Staked (Iron Druid Chronicles) (6 page)

“That’s correct, but there are a few recently turned wolves around the world who had children before they were bitten. And of course they’re worried about them. They don’t want their kids to become wolves, but neither do they want their kids to feel excluded from their lives. They see Druidry as a perfect compromise. Their kids can remain in the magical world and even run with packs once they can shape-shift, but they never have to live with the curse of lycanthropy.”

“How young are we talking?”

“Let me ask instead, what would be the ideal age?”

“Six to eight. They absorb languages easier when they’re young, and I can shape their minds to handle headspaces much better than if you start later. That way they would be bound to the earth when they’re eighteen to twenty,” I says.

The wolves exchange a glance, and it’s Hal Hauk who speaks next. “We know of six children who fit that range. If you’re agreeable, we’ll have their parents transferred to the Flagstaff Pack and then you can be in charge of their instruction going forward.”

“Well, hold on a minute now.” I try to sit forward on the couch and it fights me. I have to paw at the damn armrest to pull meself up. “You’re suggesting I start a grove here in Flagstaff? On Greta’s land?”

“Why not, Owen?” Greta says. “We have the space. We have privacy. We have lots of trees on the property. And you can build what structures you want in addition to what’s already there. A greenhouse, maybe, for herbs and vegetables.”

Six apprentices at once. With the full support and resources of the werewolves. It sounds suspiciously good.

“These kids haven’t been bitten, right? You can’t bind ’em to Gaia if they’ve been bitten.”

“No, no, they’re perfectly normal in every way,” Hal assures me. “It’s just their parents who are different.”

“Once they’re bound, you know, they can’t ever be affected by a bite. Gaia won’t let them turn into werewolves. It’s why I can spar with ye without fear.”

“That’s a definite plus as far as we’re concerned,” Greta says.

“They’ll be vulnerable until then, mind.”

“We understand. Strict safety measures will be in effect. They already are.”

“Well, then,” I says, “I’m not opposed.” Smiles break out and I hold up a hand to stop them. “But don’t get too excited and don’t do anything yet. We don’t want to start something like this if Siodhachan is going to come along and cock it all up. I haven’t heard from him or Granuaile in a while, and I should make sure they know to leave me alone from now on.”

Hal’s face suddenly looks tired, but he nods. “Probably best, you’re right. I know he’s worried about vampires right now—I am too, I suppose. One that used to work with us claimed the entire state as his territory. I don’t think he would mess with us, but should he decide to turn nasty it could be quite disastrous.”

“Aye. So we’ll be cautious. I’ll check in with Tír na nÓg. Brighid has already given me her blessing in general to start training Druids, but I would like to get her specific blessing on this. We may enjoy the protection of the Fae as well as that of the pack.”

Greta leaps up from her seat and pounces on me, pressing her mouth to mine and returning me to the clutches of the leather couch. “Thank you for considering it, Owen. It means a lot to us.”

She’s warm and her hair smells like berries and vanilla and her breath comes quicker as we kiss, and then she rears back and twists me nipple hard before backing away to the door, a wicked smile on her face. “Run with me, Teddy Bear,” she says, using that nickname she thinks is cute but still confuses me. I am nothing like a teddy bear.

“If I can ever get out of this thrice-damned couch, I will,” I says. But before Greta can bolt out the door, someone knocks on it. She opens it and a voice asks for me.

“Who would be asking for me here?” I wonder aloud, and struggle to get up. “Damn this fecking couch, Sam; take an axe to it and set it on fire already!”

Laughing, he extends an arm to me and says, “I can’t do that. It’s Ty’s favorite.”

Ty looks wounded, and I feel like an ox box for making it happen. “Sorry, Ty, never mind me. I’m an ornery shite. Take it out of me hide next time we spar. Defend the honor of your arse-munching couch.”

The man at the door is Creidhne, one of the Tuatha Dé Danann. He has a couple of flat wooden boxes under his arm, and he smiles when he sees me.

“Ah, Owen, I’m glad I caught you. Brighid said this would be a likely place to look.”

“She did? Well, I guess she’s been watching me more carefully than I thought. What can I do for ye?”

“Just accept these. I’ve finished your knuckles, and I have some gifts from Luchta as well.”

“Me knuckles?” I’d forgotten all about them. Creidhne had taken measurements of me fists and promised to fashion some kind of weapon for me, as a personal test of his skill. I hadn’t asked for them—he volunteered. I suppose that the Tuatha Dé Danann are longing for glory again now that there are Druids in the world once more—I mean, more Druids than Siodhachan, who was in hiding for two thousand years.

“Aye. Can’t wait to see you try them on. Have you a minute to spare or have I come at a terrible time?”

Greta catches my eye. “We can run later, Owen,” she says. “But expect a rough one.”

“I’m looking forward to it,” I reply, then I tell Creidhne he’s welcome and introduce him to all the wolves. Ty fetches him a beer and I raise my bottle. “To Goibhniu and his craft,” I says, remembering his brother, killed by a spriggan during Fand’s attempted coup on Brighid. “Not a day goes by I don’t miss him.” We drink to his memory and then, at Sam’s invitation, Creidhne sets down his boxes on their dining room table. One is larger than the other, but both are custom varnished maple. Creidhne opens the smaller of the two, and the interior is lined with red felt. A set of brass knuckles rests inside, etched with bindings that the god of craft cannot wait to explain.

“They haven’t been named yet, but these are weapons worthy of a name,” he says. “Unbreakable, amplifies your strength, and serves as a power reservoir for Gaia’s energy.”

