morphed into faces that were twisted into perpetual screams, like tortured souls staring out from Hades’ realm.

As I examined the scenes, I realized it was getting harder to turn my eyes from the flickering, pale light of the sconces. The longer I stared, the more I found my mind being drawn into the dancing flames. Thankfully, years of experience in dealing with fae glamours had inured me to that sort of trickery, and I tore my gaze away.

More witchcraft, simple but powerful.

This sort of magic was meant to trap weak-willed creatures, human and otherwise. The braziers must’ve served as an outer perimeter, but whether the purpose was to keep things out or keep them in remained unclear. I followed the path for a time, noting that it appeared to be curving to my left.

To avoid walking in circles, I pulled some chalk from my Bag and marked one of the sconce poles. Sure enough, I came back to it after an hour or so. From there, I took a sharp turn off the path, hoping to find whatever lay at the center of the wood.

As I walked and prepared myself for the coming confrontation, I couldn’t help noticing how lifeless the forest seemed. At first, I thought it was merely Carman’s influence, but I was beginning to suspect it was more fundamental than that. While the foliage looked green and vibrant, I sensed no life when I brushed my hand against a tree as I passed.

I had little time to consider the implications, as I approached a clearing shortly thereafter. It was a broad, flat area devoid of grass and trees, with a few trash barrels, some port-a-potties, and two small pavilions dotting the perimeter.

This must be the hunting camp Luther told me about.

A rusted, broken down 4×4 was parked at one end of the clearing, with a small, dilapidated camper hitched behind. Both were long abandoned. Other than some scattered, well-eroded tire tracks, there were no other signs of human activity.

Without the need or desire for subterfuge, there was no reason to remain hidden at the edge of the camp. Instead, I marched out in full view of whoever or whatever might be watching. Once exposed, I turned in a slow circle, using the pale light from the overcast moon to my advantage as I searched for enemies.

First, I scanned the clearing itself from edge to center, and then I searched the forest all around. Nothing. But when I completed the circle to face the center again, a large cauldron sat where none had been before.

It had to be five feet tall and at least as wide, made from wide sheets of blackened, banded bronze, shaped and riveted together into a rounded base with a fluted lip at the top. Thick round rings sat above the lip at either side, held by hinge straps attached to the sides by thicker rivets than those at the seams. The rivets were spiked rather than rounded, giving the receptacle a sinister, unwelcoming look.

The enormous pot sat on a tripod stand, heated beneath by the same sickly yellow fire that lit the braziers along the path. Again, there was no clear fuel source, yet the flames licked halfway up the sides of the cooking pot. Above, a long, curved wooden shaft stirred the contents, though no hands guided it, nor could any figure be discerned to tend the damned thing.

It was pure theater, but creepy all the same. Witches loved their cauldrons, using them to create brews and potions for witchcraft or to cook whatever or whoever might’ve landed in their pot. Not all witches were evil, but those who dealt in dark magic tended to engage in activities that could be described as unsavory at best.

Whenever you saw a cauldron in a deep, dark wood, you could bet money that what you’d find inside would give you nightmares for weeks. If provided the opportunity, I resolved not to look.

“You may as well show yourself,” I said. “We both know this is the end, one way or another.”

A wind blew from the east, a sudden, harsh gust that raised dirt, leaves, and pine needles into a cloud of debris as it passed, obscuring pot and fire both. When it died down, a dark figure stood next to the cauldron. She was clothed in loose, rough-spun black robes that gathered in folds on the ground, hiding her feet. Her face and head remained hidden, covered by an equally loose, drooping hood.

She was tall, much taller than I was, perhaps eight feet, give or take. Her skeletal white hands clutched the shaft that stirred the pot, moving it counterclockwise in slow, rhythmic circles. As she worked, more of the stirring rod materialized above her hands. Soon, it was revealed to be a long, side-handled scythe with a curved, blackened iron blade at the top.

“You say my sons are dead?” she said in her snake-skin voice.

“Yes. Dother and Dubh by my hands, and Dian by other means.”

She scoffed. “Good riddance. Left me to rot in captivity, they did, constrained by Danu’s tribe until I was nothing more than a shell. Abandoned by my mistress for failure, abandoned by my children due to cowardice. So be it, they served their purpose.”

“I take it that’s why you agreed to work with the Vampyri. To exact revenge on the Tuath Dé.”

“And the druids, yes.”

Despite her apparent calm, I sensed a growing tension in the air, a gathering power that typically preceded a substantial magical working. She was about to attack, and I badly wanted to strike first. Knowing little about her powers, I decided against moving too soon.

“The last druid’s here, and he’s made it through your advanced element. If you want revenge, now would be the time to act.”

Carman continued stirring, awkward as it looked with that tall scythe in her hands. “Want to know why I haven’t struck you down? Why I stand here bantering instead of ending the druids once and for all?”

“You’re calling your forces? Preparing a spell? Waiting to pass a painful fart?” I threw my hands in the air. “Hell, I don’t know. Enlighten me.”

“No,” she replied. “My children were present from the moment you crossed into my wood. Look and see.”

It was as if a veil had been lifted from my eyes. In a breath, the lush, verdant forest beyond the clearing morphed into a dead, decaying expanse of rot. I saw how it really was, covered in dark ichor and bruised necrosis, with everything painted in shades of charcoal and black.

That’s why I can’t access my druidic powers here. There’s no life to tap into. Everything is dead.

As that realization hit me, vrykolakai and varcolaci began to emerge from the barren forest. Within moments, scores of the undead creatures had entered the clearing, cutting off any potential path of escape I might’ve had. I was surrounded—and profoundly screwed.

CHAPTER

TWENTY-FOUR

At least now I know what happened to the missing townspeople from Caldwell.

I glanced around the clearing, taking stock of my current situation. The vampires ranged in appearance from short to tall, thin to broad, and everything in between. Each had that bloated, bruised look, like ripe fruit ready to burst. They leered at me hungrily, licking their chops and wiping the black pus that dripped from their swollen lips.

Shit, it’s like being in 30 Days of Night, but with twice as many vamps and no Melissa George to inspire my heroism.

The undead werewolves numbered fewer than the vamps, and they were smaller than her sons as well. They must’ve lacked the ability to take the form of a wolf, as all were in the hybrid half-wolf, half-human form most werewolves preferred. Like the others, poisonous black ichor wept from their eyes, mouths, and claws, falling in droplets to the ground as they paced and shifted in anticipation.

“Now you see, my sons were easily replaced.” Carman rasped. “They were expendable from the moment I gave them both life and death.”

Both life and death. Interesting.

The undead vyrus was essentially a necromantic pathogen. It reanimated dead flesh, giving it a semblance of life while staving off the natural process of decay. Unfortunately for vampires, you can’t make life from un-life. Therefore, a dead body couldn’t create energy at the cellular level.

That was why vamps continually had to feed on living creatures to survive. Metaphysically speaking, blood is life. Thus, the vyrus enabled vampires to magically absorb life energy from human blood while using heme and other blood-borne nutrients to repair and replace damaged tissue. Counterfeit life—that was how you created an undead creature.

