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.

Sometimes I forget what I look like and I do something out of character, such as sing shepherd tunes in Aramaic while I’m waiting in line at Starbucks, but the nice bit about living in urban America is that people tend to either ignore eccentrics or move to the suburbs to escape them.

The Morrigan’s ideas of sport and mine varied widely. As a Chooser of the Slain, she tends to enjoy nothing so much as a protracted war. She hangs out with Kali and the Valkyries and they have a death goddesses’ night out on the

battlefield. I, on the other hand, stopped thinking war was glorious after the Crusades. Baseball is more my kind of thing these days.

<Will we go hunting soon?> That depends entirely on the visitor. Whoever she is, she was not invited. <Oh.> A hint of uncertainty crept into Oberon’s thoughts. <Have I failed to protect you?> Do not worry, Oberon, I said. I am not displeased with you. But I am going to come back and get you, and we will enter the house together.

I want you to guard me in case she proves not to be as friendly as you thought. <What if she attacks?> Kill her. One does not give the Tuatha Dé Danann second chances.

“Quite right. 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.” See, sentences like that are why I nurture a healthy fear of the Tuatha Dé Danann.

I thought of the stoners who came into my shop earlier, probably already dead at the hands of the Morrigan, and how they would have been equally dead had they found Flidais in their kitchen. They would have seen her and said something like, “Yo, bitch, the fuck you doin’ with my strawberries?” and those would have been their last words.

Mary will appear more often, though, and she can do some pretty awesome stuff if she feels like it. Mostly she sits around looking beatific and full of grace. Keeps calling me ‘child,’ even though I’m older than she is.”

What does one do when one needs to pray to the gods for patience but a god is causing the need for patience?

After my bathtime story, he wanted to be the Genghis Khan of dogs. He wanted a harem full of French poodles, all of whom were named either Fifi or Bambi. It was an amusing habit of his: Oberon had, in the past, wanted to be Vlad the Impaler, Joan of Arc, Bertrand Russell, and any other historical figure I had recently told him about while he was getting a thorough cleansing. His Liberace period had been particularly good for my soul: You haven’t lived until you’ve seen an Irish wolfhound parading around in rhinestone-studded gold lamé.

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

<Why do I need to be invisible?> “Because after last night, people may come hunting you. And because if faeries come hunting me, I want you to take them by surprise.” <That’s not very sporting.> “It is fine to be sporting when we hunt. It is ridiculous to be sporting in war, and often fatal.”

<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.>

<When he said to give him the sword, I don’t think he meant for you to stick it in his guts,> Oberon said. He took a swipe at me with his sword, I replied. <He did? I didn’t see that.> He didn’t see you either. Well done.

“Why didn’t ye get yerself a gun like all these American boys do?” I grinned at her. “Because I’m Irish, Mrs. MacDonagh. And I’m your friend.”

“Ah, well then ye can bury the bastard in me backyard, and God damn the queen and all her hellish minions.” “Amen,” I said, “and thank you.”

“Good night, Mrs. MacDonagh.” She swayed a bit as she searched for the door handle. “Yer a good lad, Atticus, mowin’ me lawn and killin’ what Brits come around.” “Think nothing of it, please,” I said. “And it’s probably best if we kept this between us.” “O’course,” she said, finally finding the door and yanking it open. “G’night.”

I pulled on the clean shirt and kept my eyes on the blinds across the street. My neighbor, Mr. Semerdjian, had always been the snoopy sort. He had held me in deep suspicion from the day I moved in, because I did not own a car.

Three black-and-whites pulled up to my house, alerting all my other neighbors that the noise they had been ignoring was something to worry about after all. Six officers jumped out of the cars and pointed guns at us over their car doors. “Freeze!” one of them shouted, even though we were standing perfectly still. Another one snarled, “Hands above your head!” and yet another said, “Drop the sword!”

How can one freeze and put their hands above their head at the same time? Do they teach cops to shout contradictory instructions at suspects at the academy for some sinister purpose? If I obeyed one cop, did the other cop get to shoot me for resisting arrest? The only one who worried me was the guy who told me to drop my sword. It was camouflaged but still hanging in its scabbard across my back. Could he see through the camouflage?

I am an attorney is a trigger phrase for cops. It tells them they have to go slow and follow procedures or their case will get tossed out of court. It meant that they wouldn’t be able to wave their guns around and bully me into anything.

