Hammered (The Iron Druid Chronicles, #3)

by Kevin Hearne

They want specific nuggets of wisdom, like “Don’t boop the snoot of great white sharks,” or “Never eat sushi in a restaurant where you’re the only customer.” But even these sound a bit disappointing. “Stay away from the guy who throws lightning bolts,” though—that’s a classic. Highly recommended.

That’s right, there’s free beer in Irish paradise. Everyone’s jealous.

Oberon spoke up. <Now, see, you can’t just drop a line like that without a little something extra. He should get Danny Elfman to compose a chilling soundtrack especially for him, so that when he says macho stuff he can play it back on one of those personal recorders and give the moment its proper melodrama. Or at least he could give us a “Mwah-ha-ha-ha!”>

<I think The Boondock Saints, because the Irish guys win. Plus the cat ends badly. It affirms my worldview and I feel validated.>

I yawned and stretched luxuriously in the morning. I make noises when I stretch, because it feels ten times better than stretching silently.

Awesome! I’d just bullied Jesus into doing a shot with me. Nobody would ever believe it, but I didn’t care.

“Gaaaaah!” “Wah, wah, wah, you’re such a crybaby,” he said. “It’s just a flesh wound, as the Black Knight would say. Stand up.” “Wait. Did you just quote the Holy Grail?” “Why not? It was an inspired piece of filmmaking.” He winked at me. “Now stand up.” “You don’t mean divinely inspired, do you?”

“Is monstrous fuckpuddle,” Perun asserted, and everyone turned to stare at him with equal parts amusement and bemusement. “What? Is this not English word?” I suggested that if it wasn’t a word, it should be, and the others agreed.

In my opinion, Caesar was simply a sword wielded by the hands of vampires in Rome.

He was paralyzed from the waist up. Zhang, still hanging upside down, relaxed and spread his arms wide in a sort of “ta-da!” gesture. I led our group in a round of appreciative golf claps.

I looked at Leif. “If we hadn’t been here, would he have made a sound?” Leif snorted once in amusement but made no reply.

The Morrigan purred with the praise and stepped close to kiss me farewell. She yelped when she pressed against my chest. “You’re bloody cold!” she said. “And you’re not? You’re standing bare-assed in the snow and you’re telling me you’re all warm and toasty?” “Raise your core temperature, you fool!” “Oh.” I nodded as if I knew what she was talking about, but she kept staring at me expectantly, waiting for me to obey her command. So I was forced to say, “Um, how do you do that?” She slapped me across the face. For the Morrigan, that wasn’t even a mild rebuke. She was just making sure I was paying attention. “How have you survived all this time without knowing that particular binding?” “With many layers of warm clothing, like everybody else.” “Where are these layers now?” “Elsewhere, regrettably.”

“Thank you, Morrigan. This is very helpful,” I said, already feeling myself warming up. “And delivered to me entirely without pain.” The Morrigan sucker-punched me hard in the face, sending me sprawling in the snow and breaking my nose. “You spoke too soon and with entirely too much sarcasm,” she said. “We could have parted with a kiss. Remember that. And remember that I advised you not to fight the Norse. Consider it well.” She spread her arms and they blackened; her legs rose from the ground and also turned black as her body bound itself to the form of a crow; and she flew west toward the root of the World Tree, where she could shift away from this plane, leaving me to bleed and regret my choice of words.

He had a beardcicle thicker than my neck and longer than my torso.

Druid’s Log, December 3: “Hitching a ride on a frost giant’s back is both entertaining and eco-friendly.”

I looked down and realized with some embarrassment that I’d left my clothes back in Asgard. It was precisely the reaction they’d been hoping for, and they clutched at their bellies and roared with unbridled mirth.

The name Granuaile MacTiernan hardly matters anymore; it is just something that people call me. The elemental, Sonora, calls me Workhorse, and that is who I am now in my heart. I will do whatever work the earth requires until my days are ended.