On the other hand, the ‘thrope vyrus revved up the natural vibrancy of living cells. It took it and amplified that life force magically, combining it with the metaphysical essence and DNA of a given animal species. By intertwining the two and augmenting the host’s vitality with magic, the vyrus produced a creature practically overflowing with living energy.

Neit had been adamant that Carman created varcolaci by imbuing them with both kinds of magic. I’d initially found that difficult to believe, as they were anathema to each other. It shouldn’t have been possible for the two strains of the vyrus to exist in the same host, yet Carman had managed it.

But how? How could you get polar opposites to exist in the same space simultaneously?

When I showed Peg the vrykolakas’ head, she referred to its maker as wærloga—an oathbreaker. Luther claimed that vrykolakai and varcolaci were one and the same, and described the magic required to create them as ‘completely indifferent to the laws the gods set in place to reign in such powers.’ Similarly, Deichtine had recounted how Athena granted Carman access to primeval magic, the sean-draíocht.

There had to be a connection there, but I wasn’t seeing it. As I racked my brain for further clues, my attention was drawn to Carman’s cauldron. In Ancient Greece, such vessels had been used in sacrificial rites. Could it have something to do with the sorceress’ connection to her goddess, Athena?

For the first time, I looked at the cauldron in the magical spectrum. Suddenly, it all became clear.

Son of a bitch. She’s cheating.

Whether Carman realized it or not, that cauldron brimmed with chronourgic energy. While the connections weren’t visible to the naked eye, tendrils of magic snaked out from within the vessel, each attached at the other end to one of the varcolaci. That was the power Athena had granted Carman—the power of life and death.

No god or goddess would be crazy or dumb enough to give their minion complete control over time magic. In Carman’s case, however, it appeared that Athena granted her just enough to do the impossible. Specifically, to create conditions under which the two vyral strains could exist simultaneously in the same host.

So that they didn’t cancel each other out, the cauldron’s magic kept the two strains out of phase. It was a solution that was brilliant in its simplicity. To create an undead werewolf, you imbued the host with a time magic spell that kept the ‘thrope vyrus and vamp vyrus from coming into contact with one another.

Peg recognized it immediately, though I doubted she understood the full implications. That’s why she’d called Carman an ‘oathbreaker’ for using that kind of magic. She knew instinctively that the only way to create such a creature was to violate the edict of the gods.

Finally, I knew what to do to defeat Carman’s army. I had to destroy that cauldron and break the spell that sustained the varcolaci. Although I’d never used the talents Gwydion taught me to banish a chronourgic working, I believed it was entirely within my abilities. I just had to survive long enough to prepare the spell to do it.

As that realization washed over me, my gaze drifted from the cauldron to the dark nothingness within Carman’s hood. Her head tilted slightly, and her hands slowed as they stirred the pot’s contents. While I’d try to maintain a poker face, she saw something in my eyes that hadn’t been there before—hope.

“You’ve an odd look, young druid. I believe the time has come to end this discussion.” She stopped stirring and raised a white, cadaverous hand, drawing the rapt attention of her monstrous creations. “Devour him, my children, and leave nothing to mark his passing.”

When she gave the sign to attack, my mind was already working on a spell to counteract the cauldron’s effects. Had I been left alone to meditate on the problem, I could’ve come up with something in short order. But with a few dozen super-vampires and undead werewolves charging me from all directions, I got a bit distracted.

My first order of business was to avoid getting dogpiled. The second was to prevent a stray bite or swipe of those nasty claws. Of course, the third was to stay alive long enough to destroy the cauldron.

My initial reaction was to thicken my druid armor while activating enveloping energy around me. Hopefully, the combination would be enough to turn the odd bite or scratch.

Next, I sprung into a glide—right beneath the grasping arms of a skinny, malnourished werewolf with glowing yellow eyes and a missing upper canine. Another varcolaci and a vrykolakas converged on me as I slid away, leaping at me from opposite directions. In response, I repelled myself off the ground, launching into a somersault that took me over their heads and outside the circle of undead creatures.

Getting back to my feet allowed me to draw Dyrnwyn, although I was already on the move when the sword cleared its sheath. The damned thing was glowing bright enough to blind me, so I ran Naruto style, trailing the blade to avoid searing my retinas.

This was the first time Carman had seen me using Draoíocht Cogaidh. Her reaction to that unlikely sequence of magically assisted acrobatics was predictably apoplectic.

“He wields Bé Chuille’s art,” she shrieked. “Kill him!”

“Sportacus got nothin’ on me, bitch,” I yelled as I sliced a vrykolakas’ leg off at the knee. “Good luck with that.”

The vamps and undead werewolves were fast, but they were also newly made and not yet used to their abilities. Thus, they tended to bump into one another and trip each other up. I used that to my advantage, narrowly dodging and leaving them in a tangle of limbs, fighting each other to get at me.

After one such exchange, I pulled myself toward a tall pine at the edge of the clearing. I glided across the red dirt and grass only slightly faster than the short, bloated female vampire in yoga pants and a sports bra who was on my tail. On nearing the sixty-foot-tall tree, I repelled off its nearby mate, altering my course just enough to slip by on the left. As I did, I sliced the first clean through about five feet from the ground at an upward angle.

As I passed, I gave it a slight push, causing the upper section of the trunk to pop off and land atop the vampire chasing me. The tree buried itself in the soft East Texas clay, crushing the vamp and dragging it under. When I glanced back, all I saw from my side were purple ankles tucked into a threadbare pair of Nike running shoes.

I kept that up for a time, dodging, twisting, leaping, and rolling away, all while lopping off limbs when the opportunity arose. That strategy worked for a while. Unfortunately, my winning streak couldn’t last forever against such overwhelming odds.

Eventually, the remaining creatures wised up to my tactics, teaming up to distract me while others attacked from behind. When it happened, I was backpedaling away from a tall, bloated vamp in a Cannibal Corpse shirt with a bald head, tattooed neck, and various facial piercings. I sprang off the ground into a backflip to get some space, only to catch a nasty claw rake across my ribs while I was airborne.

While the varcolac’s claws had skittered off the enveloping field that protected me, the force of the attack sent me spinning as I continued my arc of travel. I landed awkwardly in the dirt and grass, holding Dyrnwyn to the side in an off-balanced, three-point push-up position. Worse, the werewolf that hit me was bounding after me like a hungry hyena, all ass and elbows in his stride.

With no time to react, I thrust Dyrnwyn at him as I rolled aside. The sword skewered the varcolac through the chest, embedding itself to the hilt. The blade was torn from my grasp as the beast passed, and I found myself lying on the ground, defenseless.

Of course, the remaining varcolaci and vrykolakai took the opportunity to dogpile me all at once. Within seconds, I found myself at the bottom of a pile of snarling, growling, biting, clawing monstrosities. Their rabid enthusiasm was likely the only thing that saved me, as the ones at the bottom were soon nearly immobilized as those above fought to get to me.

I struggled to get free, but the weight of twenty or so pus-filled, bloated vamps and weres was too much to budge. Soon, one of those closest managed to turn its head to get a solid bite. After several seconds of gnawing, my enveloping barrier and druid armor gave way. The vamp’s teeth pierced my upper thigh, injecting deader venom as it began to lap hungrily at the wound.

