Hounded (with two bonus short stories): Book One of The Iron Druid Chronicles

by Kevin Hearne

There are many perks to living for twenty-one centuries, and foremost among them is bearing witness to the rare birth of genius. It invariably goes like this: Someone shrugs off the weight of his cultural traditions, ignores the baleful stares of authority, and does something his countrymen think to be completely batshit insane. Of those, Galileo was my personal favorite. Van Gogh comes in second, but he really was batshit insane.

A sword swished below my knees without so much as a “Have at thee!” and the arm swinging it pulled its owner off balance when I jumped over it.

Thank the Gods Below for paranoia. I classified it as a survival skill rather than a neurotic condition;

She is a nice inhuman.>

So after I killed him and stowed his body next to the doe, I sampled his smoothie concoction in the parking lot and found it to be quite delicious.”

The guest is to be treated like a god, because he may, in fact, be a god in disguise.

After I cleared away the dishes and Oberon Khan had enjoyed his tea, it was time to make myself a target.

<Well, then, give her back the check and send her packing! We don’t need to play her witch’s games. They always want to get you and your little dog, too.> I knew I never should have let you watch The Wizard of Oz. <Toto didn’t deserve that kind of trauma. He was so tiny.>

‘A friend will help ye move, Katie, but a really good friend will help ye move a body.’

“Yer a good lad, Atticus, mowin’ me lawn and killin’ what Brits come around.”

Cowardly? Bleh. Tell you what: Let’s debate the meaning of honor and see who lives longer.

<You’ve been kissed by three goddesses in as many days,> Oberon said once Brighid had left, <so I think you owe me three hundred French poodles. That should make us about even.>

if Aenghus Óg was truly making an alliance of some kind with hell, then death would come for me on a pale horse, according to Revelation 6:8.