Shattered: The Iron Druid Chronicles, Book Seven (33 page)

What? Orlaith, is he nice?
I hear the soft mumble of a male voice, obviously talking to her, but get no answer to repeated queries and begin to worry. Then a shadow occludes the square of sunlight representing the opening of the stairwell, and Orlaith descends, saying nothing to me. Someone follows behind her, whistling.

At first I think it’s a very tall person, but then, as the body keeps lengthening past the point of tall into impossible territory, I see that it’s not really a person at all. And when the head finally drops into view and the hair ignites above a narrow face, and he stops whistling and laughs instead, I flail desperately with my ruined arm to find Scáthmhaide, in hopes that I can turn invisible before he sees me. I’m not nearly quick enough.

One hand blooms into flame and the other extends my way, wagging a finger. “No, no, don’t get up. And none of that muttering. Try anything, move at all, and your hound will be set on fire. Refuse to answer my questions, and your hound will be set on fire. Are we clear?”

“Yes, Loki Flamehair.” Orlaith steps into a corner out of my sight, ignoring me, and it’s clear Loki has taken control of her somehow. “What have you done to my hound?”

“I’ve merely spoken to her. She will not be harmed unless you make it necessary.”

Loki’s gaze never wavers as he continues down the stairs,
watching me carefully. It’s the most disturbing gaze I have ever seen, for his flesh is still scarred and puckered around his eyes from his centuries of captivity, when a great snake’s vemon dripped into them.

I don’t move. When he reaches us, he squats down next to me, his booted feet purposefully stepping on Scáthmhaide to prevent me from using it if I had any thoughts of doing so. He extinguishes the fire along his arm with an unspoken command and then rests his arms on top of his thighs, letting his hands dangle down between his knees. “Excellent. Let us begin! Hello, flame-haired girl. You are the daughter of Donal MacTiernan, are you not?”

“Yes.”

“And a Druid?”

“Yes.”

“The dabāva—how did you defeat it?”

“What? I’m sorry, I don’t know what that is.”

“The dabāva. The pressure. I’m sure you felt it, because your bones are broken. It’s a thing of the earth, and it smothers fire. Doesn’t like air very much either and tries to press it out. To paraphrase an old saying, I figured I needed to fight earth with earth. So is that what you did?”

I grow cold at the implications of his words and his presence here. He’d known about the creature waiting in the dark and had used me to defeat it. “Yes.”

Loki flashes a mirthless grin at me. “Ah, you are not so good at lying as your paramour. Was it this, perhaps, that did the job?” He reaches across me easily with a long limb and plucks Fuilteach from my broken hand, lifting it and examining it close to his face, where I can also see it. The soul chamber is red now instead of blue, indicating that the yeti’s magic has been released and the soul of that … dabāva is keeping its edge sharp and preventing it from melting. I find that I don’t feel the least bit guilty about it.

“Hmm,” Loki says. “An ice weapon. Work worthy of the frost giants—or perhaps even better. I’ve never seen anything so refined
from them. But it’s water magic, and I suppose that would work against a creature of the earth.”

Before he can ask me where I got it, I field a question of my own. “Why are you here?”

“I’m sure you know why.”

“To kill me?”

“Well … no. If you were O’Sullivan, I would say yes. Finding him in such a state as you are in would have been delightful. But I am here, like you, to find Vayu’s arrows.”

“How did—”

“—I know? You’re here because of clues you found in your father’s diary, isn’t that right? Clues provided by a former student of his named Logan? I’m afraid that was me, pretending to be someone pathetic. I needed help getting the arrows and didn’t want to promise any favors in return.”

The urge to punch him in his smirking mouth builds within me, but I can’t do anything about it. Loki was behind it all. Dad never would have come here if it hadn’t been for him. Loki unleashed chaos with the raksoyuj, knowing what it would do to countless innocents, and then waited for me to get here and defeat the guardian of the arrows. I decide I must take whatever small victory I can. “It didn’t do you any good. The arrows aren’t here.”