Instantly, the poisonous pathogen began infecting the muscles in my upper leg, burning like fire as it spread. Worse, the others smelled the blood, and their frenzied attempts to tear me apart intensified. Soon, two more creatures had managed to pierce my protections, weakening me further as they fed at will.

Then, one of them pierced an artery in my arm. The vyrus began to flow through my cardiovascular system, burning like acid as it traveled toward my heart. If I didn’t do something, it would disperse throughout my body in under a minute, and I might never recover from the infection.

There’s no way I’m going out like this. No. Fucking. Way.

Horrified by the prospect of being turned into one of the undead, I panicked. With a great exertion of will, I pushed against the horde in all directions. Without much thought to the consequences, I repelled myself off the ground, using more energy than I’d ever invested in a single application of the Twelve Powers.

Bodies sailed in all directions as I flew into the air. A handful of creatures clung to me, though all but three fell off as I made my ascent. I repelled them again, and two more fell away, leaving only the first who greedily hung on. He’d made it halfway through my thigh muscles, gnawing a chunk from my leg that looked like the inside of a blood-soaked cantaloupe.

I clouted the vrykolakas on the side of the head as we climbed high above the cursed forest below. Then, I felt something return to me—a tiny vestige of my druidic control over the elements.

With a prayer of thanks for small mercies, I clasped the vamp’s swollen, bruised head firmly in my hands. Growling with anger and disgust, I unleashed a lightning bolt from one palm to the other. Thunder clapped in miniature as white light flashed behind the creature’s coal-black eyes. Then they burst like blood pudding, running down my thigh and into the gaping wound.

The vampire went taut, then limp, before peeling away to plummet into the dark woods below. Still, I rose higher under the impetus of druid battle magic. By this time, I’d climbed at least fifty stories above ground.

Finally, I reached my apex. Then I began to fall.

The vyrus now coursed through my body, producing a hot, prickly sensation that ran from my skin down to my bones. It burned like acid in my veins, and I ran a brain-melting fever that had me shivering like a frightened pup. My mind was cloudy, my thoughts slow, and I had mere seconds to act before my body would be dashed against the earth below.

I needed a chance to problem-solve and then, to act.

Time magic was the first solution that came to mind. Yet, I hadn’t had the opportunity to prepare the spell needed to break the cauldron’s enchantment, much less save myself. As the wind whistled in my ears, I desperately sought another solution.

Wind. Air. The p’air-alyzation spell.

At the rate I was falling, I might have reentered Carman’s sphere of influence, but I had to try. I reached deep within, finding the spell among the enchantments I’d prepared, and cast it around my body instead of inside my airway. The air seemed to thicken as soon as the spell triggered, slowing my descent.

I hadn’t enough juice to freeze me in midair, but at least it was enough to slow my fall. That would have to do. Now, I needed to deal with the infection coursing within me before I reached the point of no return.

As I drifted like a leaf on the wind, ever closer to the ground, I chewed my thumbnail to trigger the fey magic Fionn had stolen from my master. Clarity washed over me like a spring rain, cold and invigorating, clearing the effects of the vyrus from my mind so I could think. Immediately, I had the answer to the infection—and defeating Carman’s minions as well.

Both kinds of vyruses had infected me, the vampire version and the ‘thrope version. Yet, the two couldn’t exist within the same host without Carman’s sorcery keeping them separate. All I needed to do was remove that magic from my body, and the two strains would cancel each other out.

Gwydion had taught me well, and with the Salmon’s wisdom flowing through me, it took only seconds to devise a chronomantic counter-spell. I formed the spell weaves in my mind and released it within myself.

Let’s hope this works.

No sooner had the casting eliminated the temporal shift keeping the vyral strains apart than I felt the result of the pathogens warring within me. My fever spiked, my shivering increased, and I convulsed in midair. Even so, I remained as clearheaded as ever under the influence of the Salmon’s magic, and my intellect and instincts said to let the battle run its course.

Greasy black sweat oozed from my pores as my body worked to eliminate the toxins produced by the death of the vyrus throughout my system. I concentrated my mental faculties on hastening the process, instructing my healing factor to hurry things along.

Down below, Carman’s creations howled and snarled, jumping and climbing over each other in anticipation of my return to earth. Despite slowing my descent, I’d reach the ground soon. If I couldn’t speed up my healing process, I’d be fighting the same battle again, but at an even greater disadvantage.

Gotta shift. It’s the only way.

Deichtine had cautioned me against using my powers in combination. Yet here I was, using druidry, battle magic, chronomancy, and Fionn’s gift all at once. If I added Fomorian magic on top of all that, it’d be like pouring a tanker full of gasoline on a brush fire.

Effectively paralyzed by convulsions, I struggled to turn my head and look down. Less than a hundred feet separated me from the earth. The ground approached faster now, and my rate of descent accelerated as I got closer to Carman’s influence. Worse yet, I still bled profusely from multiple wounds, and I was further weakened by the process of purging the vyral venom.

If I lose consciousness now, it’ll be game over.

I had no choice. With what felt like the last bit of willpower I could muster, I started shifting into my full Fomorian form.

Shifting midair was an odd, but not entirely unfamiliar, sensation. As I endured the change, my body expelled ash-colored pus, shedding it in fat droplets that floated away on the thickened air. The shift was over in seconds, just as I reached the uppermost heights of the dead forest, perhaps six stories above ground.

I reached into my Bag and drew Orna. Then, I ended the spell that had slowed my descent.

“Master, how good to—oh my,” Tethra’s greatsword said as we plummeted toward the mass of slavering vampires and howling undead ‘thropes below.

I wasn’t sure if the sword’s reaction was due to the enemies we faced or the fall. Either way, it was one of the few times I’d seen Orna go speechless, and frankly, I was happy for the respite.

Rather than allow gravity to pull me earthward at a reasonable speed, I used Draoíocht Cogaidh to accelerate my fall, pulling myself toward the ground. The magic responded with fluid efficiency, drawing me downward at an ungodly and highly unanticipated rate.

My Fomorian mind performed multiple calculations on the fly. Just as my feet made contact with the unlucky vamp who’d fought to the top of the pile, I repelled the vampires and ‘thropes and dropped my weight. Simultaneously, I enveloped my body to protect and fortify my prodigious Fomorian frame.

When 800 pounds of superhuman ugly plunges into a groping pile of undead at over 200 miles per hour, shit happens. My natural momentum and mass had been multiplied by the force of dropping, which increased my weight five-fold. Add to that how I’d repelled them downward, and the varcolaci directly beneath me got squashed flatter than a slow armadillo on IH-35 at rush hour.

I landed like the hand of God, with black blood and vampire guts flying out from a ten-foot diameter, two-foot deep circle stamped in the ground beneath me. The resulting shockwave caused many of the remaining vamps to stagger, giving me time to swing Orna in a wide circle. When I’d finished the first arcing cut, half their number had been dismembered.

