Hexed (The Iron Druid Chronicles #2)

by Kevin Hearne

<Dude. If that was a Shakespearean quote duel, he just kicked your ass.> I know. But I slipped in some T. S. Eliot and he didn’t catch it. Hopefully next time I won’t be recovering from an assassination attempt, and then I’ll do better.

Druid’s Log, November 1: Buy attractive apprentice some shapeless, ugly clothes as soon as possible; maybe convince her to shave her head as well. Tell her all the cool Druid initiates are doing it.

So I told Oberon all about Wavy Gravy and the Electric Kool-Aid Acid Tests, the origin of the Grateful Dead, the entire hippie scene, and the moral imperative to Stick It to the Man. I made sure he understood that Mr. Semerdjian was the Man and we had been sticking it to him really good so far. He came out of the bath all clean and ready to put on a tie-dye shirt with a peace sign on it. As Oberon paraded around our living room spreading peace and gravy (Gravy is Love, he explained), my subconscious chose that moment to allow a bubble of memory to boil up to the surface: Did Mr. Semerdjian really say he had a rocket-propelled grenade in his garage?

<Tell her I’m a Peace Dawg, but I think her cats are closely allied with the Man. I’m going to stick it to them.>

<Ever notice how Apache Boulevard is a lot like Mos Eisley? “You will never find a more wretched hive of scum and villainy.”> When Oberon says things like that, it takes all my will not to dive into a Star Wars nerdfest; I resolutely ignored him, because I had to get the widow in the proper frame of mind.

“Peace be with you,” I said, and as I turned to resume my journey with Coyote, I added under my breath, “and asskicking be with me.”

Brighid’s eyes flashed with a blue flame, and I wondered if she had learned to do that just so she could compete with the Morrigan’s red flashes. Maybe I should try to figure out how to make my eyes flash green so I could freak out the baristas at Starbucks. “No, you foolish mortal,” I’d say as my eyes glowed, “I ordered a nonfat latte.”

<Can I talk now?> Sure, Oberon. What’s up? <Usually I think your paranoia is really funny. But right now I’m just glad you told me where to stand so that I didn’t get set on fire by She of the Violent Mood Swings.> He reared up and put both his paws on my shoulders and gave me a sloppy lick in the face. <Thanks, Atticus.>

“Fuck the Boy Scouts,” I’d said. “Be Prepared was my motto before there were any streets to help little old ladies across.”

“Oh. Right.” Granuaile had paused, and when I failed to fill the silence, she asked, “Does that mean you already have a plan, sensei?” “No, I’m just establishing my primacy over the Boy Scouts.” Granuaile’s lips quirked upward. “Duly noted. I have a plan, sensei, if you’d like to hear it.”

“Yes, think of it as a gift.” “My mom told me to beware of hairy men bearing gifts.” Father Gregory said at his stuffy English best, “It’s supposed to be Greeks bearing gifts.”

“My mom didn’t know the Greeks existed,” I told him. “She was worried about cattle raiders coming out of what is now County Tipperary.” “Cattle raiders? But that was before St. Patrick’s time. How old are you?”

The Morrigan tried to wake me up gently this time, but she still managed to startle me into a waking nightmare. “Gah! Please tell me you’re not horny,” I begged, clutching the sheets and trying to hide behind a pillow. “No,” she replied, smirking, even though she was sitting naked on the edge of my bed, raven hair falling on alabaster skin. “I have returned with the amulets.” Four black droplets of cold iron shifted with the percussive clack of rocks in the palm of her hand. “Goibhniu was quick.” “Ah, that’s great.” I lowered the pillow and sighed in relief. “Very good. Because I don’t think I could take another day like yesterday.”

As we scrutinized one another, looking for an opening, a weakness opened up behind me. “Atticus? Is that yer naked bum what I’m lookin’ at?” the widow called from her porch.

They were cursing their fashion sense in German, one observing that their boots weren’t made for running but they’d had to do an awful lot of it this morning. The other said the running wouldn’t be necessary if people would just die like they were supposed to.