“Nonsense. They’re right over there. You just couldn’t see them because of the dabāva.”

I can’t turn to look where he points, because it’s the wall at the top of my head, opposite the stairwell, so Loki tells me to wait, and he steps out of my vision. When he returns, he squats down again and has a quiver of six arrows resting on his left side. They appear wholly unremarkable in the visible spectrum, though I guess the mere fact that the shafts haven’t decomposed after all these years is proof enough of their unusual quality.

“What’s so special about them?”

“These arrows were crafted by a god of the wind to pierce the heart of their target and fly true through any weather. Useful for unskilled archers like myself, and extremely useful when one
may be fighting thunder gods who have impressive ranged weapons of their own.”

“Thor is dead.”

“Aye, but there remain some weaker versions of him, and he may yet manifest again if he can be bothered to do so. He is still worshipped by humans, after all. And there are other thunder gods too. That Perun fellow whom you have hidden from me, for example. You have him on one of the Irish planes, I assume.”

I don’t answer that but ask instead, “How did you know the arrows were here?”

“Some of the most interesting stories are those that are never written down. Like the time I messed with Thor’s food and he shat himself for seven days. The embarrassing episodes of the heroes often get left out of the written record, you see. India is no different. You can find plenty of stories about Durga defeating the
asuras
in the old days but very little about the details of the battles. In one of them she was facing an army of
asuras
and she shot all of these arrows right here,” he says, jiggling them back and forth, “killing her targets with each one, and then she threw this quiver so forcefully at another that it plowed through his chest and destroyed him. That was quite magnificent, no doubt, but when the battle was over, she could find neither the quiver nor the arrows. That’s because one of the
asuras
decided while the battle still raged to collect them all and hide them so that they could never be used again. He was a coward, you see, who saw his fellows being obliterated and rationalized fleeing the field with the excuse that his actions would weaken Durga in the future. He placed them here and set the dabāva to guard them. He died a few days ago with your father, thinking that,
this
time, Durga would surely be overcome. But cowards do have their uses.”

A memory intrudes—a discrepancy. “Hey. What happened to your stutter?”

This time when he grins, it’s with genuine amusement. He bobbles his head and his hair rekindles as he says, “M-m-m-my s-s-stutter?” The flames snuff out and his head stills before he
continues, “I never had one. But I put on a good show, didn’t I? You know how I learned English?”

“Frigg said someone taught you while you were still captive. A spirit sent from Hel.”

“Yes. And that spirit she sent was a former teacher of English literature who read me
Hamlet
. Several times, in fact, at my request. Fabulous play, full of deception and assorted treachery. Do you know it?”

“Yes.”

“Well, like the Lord Hamlet, once I was freed I thought it best
to put an antic disposition on
. However,
the wind is southerly
, and I do
know a hawk from a handsaw.”

“No,” I say, “you can’t lie about that. I was there, and I know that wasn’t an act. Atticus fooled you. On multiple occasions.”

“Only the first time. I admit he is very clever and took me by surprise with that lie about being a construct of the dwarfs. But after my sleep in Nidavellir, I learned the truth of things and merely pretended to be mad and stupid. When I took the form of an
asura
in Poland, I hoped he would investigate immediately, and I had plans in place to lead him here, but I think perhaps there are too many demands on his attention. Using your father to get to you so that you would get to
these
,” he says, thrusting the quiver in my face and then withdrawing it, “was a backup that, in hindsight, should have been my first plan. It worked so very well.”

He leans forward, getting in my face for a delicious taunt since I cannot smack him without healing first or putting Orlaith at risk. “If and when you get out of here, do let him know he’s been played for a fool, won’t you? There’s no use continuing the charade at this point, and I don’t want him to think too highly of himself.”

He stops and waits for me to reply. “I’ll tell him.”