The ten or so vamps and undead ‘thropes left recovered quickly, leaping at me in unison. I made a grasping motion with my deformed left hand, rooting the lot before they could reach me. Then I dropped them to the ground, multiplying their weight and mass one hundredfold with a thought.

Their bodies sank into the soil, bones creaking and cracking under the flesh-splitting strain. Some might heal, but not anytime soon.

With Carman’s minions out of the way, my Fomorian brain locked in on a single mission parameter—destroying that cauldron. Breaking that thing was the quickest way to end this confrontation. No enchantment, no varcolaci. It was simple math.

I turned to attend that task, only to find the blade of a ten-foot-long scythe coming at my face. Now that I’d refused to be overrun by her army of varcolaci and failed to be hindered by an absence of druidry, she’d run out of tricks. Thus, I discovered Carman could use her weapon for more than just stirring a kettle.

Reacting on instinct and Fomorian guile, I pulled myself backward, gliding away while bringing Orna to bear. The scythe whooshed harmlessly past, slicing the air not two spans of a gnat’s ass from my eyeballs as I slid away. Once out of range, I got my footing and released the effects, landing in a balanced fencing stance with the greatsword in Porta di Ferro.

“Vile titan,” she spat. “Ô miare bárbare!”

“Well, you’re one to talk,” I rumbled.

“No halfbreed should possess the knowledge of druidry and battle magic. You are the very thing my mistress Athena predicted to come out of Hibernia, and that which she sent me there to prevent.”

“Wait a minute. Athena sent you to conquer Ireland to prevent a Fomorian from learning druidry? What about Lugh? Didn’t he count?”

Her faceless hood swung side to side slowly. “You truly do not understand the power you possess. Ask yourself, what do the gods lack that man has in excess?”

“Lady, I honestly have no clue. But, just once, I wish someone would tell me before they tried to kill me.”

“Fool.” Carman’s laughter was like shed snakeskin being dragged across a sandstone floor. “Kérberos will feast upon my bones before I enlighten you, druid.”

I shrugged. “You said it, not me.”

Then, I attacked.

Being supernaturally strong and quick meant you could do things with an eight-foot blade that mortal fencers couldn’t. I came in with a diagonal upward slash from right to left, which she parried, holding the blade forward across her body. A scythe was an odd weapon to fence with, so I’d expected her to block in that exact manner, as there weren’t many ways she could wield it. Or, so I thought.

Just before our blades struck, I reversed the attack 180 degrees into a downward slash from the opposite direction. Carman responded by lifting the scythe to block the cut as she retreated. Sparks flew as Orna made contact with the wicked arc of blackened iron—yet the scythe did not give.

Initially, I’d hoped I could cut through the curved blade to strike her down, but I should be so lucky. The weapon had likely been forged by Hephaestus or one of his cyclopes. Much like the Bronze and Iron Age weapons crafted by Celtic gods such as Goibniu, Creidhne, and Luchtaine, such weapons were more than the sum of the quality of their components.

I advanced on her with rapid-fire cuts from multiple directions. Carman proved surprisingly adept at using her odd weapon, keeping up with me easily. While her face remained hidden within the recesses of her hood, I sensed her growing amusement as she handled the onslaught with skill and finesse. All the while, her movements remained unhurried and methodical despite the speed at which we fought.

Likewise, her shoulders were relaxed, and her stance balanced. No matter how unexpected the angle of my attacks, her pale, skeletal fingers held the scythe with just the right amount of pressure and friction, turning it at the precise angle needed to deflect every slash and slice. In short, she’d been here before, and she wasn’t at all worried about losing the battle.

Following that exchange, she floated away, moving twenty yards in the blink of an eye. I shouldn’t have been surprised that she possessed the physical abilities of her creations, but I honestly hadn’t expected the old bitty to be so spry. Then I remembered what a rough time Lugh, Bé Chuille, Crichinbel, and Aoi had in dealing with her the first time around.

“I wondered if you were just another enchantress,” I said as we stalked each other around the clearing. “You’re quite handy with that weed whacker of yours.”

“Pfah,” she spat. “My mistress chose me for good reason. I am the winnowing of the fields, the harvester of souls, the blade that lays nations fallow. Athena is not just the goddess of wisdom but of war. She prepared me well before sending me to conquer the land of your forebears.”

“And yet, you failed.”

She chuckled softly. “Four faced me then, and two were greater than you. Both Lugh of the Long Arm and Bé Chuille the War Witch could render you naught as dust and echoes with the barest exertion.”

“Hey, I made it through all these clowns,” I said as I casually stomped a twitching vamp’s melon flat. “Surely, I deserve more credit than that.”

“There are heroes and demigods, and then there are gods, druid. You won’t stand long against me, but never fear. After you fall, I’ll raise your corpse and send you to help finish the work with which I’ve been tasked. Your death will not be in vain.”

CHAPTER

TWENTY-FIVE

“I’ll have you know, my master has slain many a god in his time,” Orna snapped. “You’ll die like the rest, scraggy sorceress, and be yet another entry in the annals of McCool the God-Killer.”

“So, now you’ve decided to get chatty?”

“I was merely enjoying the slaughter and savagery in silence, as my master prefers,” the sword replied. “However, I grew bored during this lull in the battle and thought I might move things along with a well-timed insult.”

“A sword that talks,” Carman observed. “What a foolish indulgence. Magical objects should not speak, but only serve.”

“Th-th-the nerve of this haggard harpy,” Orna stammered. “The gall of this treacherous termagant, this crepuscular carper, this grousing gorgon. Madam, I shall take great pleasure when my master removes your countenance-less costard from those spare, bony shoulders.”

“Orna, let me do the talking if you don’t mind.”

“B-b-but she directly insulted my utility as your official chronicler. As if one of your stature and influence should go without an enchanted sword to record and recount your many great deeds.”

“While I appreciate the sentiment, the bard should never upstage the regent.” I cast a scathing glance the sword’s way for emphasis. “Now, hush.”

“The thing goes out of its way to prove me right,” Carman said.

I frowned. “Yeah, but didn’t Athena’s personal shipwright once craft a talking prow?”

“Argus grafted that accursed piece of timber to the Argo to get rid of it. Thereafter, Jason never could get the damned thing to hold its tongue. Thus, the real reason he brought Orpheus on that journey—to drown out the ship’s prattling.”

“I seem to recall that Argus went along as well.”

“Yes, but he did so against his will. Jason bade him go as punishment for saddling him with that chattering chunk of driftwood.”

“Huh,” I replied. “The more you know.”

“Indeed. You should also know, druid, I’ve only ever done as the gods bade. Just as Athena sent me across the oceans to perform her will, now I do as the Vampyri’s undead pseudo-gods command.” She tilted her head slightly. “I believe you’ve been bound by their wants as well, if not by compulsion, then by guile. Perhaps, rather than squabbling like children, we should become allies instead.”

“I doubt that Ateas made you do anything,” I replied. “He found you, and you cut a deal. He’d break you from your prison and raise you from the dead, and you’d supply the Vampyri with creatures powerful enough to kill a god. Am I missing anything?”