“All right, but are you okay? Your skin looks like hamburger,” she said, noting where I’d had my unhappy landing on the street. “I’ll heal.” The phone started to ring, true to Granuaile’s word. “Don’t worry, I’ll be home soon.” “Okay, sensei,” she said. “Nice ass,” she added as I closed the door behind me.

“Whoo-hoo, Atticus, have ye come to give me a show? I think I have a couple of dollars in me purse inside.” Crouching down carefully to pick up the amulet off her porch, I said, “Yes, let’s get inside quickly, please.” I had to get her out of sight before the witches got there. “It’s open—get yer naked bum in there.” I dashed indoors, asking her to please hurry, and I darted to her bathroom and yanked a towel hanging from the shower stall to wrap around my hips. “Aw, why’d ye put away yer twig and berries?” the widow teased when I emerged. “I thought ye were goin’ t’give me somethin’ to confess on Sunday.”

“Great gods of seething darkness,” he said, putting his hands on his hips, “why the hell are you naked in the widow’s house?” “What? Oh, shit.”

“Eventually one of them noticed I wasn’t there. ‘Gab es nicht sechs von ihnen? Ich zähle nur fünf Körper,’ she said.” “Scheisse!” Berta cursed in German. “What did they do then?” “Wait a moment, Atticus,” Hal interjected. “I don’t speak German. What was that you just said?” “Weren’t there six of them? I count only five bodies.” “Oh, shit,” Hal said, and grabbed a bowl of popcorn out of Bogumila’s lap. Her visible eye widened comically, but otherwise she made no protest. “What happened next?” he asked, throwing a handful in his mouth.

“I’ll give you my oath. Just come pick me up in your batmobile.” Leif hissed his displeasure into the phone. “I have never turned into a bat, no vampire ever has, and that particular myth of Mr. Stoker’s is growing tiresome.” “If we live through this, Leif, I swear I’m going to make you read some damn comic books.”

Leif showed up at my house wearing a steel breastplate and a broad grin. “I have not lived this long to let a few witches stake me tonight,” he said, leaning casually against his Jaguar. He was wearing one of those old-fashioned white linen shirts with enormous poufy sleeves underneath his breastplate. He didn’t go full Renaissance, however, and complement this with breeches and a codpiece. Instead, he wore a black pair of Levi’s and some Doc Martens with a surplus of buckles. “You have one other vulnerability, I think,” I said. “And we need to address it.” His grin disappeared. “They have sunlight in a bottle or something?”

In the old days, Celts used to charge into battle naked, wearing nothing but a torc around their necks. I’d fought my share of battles like that—very recently, in fact—but I’d long since found I could run faster when my goodies weren’t flapping around between my legs. Now I even wore shoes, because there was no way I’d be able to connect to the earth here anyway.

“You killed my father,” he snorted in a basso profundo rumble. “Prepare to die!” “Inigo Montoya? Is that you?”

I put up a hand to check the wound and realized with horror that she’d shot off my left ear, and in my adrenaline rush I hadn’t realized how bad the wound was. “The gods damn you, look what you’ve done!” I cried as she fumbled with her second clip and I charged, drawing Fragarach. “If I want to grow this back I’ll have to endure the most terrifying sex imaginable! Gaahhhhh!”

The answer to enemies who heal annoyingly fast is always, always decapitation. That is why swords will never go out of style.

Your fly has been open all this time, by the way, and Granuaile hasn’t said a thing.> Thanks, buddy, I said silently as I tried to surreptitiously zip up my jeans. <See? I got your back and your front. I deserve a treat.>

People today think ancient Egypt was ineffably cool. I blame this misconception on hieroglyphics and (to a lesser extent) on the Bangles.

But they wrote such happy tomes as The Book of the Dead and illustrated joyful kids’ books like Little Scarab Shat Blood and Anubis Eats the Hearts of the Disobedient. I’m not kidding; I saw them before the Library of Alexandria was ruined by Emperor Aurelian.

Like the honey badger, the werewolf takes what it wants.