“Thank you. I see that he’s forged an alliance with the Olympians, but it will not help. Ragnarok
is
coming, the world
will
be cleansed and made anew as it should be, and I
will
be bringing allies of my own. The unstoppable kind. Now, hold still, please.
I imagine you are in pain enough as it is, and your hound is still very flammable.” He stretches out a hand toward my left thigh, the tip of his index finger on fire.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m taking this lovely ice knife, and I see that you have a fine scabbard for it there. If you remain still, I should be able to remove it without burning you.”

There are few feelings so sharp as the feeling of helplessness, of being forced to watch and endure as someone takes advantage of your weakness. It is a sting that fades very little with time, and even now, as I write this, I feel it anew, but at the time I had to bite back my frustration, unable to move as he burned through the rawhide straps fastening the scabbard to my leg. I sense the heat through my jeans, but he does not harm me, as promised. He pulls the scabbard free and shoves the knife home before rising to his feet and picking up the quiver of Vayu’s arrows. He kicks Scáthmhaide away because he doesn’t want me to have it nearby. He gazes at the arrows and at Fuilteach with admiration and gets lost in them for a full minute, in thrall to the power they represent.

“You’ve provided me with some lovely gifts today,” he finally murmurs. “You know, I feel a tad guilty at taking such advantage. I didn’t intend to give you anything, but perhaps I should let my kinder nature prevail just this once.” He rips his disturbing scarred eyes from his prizes and turns them on me, a broad, wicked smile stretching from ear to ear. “Would you like a gift, Miss MacTiernan?”

I shudder to think what it might be. “No thanks. I’ll pass.”

“Nonsense. You don’t even know what it is.” He gently places the quiver and blade on the ground at his feet, then fumbles at a pouch attached to his belt until he withdraws a stone cylinder, etched on the bottom like a chop but with runes instead of kanji. His fingers blossom with flames, and the stone heats up in his grip, turning red around the edges of the runes so that they glow. “I think you’ll like this very much.”

“No, I can tell that I won’t. Thanks for the thought, but please keep it.”

“You still don’t know what I’m offering.” He crouches down next to me, right fist on fire and left waggling around like a lonesome jazz hand. “Concealment,” he coos. “A cloak of sorts! The perfect gift for any young Druid.” And before I can reply, his hand shoots out and presses the etched bottom of the stone into the flesh of my left biceps, searing heat wrenching a scream from my throat. He lifts it away after a second, but the deed is done and Orlaith doesn’t react at all.

“There!” he says, his hand returning to normal and leaching away the remaining heat from the stone. “Now you have my mark on you. You will find that cannot be healed—not that you would want it to. It’s so very attractive. And it will conceal you from divination henceforth, so that Odin can’t spy on you anymore, nor can the Tuatha Dé Danann or anyone else. Except me. I’ll always know where you are. But never mind that! Think of how safe you will be from the meddling of gods and witches and Ouija boards!”

“Fff—”

“Now, now, no need to thank me,” he says. “It’s the least I can do.” He stands again, returns his damn branding chop to his pouch, and gathers up the arrows and knife.

“Farewell, Miss MacTiernan. I trust we will meet again and you will find a new way to serve me in spite of your own desire.”

I know I should respond with some sort of parting shot, but I feel so beaten that I cannot even aim a halfhearted “Your mom!” at his back as he climbs the steps to the surface. I hope he tests the tip of Fuilteach with his finger.

When Samhain—Halloween to everyone else—rolled around on Monday, I realized I hadn’t heard from Granuaile for a couple of days. I figured she was doing as she wished and would call when she wanted to hear from me, but I hoped she wouldn’t find a call to wish her a happy Samhain clingy or stifling. When I made that call, however, it went directly to voice mail. Either Granuaile’s phone was dead or she was out of range of a cell tower. I left a brief message wishing her harmony and asking her to call me when she got a chance.