“You miss much. Would it shock you to find that the one who sent you assisted in raising me from my grave?” Carman gave a slow nod of understanding, reading something in my expression I didn’t intend to divulge. “I see. Neit didn’t share that he participated in my resurrection. You should know, these base creatures aren’t the only foul thing the fool asked me to raise.”

“Master,” Orna whispered. “Might I remind you that several said creatures are healing as we speak? Perhaps the witch has an ulterior motive for being so talkative.”

Now that he mentioned it, I noticed some bodies stirring around the clearing. The vamps would require blood to heal, but the hybrids, not so much. In another minute or two, I could be fighting a half-dozen varcolaci along with their maker.

“Right, right,” I muttered, turning my attention to the sorceress. “I should probably get back to slaying you now. No hard feelings or anything, but I am so damned tired of your abominations and their attempts to kill me. Not to mention that you slaughtered an entire town to create them. Whether you like it or not, Bony Moronie, you gotta go.”

“So you say,” the witch rasped in a sly, amused tone. “By all means, young druid—do as you deem best.”

I made no preamble, provided no cue, and gave no quarter as I sprung forward with a thrust to her midsection. I moved at the limits of my Fomorian abilities, multiplied by a factor of ten by druid battle magic. No werewolf or vampire could’ve matched me at that moment, as my thick frame and dense bones allowed me to push the Draoíocht Cogaidh to its limits.

Rather than being skewered by Orna, however, Carman faded to her left with supernatural speed and perfect timing. As she did, she brought the shaft of the scythe across her body, lifting the blade’s tip just so. It hardly grazed my skin, but that barest nick took the breath right out of me.

It was like stepping outside in the dead of winter and taking a breath of air so cold, you couldn’t take another. Or like falling into a freezing river, plunging through thin ice into waters chill enough to kill in seconds. Or maybe it was like being tased, where your body locks up, and you lose your strength and faculties all at once.

Or, maybe it was all those things at the same time. My muscles locked up, a chill ran down my spine, and I lost almost all motor control. One touch and I became as helpless as a newborn babe—or an old and feeble man.

Carman withdrew the scythe just as quickly as she’d touched me, slipping out of the way as I slumped bonelessly to my knees. Orna fell from my limp fingers as I leaned precariously to one side, my right hand flopping into my lap and the left somehow propping me upright. Only my sheer bulk kept me from falling all the way to the ground.

“Whah,” I half-muttered, half-mumbled. “Whah-ja do t’me?”

Carman floated closer and leaned in so her empty hood was right in my face. Her icy, crypt-stale breath left hoarfrost on my skin as she spoke.

“Winter’s touch, young druid,” she rasped. “Life stubbornly clings to the shell in sentient beings, all the more in those with divine blood. It will be a slow process, but your vitality will fade over the next few hours like a stalk of wheat after the first frost. Meanwhile, my children will feed on your lifeblood, hastening your end. Once your spirit passes over, I’ll raise your husk and make you one of my own.”

Then, I realized how she’d done this to me, and I came to understand the final secret of her magic. As a harvest goddess, Carman possessed the power of growth and withering, of planting and harvesting, of the cycles of nature. She wielded a version of time magic—one constrained to manipulating nature’s patterns and rhythms.

That was how she’d created the varcolaci, using her control of nature’s cycles to keep the vyral strains out of sync. She’d applied that same power to accelerate the process of aging within me, similar to the de-aging curse Boann had used on me months before.

Had I the ability to think clearly, I might’ve countered the spell with time magic. However, the effects of her scythe’s touch were such that I could hardly chain two spell forms together, much less weave an entire counter-spell. Still, I tried to gather enough will to oppose the curse within me, to stave off the effects of rapid aging somehow.

“Please don’t.” Carman leaned close, embracing me with one arm. She whispered in my ear like a lover with the scythe held to one side. “You’ll only hasten your demise. Now that I’ve gone to the trouble, I want to savor the revenge I’ve waited so long to enjoy.”

I wanted to snap back with a sharp reprisal, to make some biting remark in defiance of her absolute confidence. Though I tried to speak, all that came out of my mouth was spittle. In the end, I knelt there slack-jawed, with drool running down my face.

The reality was that only the simplest magicks were currently within the grasp of my time-addled brain. At most, I could perform a few simple cantrips or druidic spells that involved base control of the elements.

Yet, all such magic relied on the presence of nature’s energies and my connection to them. Carman had removed every last iota of life for miles, cutting off my ability to connect with the living world beyond her borders.

Desperate to find some way to escape my predicament, I cast my senses about, searching for the faintest trace of living energy. I found nothing there, not a single blade of grass left alive under the crush of the harvest goddess’ influence.

“I see the frenzied strain in your eyes, half-breed, despite your slack expression.” Her soft voice might’ve been soothing were it not for the hateful undertone punctuating each syllable. “Soon, your fear will turn to disbelief and despair. Finally, you’ll resign yourself to your fate. A quickening will come, and then you’ll fade as rapidly as my magic can leech the life from your body. This is how it is for all who accept death’s embrace.”

So certain was she of her words, I almost believed her—but the Fomorian within me would not give up. It continued to fight, scheme, and search for any advantage or overlooked detail that I could leverage.

There.

I could barely lift my gaze, but out from under one heavy eyelid, I caught a glimmer, a soft glow buried beneath a pile of bodies.

Dyrnwyn.

I reached out to be certain and found exactly what I’d hoped for—the sword’s smooth wooden hilt beneath the wire and leather-wrapped handle. That bit of nature, at least, had not been made barren by Carman’s magic. The small glimmer of life left in it shone brightly in my mind like a beacon in the dark.

I called it, and it came.

The bright sword of Rhydderch Hael cut through the corpses atop it as if they were butter, and it flew straight and true to my hand. Which, as it happened, was blocked by Carman’s bony torso as she held me in her cold embrace. The witch gasped as I felt the comforting warmth of Dyrnwyn’s hand-and-a-half hilt land in my grasp.

Carman shrieked and pushed herself away from me, with the shining glory of the white-hot blade preventing her from making a clean escape. The sword’s pommel and cross guard had punched a neat cleft in her rib cage, shattering bone along the way. The dry, splintered ends of her ribs poked through a hole in her cloak right next to Dyrnwyn’s blazing edge.

The sword flared, igniting robe and body both. As Dyrnwyn’s warmth filled me, my strength returned, and the cold clutch of Carman’s magic weakened. I lifted the blade straight up, splitting her torso from sternum to clavicle. Then I cut downward in reverse, dividing her upper half from the lower, shoulder to hip.

The two halves fell away as the fire spread, burning the thick cloth, desiccated flesh, and marrowless bone like so much paper and kindling. She released her scythe, choosing instead to try dragging herself toward the cauldron with one arm. Maybe she thought to up-end it and dowse herself with the contents, or she intended to make a direct plea to her goddess.

Honestly, I didn’t care. I followed her on shaking legs and drove Dyrnwyn straight down between her shoulder blades, pinning her to the earth. The sword flared again, blazing even brighter as the tremendous heat consumed the sorceress’ remains.