<All right, but I think we should start recruiting a horde now and have them muster on the Mongolian steppes. We can join them in the spring and then ride to glory.> “Where are we going to recruit a horde?” I asked him as we stepped inside. Fragarach was lying where I left it on the kitchen table. <I don’t know. You’re the bloody Druid here, not me. But I think you should start with getting me a sufficient number of French poodles, and you can find those in the classified section of the newspaper. Hold on, I’ll go get it.>

You hear that? The nice blonde in her thirties is actually more than 140 years old. <She must use that Oil of Olay stuff. I wonder if it would get rid of the wrinkles on a shar-pei?>

“Fine. We do not want anything to do with the Tuatha Dé Danann. Mortals who have dealings with them rarely end happily, and while we are not your average mortals, we still are not in their weight class, if you will allow me to use a boxing metaphor.” “I will allow it this once. I would find it more amusing if you would use gamer jargon from now on, like, ‘If we fought the Tuatha Dé Danann, we’d get so pwned.’ ”

<She’s kind of like a Mary Poppins just before she turns to the dark side of the Force,> Oberon said. He was still behind the counter, but he had had a good look at her as she exited. <Let go of your anger, Malina! There’s still good in you! The Emperor hasn’t driven it from you fully!> I clearly need to get you some new videos to watch while I’m at work. <I’d rather come to work with you from now on. It’s fun to watch you pretend to be normal.>

Trivia: Brighid takes milk and honey in her tea. Just like me. “Thank you,” she said, before taking a sip and sighing appreciatively. “Most welcome,” I replied, and sat down and took a moment to savor the surrealism. I was having tea with Brighid, a goddess I’d worshipped since childhood, in a city that didn’t exist when I was a child. And my wolfhound was joining us—I had made him a cup and cooled it down with ice, and he was now lapping it up from a dish on the floor.

<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.>

You know that old saw about your life flashing before your eyes at the moment of death? Well, if you’ve lived more than two thousand years, it’s going to take a while for your subconscious to put together a decent retrospective, and I imagined that there must be one of those “spinning beach balls of death” hovering over my head like when I asked my computer to do too many things at once. But that’s not the first thing I thought about as I fell to the ground with a hole in my chest; it was the second.

“Fine, I’ll do it myself,” Hal said, and he hooked an arm under my shoulders and knees and scooped me up as effortlessly as he would an Italian runway model. Silly cop, I don’t need your help; I have a werewolf on retainer.

It was at this moment that Perry, who had slunk out of the shop more than an hour ago under the glowing red eyes of the Morrigan, chose to return from lunch. “Holy shit, boss!” he said. “Did that big fucking bird do all of this?”

“Is that true?” I tried to laugh but coughed instead. “What, that I’ll be back? I certainly hope so.” “You’re not going to be in the hospital for weeks? Because that looks like a bullet hole in your shirt.” “As the Black Knight famously said, that’s just a flesh wound.” “The Black Knight always triumphs!” Perry beamed. Monty Python is like catnip for nerds. Once you get them started quoting it, they are constitutionally incapable of feeling depressed.

“I mean to tell you to give me one of those oxygen masks and get me out of here. And this sword comes with me.” I patted Fragarach and the paramedic looked down, noticing it for the first time. “Doesn’t leave my side.” “What? We cannot allow weapons in the ambulance.” “It’s sheathed and it’s incredibly valuable. Look at my shop.” I gestured toward the broken door. “I can’t leave it here.” Hal, who had been hanging back silently watching the proceedings, loomed suddenly over the paramedic’s shoulder. “Are you refusing to transport my client in a medical emergency?” “No,” the paramedic replied, squinting up at him. “I’m refusing to transport his weapon.” “You mean his priceless Celtic art? That’s not a weapon, sir. It’s a family heirloom of intense sentimental value, and the trauma he would suffer by being separated from it would be greater than any physical pain he currently feels. Which, I notice, you’ve done absolutely nothing about since you arrived.” The paramedic clenched his jaw and exhaled sharply through his nose as he turned back to me. “Effing lawyers,” he muttered quietly, thinking perhaps Hal wouldn’t hear it. But werewolves tend to hear things like that.

After drawing some energy from a tree to allow me to breathe more freely, if not without pain, I left Snorri and Jimenez behind to play Where’s the Druid? and jogged the last quarter mile to the Civic Center Plaza, an expansive grassy area dotted with some old oaks and the occasional bronze statue.

<Atticus! I’m so happy to see you! Werewolves have no sense of humor!>

Okay, buddy, you need to calm down. Your tail is giving you away. <But I’m so excited to be with you again! You have no idea how bitchy werewolves can be!> I have a pretty good idea, believe me. And I appreciate your being good all that time. That’s why I’m getting you two orders of bangers and mash, but you need to chill out, because we’re starting to get unwanted attention.

