Scourged (The Iron Druid Chronicles, #10)

by Kevin Hearne

This might be strange to you from the West, where people think you must believe only one thing, but in the East we have no problem with this.”

<Most humans I’ve seen wear something to cover up their middle. Why do they do that? Is it because you have a smaller patch of fur there and a tiny snake living in it?> That’s not a tiny snake. <Pretty sure it’s not a big snake.> It’s not a snake at all!

“We did see something in the divination that hinted at unexpected aid. I think a pumped-up murder sloth qualifies as unexpected.”

In fact, I don’t know Jack Shite. That’s an expression Siodhachan taught me, but I don’t rightly understand it. I have so many questions. Sometimes people leave off the surname and say, “Ye don’t know Jack,” but everyone knows you’re not talking about Jack Black or Jack Daniel’s or Jack Be Nimble—nay! When someone says, “Ye don’t know Jack,” it’s automatically understood that they’re talking about Jack Shite. But it makes ye wonder why anyone would walk around this world with the surname of Shite. If ye have such an awful name, wouldn’t that be a fine excuse to change it to Jones or something common and boring and unrelated to feces? And what’s really confusing to me is whether we should know a lad named Jack Shite or not. Sometimes people say, “Ye don’t know Jack Shite,” and ye can tell by their tone that you’re practically the only person that doesn’t. But sometimes people sneer at ye and say, “You know Jack Shite,” and the scorn in their voice lets ye know that ye should have never been introduced to him, even by accident. Well, I don’t know Jack Shite yet, and I’m mighty conflicted about whether I want to meet him or not. He’s a controversial figure. I’m wondering if Sam and Ty know Jack Shite and I realize they must because they know so much about wine, so I don’t ask them out loud.

<Heh heh. Hey, Atticus, remember that time you flashed your junk at the mother of God?