When nothing was left but ash and bone fragments, I grabbed Carman’s lower half and threw it atop the rest for good measure. Then I picked Orna up and marched over to the cauldron. Holding the greatsword high overhead, I brought it down with all my Fomorian might, shearing the metal basin into two halves that fell on either side of the tripod.

The contents of the thing spilled everywhere, and when I saw what it contained, I nearly lost my shit.

I’d been right about the nature of the tripod, though I wished I’d been wrong. Small skeletal remains floated in the dirty gray murk that doused the strange green flames beneath. It didn’t take a coroner’s autopsy to see that these were the bones of infants and children.

The cauldron had served as an altar, upon which Carman had sacrificed these kids to her wicked goddess in exchange for the power she wielded. I hadn’t even considered that there might’ve been children among the missing. Though I doubted I could’ve intervened in time, I still felt guilty over my failure to stop Carman and her sons early on.

More deaths to lay at the feet of the Vampyri and the gods.

My destruction of the sacrificial cauldron caused the odd, ancient magic to dissipate like smoke on the wind. Along with it went the stasis effect that had sustained vrykolakai and varcolaci alike. With the two vyral strains at odds, what remained of the creatures quickly rotted and decayed. Soon, all that was left of the abominations were a few dozen piles of moldering bones.

Likewise, my ability to sense the ebb and flow of nature returned with the witch’s passing. With my ability to use druidry restored, I paused to bury the dead, taking care to be as reverent as possible. When I finished placing all thirty-three graves in the center of the clearing, the sun was peeking over the treetops to the east—a welcome sight.

The last thing I did was to melt the scythe, cauldron, and tripod to slag, and then I sent what was left into the Void. I did the same for all Carman’s remains save her skull, which I’d use to claim my payment from Neit. It looked like any other humanoid skull, with no atypical features or anatomical anomalies to mark it as having once belonged to a goddess. What secrets she’d kept hidden within the hood of her cloak, I’d never know.

After a brief examination, the witch’s blackened, bony pate went in my Bag. All obligations fulfilled, I walked to the edge of the barren forest, and there I found both my Oak and Failinis waiting for me.

The Oak’s leaves shifted colors as I approached, from the deep reds of autumn to the vibrant greens of summer. Occasionally, his limbs would shudder on the side nearest the decimated forest. He was clearly incensed at what the sorceress had done to the trees, and I couldn’t blame him.

Failinis, on the other hand, was happily using Dian’s tattered, bloody head as a plaything when I found them. He kept tossing it high into the air, only to catch and shake it each time it came back down. It would’ve been funny if it hadn’t been so gruesome.

When he noticed I’d returned, the great hound brought the varcolac’s head over and dropped it at my feet. Then he sat on his haunches, tail wagging as he panted happily, waiting for me to examine the neat gift he’d brought. I patted him on the side of the neck and smiled.

“Thanks for the backup, buddy. And for saving my bacon.”

He barked once in reply. Then Lugh’s hound plopped down on his stomach and started gnawing the shit out of the varcolac’s decapitated head.

I softly snort-chuckled, and then I turned to my Oak. “How are the trolls?”

He sent me an image of thirteen grass sprouts in a row, one of which had been cut short.

“I’m sad that we lost someone, but at least it wasn’t worse. Thanks for getting them out of there so quickly.” I turned my attention to the forest, gesturing at the destruction Carman had left. “Now, we have work to do.”

We spent days razing the forest, one section at a time. I’d burn an acre to the ground with druidry, and then the Oak would plant a multitude of saplings while seeding for future undergrowth. Accurate ecosystem diversity was the goal, so we planted local shrubs like beautyberry, buttonbush, and wax myrtle. We then added a variety of vines, wildflowers, and all manner of native ivy, ferns, and mosses.

The only things we didn’t touch were the clearing and graves at the forest’s center. I left those as-is, save for marking each with a stone. Before we left, I etched a triquetra into every marker and then warded the graves against vandalism and necromancy.

By the time we finished, the animals had started to return. Despite our best efforts, however, an echo of the witch’s influence remained. Evil had touched the forest, and it’d always remain a dark and haunted place.

“Looks like we’ll have to find another location for my druid school and werewolf sanctuary,” I said, patting the Oak’s trunk. “Think you can manage that while I handle some business?”

The Oak sent me an image of a bear shitting in the woods.

“Oh, you have jokes and a teenager’s attitude now, eh?”

I chuckled quietly at the tree’s snark, which soon morphed into full-on, uncontrollable belly laughter. Before I knew it, the tree shook its leaves along with me, and then we were just two kids cracking up at a private jape. It took several minutes for my laughter to subside. When I was done, I sat slumped against the Oak’s roots, clutching my stomach and giggle-sighing contentedly.

“Oh, I needed that. This has been one long, jacked-up trip, and it ain’t over yet.” The Oak sent me an image of us standing silhouetted against a darkening sky. “No, you’d best stay here and find me a location for a sanctuary. This is something I have to do alone.”

For once, my problem child didn’t sulk at being told ‘no.’ We sat like that for a time, enjoying each other’s company and admiring our work. Then it was time to go, so I called Failinis over.

“You ready, boy?”

He barked once, and then we were off to Underhill.

CHAPTER

TWENTY-SIX

I had the Oak send us to the coast in Tír na nÓg, right across from Neit and Nemain’s isle. We stood on the shore and waited until a thin bridge made of stone formed across the gap. Failinis followed me across that treacherous span, suspended hundreds of feet above waves that churned and dashed against the rocks below.

Neither of us showed any fear as we crossed. It never paid to reveal weakness to such narcissistic creatures. Mercy wasn’t in their nature, and they’d always use it against you, no matter how justified your lapse may have been.

We found Neit sitting on a large rock on the other side of the chasm. He was alone, staring at the ground with his thick, scarred forearms propped on his knees as we approached. The god chewed a sprig of grass as he waited, empty-handed and staring into the distance.

I tossed Carman’s skull on the ground at his feet. “Job’s done. Time to square up.”

He glanced up, casting his hooded gray gaze first at me and then Failinis. “Druid. Hound.”

Failinis growled deep in his throat. Rather than sit, he stood by my side, his keen, unblinking eyes trained on the god.

Neit humphed. “Always hated that dog.”

“Looks like the feeling’s mutual.” I glanced around, exhaling heavily as I scratched my nose with a knuckle. “I’m back, and the deed’s done, whether you expected my return or not. If you don’t mind, I’ll be taking the staff and leaving as soon as you hand it over.”

“Ah, yes—the staff.” He spat. “Accursed thing, that.”

“All such things are.” I was starting to get annoyed, but I kept my anger concealed. “Look, can we just settle up and be done? I didn’t come to chit-chat.”

“The task innit’ complete,” he replied. “Not yet. Finish it, an’ I’ll pay you, fair and square.”

“Not complete?” I threw my hands in the air. “Do you know what I had to go through to kill that bitch? Not to mention her offspring. You sent me on a fool’s errand, Neit. Now that I’ve done what you asked, you’re telling me I didn’t finish the job?”

He met my gaze squarely, not with anger or resentment but sorrow. The god’s eyes were rimmed red, his face was drawn, and it looked like he hadn’t trimmed or groomed his beard in days. Haggard and soul-worn—that was the only way to describe him.