“Such as?” “Such as, all the monsters are real—the vampires and the ghouls and even the chupacabra.” “Really? How about Sasquatch?” “She doesn’t know about that one; it’s too modern. But all the gods are real, and for some reason almost everyone who knows him thinks that Thor is a giant dick. But the most interesting thing she’s told me so far is that there’s still one honest-to-goodness Druid walking around after all the rest have died, and I’ve served him a whole lot of dark beer, bottles and bottles of whiskey, and occasionally flirted with him shamelessly.” “Well, if you’re going to flirt, that’s the only way to do it.”

“Wow. You’d win a shitload of money on Jeopardy! with a brain like that. They teach Celtic mythology at the university here?”

I was kind of like Yoda chilling out in the Dagobah system.

She regarded me steadily, and I thought briefly it was going to become an Ancient Geezer Staring Contest, but she dropped her eyes and nodded before it could be construed as a challenge.

She dognaps my friend, holds him for ransom, and makes Wizard of Oz jokes? Gods Below, I hate witches.

“Okay,” she said, beaming as she jogged back to the kitchen entrance to slap open the swinging door. “Hey, Liam! I quit!” Then she vaulted herself onto the bar, swung her legs around, and hopped off between a couple of stools. “Attagirl,” an elderly gentleman said, raising his pint in salute. We left the place en masse before Liam, whoever he was, could properly register that he had just lost a damn fine bartender.

“You mean get naked? I can do that now. Wow,” she sniggered, “you need to get some sun.” “Shut up. I’m Irish.”

“Show-off,” Gunnar called after me. He was just jealous. People don’t gasp appreciatively when he changes form in front of them; they scream.

“Right,” I said, pulling the sword out and admiring its blade. “I’ve waited long enough. If Aenghus Óg wants this sword, then he can have it—for just as long as it takes me to eviscerate him.”

“Oh, okay, um, master, or sensei, or whatever. What should I call you?” I laughed. “Archdruid would be the correct term, I suppose,” I said. “But that doesn’t fall trippingly off the tongue, does it? And it would turn heads in public, and we don’t want that. So let’s stick with sensei.” “Kick some ass, sensei.” She clasped her hands together mantis style and bowed to me, and when she rose back up Laksha was in charge. “Why was she bowing to you?” she asked in her Tamil accent. “I’m her sensei now.” “I am not knowing this word.”

People in this part of the world like to envision demons as fiery red creatures with horns sprouting from their foreheads and barbed, whiplike tails. If they really want to vent their spleens about the evil of heck and sin, they add on goats’ legs and invariably point out the cloven hooves, in case you missed them. I’m not sure who came up with that—I think it was some feverish, sex-starved monk in Europe during the Crusades, and I tried to miss as much of that as I could by passing the time in Asia—but it’s obviously been an enduring and compelling image for several centuries.

“Answer me, witch!” For a god of love, Aenghus was remarkably blind to nonverbal cues. Radomila wasn’t worried about him or any promises she had made right then. She was feverishly trying to figure out a way to ward off whatever was coming for her. Too late. Her skull caved in from four directions, as if four railroad workers had swung their hammers perfectly in sync from the cardinal directions. Bits of brain and blood splattered the inside of the cage and even sullied the pristine armor of Aenghus Óg. Now that is why I am paranoid about witches getting hold of my blood. Druid’s Log, October 11: “Never make Laksha mad.”

“That sword,” he said, pointing at me with his own, “is the rightful property of the Tuatha Dé Danann. You cannot escape me now except by begging for mercy. Drop the sword and fall to your knees.” <This guy is an epic douche. Kick his shiny ass, Atticus,> Oberon said. I compartmentalized his comment and resolved to enjoy it later. I glared at this would-be usurper and said in my most authoritative voice, “Aenghus Óg, you have broken Druidic law by killing the land around us and opening a gate to hell, unleashing demons on this plane. I judge you guilty and sentence you to death.” <Amen, Atticus! Testify!> Aenghus snorted in derision. “Druidic law doesn’t apply here.” “Druidic law applies wherever I walk, and you know this.” “You have no authority to enforce your law upon me.” “My authority is here.” I waved Fragarach and tapped its power to send a gust of wind at Aenghus. I only meant to intimidate him with its creepiness, but I must have put too much of my anger behind it, because the gust was so powerful it blew him backward onto his silver-plated derriere.

You know how it feels when you’ve nuked a Hot Pocket and you touch it too fast before it cools down? Well, the hellfire was like that: a flash of intense heat that was gone in less than a second, leaving nary a mark but setting my entire body to sweating.