“I specifically asked ya’ ta’ destroy na mairbh neamhbhásacha, an’ the one who made ‘em.” He flipped the skull over with his toe, so it stared up at him. “This ‘un’s dead, which means ya’ destroyed her kith an’ kin as well. But there’s one that remains.”

My eyes narrowed as I cocked my head slightly. “Is this a trick?”

He shook his head slowly. “No trick. Just a task I cannot do myself.”

He hung his head and pointed behind without looking. That’s when I noticed Nemain sitting much as she had the last time I’d been here. Again, she was surrounded by fae handmaidens, replacements for the kelpies I’d killed on my previous visit.

For the first time, I looked—really looked—at Neit’s wife. The goddess sat on the ground, splay-legged like a child, staring slack-jawed into space. Her eyes were empty, void of that spark of life and intelligence that most would recognize in a sane and present mind. Her skin was pallid, her lips blue, and faint spider veins crisscrossed every exposed area of her flesh.

She’d been well cared for; that much was plain. Yet, it was also apparent that she could not care for herself. A quick druidic scan confirmed what I’d overlooked the first time around—though she retained her divine status, Nemain was one of the undead.

I looked at Neit. “How?”

“Did I not say we paid a high price for treachery? With his dyin’ breath, the Dagda cursed her ta’ suffer a slow, agonizing death. She brought me back with the staff, only to watch her pass. Ollathair’s curse prevented me from using his magic on Nemain, and thus, I was left bereaved.”

“But you couldn’t accept it.”

“Nay. I knew the deamhain fola wanted ta’ finish this war. Wasn’t hard ta’ talk them inta’ bringin’ the sorceress back across the Veil.”

I ran a hand over my face. “You thought Carman’s unique powers could bring Nemain back. Why didn’t you wait for your wife to resurrect on her own? What’s a few centuries to an immortal?”

“D’ya know what it is ta’ live with someone for millennia, lad? Ta’ spend each day knowin’ that, sure as the sun rises, they’ll be there?” He scowled. “‘Course ya’ don’t. Suffice it ta’ say I couldn’t live without her, not that long.”

I glanced at Nemain. “So, the sorceress got her revenge in the end.”

“Indeed. She did as I asked an’ raised the corpse, but she couldn’t bring the spirit back from the grave.” He hung his head. “I was left with a husk, an’ that’s all.”

“You didn’t want to make things right by getting rid of the varcolaci. You wanted vengeance for being betrayed.” It was impossible to keep the disdain from my voice. “Why’d you send me? You could’ve easily done this yourself.”

“Easy? It took four of us ta’ defeat her the first time. ‘Sides, I was bound by my word.” He wiped his eyes and looked away. “You were a shot in the dark, at best.”

“This is just too much.” I thought back to how I’d been duped into coming here in the first place. “Did Gwydion put you up to it?”

“Who?” Neit shook his head. “Nay. Haven’t seen that fool in centuries. An’ don’t have a clue why he’d be involved.”

You don’t know him like I do.

I tongued a molar as I considered my next words carefully. “If I do this for you, we’re even. I get the staff, and you and Nemain never bother me, or any other druid, ever again.”

“Agreed.”

Neit waited, back turned, while I handled what he could not. Dyrnwyn made quick work of Nemain, separating her head from her shoulders cleanly in a single cut.

“It’s done.”

He didn’t bother with visual verification. The staff appeared at my feet, a length of round oak thick as my arm and shod with iron at one end, silver at the other. I examined it in the magical spectrum to verify it was real and almost got blinded for my trouble. The staff went in my Bag, then I headed for the bridge with Failinis at my side.

Before I crossed, I stole a final glance. The last thing I saw before leaving the island was Neit weeping as he cradled his wife’s headless corpse in his lap. I thought of all the people killed by Carman and her creations, and then I kicked the dust off my feet and crossed over to the mainland.

Gwydion stood on the other side when we arrived, grinning like an idiot. “You got it! I knew ya’ could do it.”

I showed him the palm of my hand. “You’re the absolute last person I want to see right now.”

He dropped his gaze and toed a rock. “I can imagine.”

“Why, Gwydion? Why draw me into a situation that would force me to take another step toward godhood?”

He gave an almost imperceptible shrug. “Because ya’ won’t do it on your lonesome.”

“I just can’t with you sometimes, you know that?” I scratched my head and laughed, although there was little humor in it. “Listen to me very carefully. I don’t want to be a god.”

“You’ve little choice in the matter. Forces align against you, the sort you cannot withstand. Not without amassing every bit o’ power at your disposal.” He flashed a kooky, unhinged grin, spreading his hands wide. “An’ look on the bright side—you’re a battle druid now, you have the Dagda’s staff, an’ you can bring him and Lugh back from the dead. All’s well that ends well, I say.”

My voice was strained as I replied. “Might I remind you that Lugh wouldn’t be dead if it weren’t for your meddling? I’d have never set out on this path so recklessly if you hadn’t messed with my head.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t call it messin’ so much as inserting the odd suggestion here an’ there.”

“That’s the very definition of messing, you dope.”

“I’m a trickster, lad. Whaddya want me to do? Ask politely?”

The growl that escaped my throat made even Failinis shy away. My other side was dangerously close to the surface, and when it emerged like this, it was never good. Click’s idiocy had brought me to the edge of violence, and that wouldn’t end well for anyone involved.

Instead of shifting, I took a few calming breaths, eyes closed, until the fit passed. When I opened them, Gwydion still grinned at me like a fool.

“You know I can feel it now?” I said. “That power, passing me like a rushing river, just at the edge of my awareness. As if I could reach out and touch it any time I like.”

“I know,” he gushed. “Innit’ grand?”

It’d been the combined use of magic that did it, just like Deichtine warned. Ever since I accessed my talents in concert, I felt something ‘other’ present, a foreign and altogether frightening power. Much like the magic of Mag Mell in my original timeline, it beckoned to me, tempting me to use it and do whatever I wished.

Once I tapped into it, I knew it’d be like crack to a junkie. That sort of power was never meant to be in mortal hands. I had no idea where it came from, but it wasn’t something I cared to mess with, as the price was too high.

Loss of sanity… loss of humanity… an inability to die a normal death… the total loss of empathy for others over time—none of that sounded like a just exchange for becoming a god.

God of druidry? More like the god of fools. That I could do without, and I said as much to Gwydion.

“No, it’s not grand. It turned you mad, you jib-jabbering fool.”

“Mad? Me?” He clutched imaginary pearls. “Why, I’m sane as school zone speed limits, as stable as Atlas’ footing. ‘Lucidity’ is my middle name, along with Tadhg, Emrys, Owyn, and Chadrone. Okay, maybe not Owyn, as I was never well-born. But I stand by Chadrone.”

“Uh-huh. No offense, but just look at you. You’re nuttier than squirrel shit in a pecan grove. What do you think immortality would do to someone with the ríastrad, eh? You think it’ll be even that gentle? I might become a monster.”

Click gave me a knowing look. “Or, ya’ just might become the bane of the gods, an’ the savior of humanity.”

“I believe that job’s taken. I just want to save a few and go home.”

“Think they’ll leave it at that? Do ya’ think they’ll give you a choice?”

“No,” I said, shaking my head. “But it’ll still be my decision when the time comes.” I shot him a hard, dangerous look. “Mess with my head again, and I’ll kill you or die trying.”

“You’d have ta’ catch me first, boyo. Be seein’ ya.”

He mock saluted me, parodying my signature gesture. Then, he faded out into nothingness.

“Not if I see you first, you daft bastard.” Failinis whined at my side. “I know, we have things to do. Let’s resurrect my brother. Then, I’m getting you a Puppuccino.”

The giant hound barked and wagged his tail with enthusiasm.

“Fair warning, though, the place is run by vampires. Try not to dismember any until after we get our drinks. Especially not the barista. He can be pissy, but he’s a decent dude—once you get to know him.”

When we got to Lugh’s castle, everything was more or less as I left it. Before we entered the bailey, I scanned for miles around, looking for some sign of Hearne. He still owed me for what he did to my brother, and I intended to collect.

Hearne’s camp was cold and had been for a while. It was just as well since Lugh might’ve wanted dibs on him. Speaking of which, it was time to test out the Dagda’s staff.

A little druidry was all it took to dig Lugh up from his grave. After removing him from his coffin, I carried him inside and removed the linen shroud, then I laid him in bed and covered him in blankets. Once I’d stoked a fire and got a bit of broth heated, I produced the Dagda’s staff, which had shrunk to human proportions while it was inside my Bag.

“Man, fae artifacts are weird as fuck,” I said as I pulled the thing out. “Now, which end is the one that does the killing, and which does the raising?”

After some deliberation, I remembered that the silver end was the healing side. With more than a small amount of trepidation, I exposed Lugh’s pale, cold chest and touched that end to his breastbone.

“Alright, staff—do your thing.”

Nothing happened. I stood there, feeling foolish, while holding a stick to my dead brother’s chest. Then, I remembered the words my timeline’s Dagda had spoken when he used the staff on Aengus Óg.

“Tá tú déanta iomlán,” I said.

The shaft warmed slightly in my hands. As it did, color began to return to Lugh’s flesh. The wound in his chest healed, the discoloration around the hole vanished, and his chest began to rise and fall. I put the staff away and pulled up a chair, then I waited for my half-brother to awaken, with Failinis curled up next to me on the floor.

A few hours later, he stirred and spoke. “Ach. How long’ve I been out?”

“Actually, you were⁠—”

“Dead, yes.” His voice was rough and weak, but at least he was alive. “Wipe that silly grin off your face, and tell me how long.”

“A day, at most. Underhill time that is.”

He shut his eyes and grimaced. “Then why did you bury me? Don’t deny it—I can smell the coffin wood and earth on my skin.”

“Well, I didn’t know if my plan would work. And, neither did Deichtine.”

Lugh nodded. “Figured it out, eh? Have ta’ be careful what I say in the open. Wouldn’t want some fecker gettin’ bright ideas, ya’ know.”

“She helped me tons. No way could I have done this without her.”

“Figured she would.” The god cracked an eyelid. “Quite fetchin’ she is. Didja’ keep yer’ hands to yerself whilst ya’ trained?”

“Hey bro, c’mon. She’s old enough to be my mother. I mean, literally as old as our mother.”

“Don’cha let Deichtine hear ya’ say that, or you’ll be in fer’ a trouncing.” He closed his eyes again, and for a moment, I thought he’d drifted off to sleep. “Where’s Cernunnos?”

“Camp’s cold, and he’s in the wind. Want me to track him down?”

“Nay, not yet. I’ll visit Deichtine for a time. When I’ve regained my strength, we’ll hunt him together. It’s high time these tossers remembered what it is ta’ fear the Fomóire.”

“Sounds like a plan.” I thought about Crowley, and the broken wards at the Castle House. “I have a few things to do, anyway.”

“Haven’t used that thing on him yet, I take it.”

“Um, nope. Figured I’d test it on you first.”

“Good thing ya’ didn’t use the wrong end. It’d be centuries before my body reconstituted itself.”

I gulped. “Yikes. Glad I figured it out.”

“Ya’ had ta’ have seen it done before. Else, you’d not have known the words.”

“True, true. Meh, I’d have made the association anyway. Dian Cécht doesn’t make prostheses out of iron, after all.”

“Smart lad. Just remember, the Dagda’s been under for a time. It’ll be a while afore he’s up ta’ snuff. You’ll need ta’ keep him safe until then.”

“Riiiight.” I actually hadn’t thought that far ahead. “I guess I’ll need to recruit some help, then.”

“Find that lass who worked for him, the one that used ta’ be a dryad. She’ll know what ta’ do.”

“Jesse. Okay. Anything else I should know?”

“Nothing that can’t wait. Take Failinis with you, just in case. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to take a nap.”

“I’ll leave you be. Tell Deichtine I said hi.”

Lugh was snoozing hard when I left for the Grove with Failinis in tow. When we arrived, the hound held point for a moment, then he bounded off into the woodlands after… well, who knew? I didn’t bother calling after him. Who was I to get between a dog and his fun?

“I’d no idea you were acquainted with the King of Hounds.”

The voice was soft and feminine, with the barest whiskey edge to it. I spun in a crouch, only to find a very naked, very shapely redhead standing in the grass behind me. She seemed absolutely unselfconscious about her state of undress, and completely unperturbed by the twin balls of flame that hovered above my hands.

“Who—?” I ran her voice over again in my mind. “Smokedancer?”

She blinked, drawing my attention to the gold flecks in her bright green eyes. “We normally don’t take these shapes unless we’re forced to live amongst humans incognito. However, I thought it might help us overcome our recent communication issues.”

I averted my gaze—or, rather, I kept my gaze focused on her forehead. “I’m sorry I insulted you. That wasn’t my intention.”

“As I’m aware. I’ve been in this form for a time, awaiting your return. Taking human form helps dragons see things from the mortal perspective. I realize that you meant well.”

“Ah,” I replied, clearing my throat. “If it makes you uncomfortable, you can change back anytime.”

She smiled, flashing brilliant white teeth at me. “Not at all. If we’re to be mated, I think this is the best form by which we should communicate.”

“Well, if it makes you—” I squeezed my eyes shut and shook my head. “Wait, say what?”

“You plainly stated that you enjoy my company. In light of your advances, I’m willing to allow you to vie for the position of life-mate and protector of my brood.”

Aw, shit. Me and my dumb mouth.

This ends Book 3 of The Sylvan Cycle. Colin will return in Book 4, Sylvan Druid!

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR

M.D. Massey describes himself as the prototypical INTJ. His eclectic background provides him with a rich tapestry of experiences to draw on when crafting fiction, as evidenced by the believable worlds and relatable characters he creates.

Mr. Massey lives in Austin, Texas with his family and a huge American Bulldog that keeps him company while he writes. When he's not in his office or at the local coffee shop writing, you can find him in his garage pummeling inanimate objects, or knife fighting with his friends.