“What do ye mean by that?”

“Well, Siodhachan and Granuaile both have something similar. Ye may find yourself cut off from the earth at times in this modern world and need some juice for a binding. Ye can store some in these knuckles and draw on it as needed. Siodhachan has his silver bear charm, and Granuaile stores hers in the silver end of Scáthmhaide. They chose silver in case they had reason to worry about werewolves.” His eyes dart to his hosts, suddenly aware that he might be giving offense. He hurries on, “Well, bronze can store that energy too. These knuckles can each store more than both of those combined.”

“Well, that makes me happier than a swim in a pool of porter. What happens when I shape-shift, though?”

“That’s the best part! They shift with you and adapt to your forms. When you’re a bear they encase your claws; when you’re a ram they cover your horns; when you’re a walrus they coat your tusks; and when you’re a kite they move to your talons.”

“Aw, you’re just showin’ off for your brother now, aren’t ye?”

“Perhaps a little,” he says, proud and pleased. “The great drawback to Scáthmhaide is that Granuaile has to find a way to carry it no matter what her form is. Tremendously powerful weapon otherwise—the invisibility binding is incredible—but she can’t shape-shift efficiently with it. In practical terms she’s tied to her human form. I didn’t want you to have to worry about that. These will morph with you and always be useful.”

“May I try them?”

“Please do! I would love to see them in action.”

I pluck them out of the felt and slip them on over me fingers. They are cool against the skin and fit perfectly. I note that they are thin but wide, covering the space between first and second knuckles. I don’t feel any different while wearing them, but I expect that will change once I get outside and charge them up.

“Very nice. Let’s go outside and give a boulder a bad day.”

Flagstaff’s at seven thousand feet, and it lets you know it in December. It hadn’t snowed yet but it is certainly cold enough for it. That doesn’t matter; I strip to me skin as soon as I get outside and feel the rush of energy flow up from the tattoo on the sole of me foot. I don’t draw too much—it isn’t necessary. I’m just taking the knuckles out for a test punch. An innocent chunk of rust-colored stone that had never done anything to me is my first target, sticking up out of the pine needles about thirty yards away from Sam and Ty’s house.

“Will I scratch these or damage them by hitting rocks and walls and things?”

“They should be fine,” Creidhne says.

“And me hands?”

“Should also be fine.”

Normally I wouldn’t bother punching a stone. Your fingers would break long before the stone would, and rock doesn’t make any noises to let you know it’s hurt. But if you’re going to test a weapon you have to do it right.

I cock me right fist, half expecting to shatter me hand, and let one fly at the rock. It doesn’t split and turn to dust, but neither does me hand. Instead, the blow turns the top layer underneath the knuckles into a fine webwork of crazed lines. And I feel nothing but fine and powerful.

Encouraged, I follow up with a combo, more muscle behind the punches this time, and chips fly from the stone.

“Holy shit, Owen,” Greta says. “Are your hands okay?”

I show them to her. No blood. No redness signaling an oncoming bruise. “Perfectly fine.”

I shift to a bear with the knuckles on to see what happens. The brass flows, stretching and shaping itself to me claws. I have brass bear claws! I swipe at the ground with one of them, expecting resistance from the half-frozen, dried-up clay soil, but it scoops away like cottage cheese. Incredible. I shift to a walrus next, just to see the brass on me tusks. I can feel the brass move and flow up my hands to me face as I shift, and then there they are, gleaming brass-coated tusks. I bellow at Creidhne and the wolves to make them laugh, and then I skip the ram form and shift to a red kite. The metal moves from face to feet, and me talons are still very sharp and covered in the brass. Curious as to how the extra weight will affect me flight, I take wing and note that lifting off the ground requires just a bit more effort, but once airborne I don’t perceive a difference; additional strength flows from the brass into me wing muscles and there is no strain. To test the talons, I light on a ponderosa tree branch and nearly snap it off. They will require a light touch, then, when I’m wearing them, or else I’ll damage trees unintentionally.

It’s a fine gift, far beyond anything I deserve, and I glide to another branch and land gently on it to get control of meself. Kites’ tear ducts aren’t easily triggered by emotions, so it’s a good form for me to have some feelings without leaking them everywhere. It’s been a fine day, what with the possibility of having shiny new apprentices and some knuckles to beat the shite out of a deserving man in a bog somewhere, plus the promise of a run with Greta later. It’s more bounty than I could reasonably expect—more than I ever enjoyed in me old life. I really owe Siodhachan for days like this, damn his eyes.

When I fly down and shift to me human form again, I take off the knuckles and bury Creidhne in praise.

“You are the finest craftsman alive! They’re wonderful! Perfect!”

The son of Brighid bows in thanks. “I trust you’ll do something properly legendary with them. If ye don’t make yourself famous with those, the effort’s entirely wasted.”

“I’m sure something will come along,” I says, grinning at him.

“When ye name them, you’ll let me know, won’t ye?”

“Of course, of course.”

“I have one more thing for you, and then I’ll take me leave.”

“Oh, right, there’s another box!”

We pile inside and I put me clothes back on to warm up. The larger box from Luchta holds three wooden stakes, hardwood beauties carved with bindings.

“Luchta heard that Siodhachan has yewmen going after vampires and is trying to make the world safe for Druids. So he made these for the three of you.”

“Hold on a moment now,” I says. “Siodhachan’s doing what?”

“My understanding is that the vampires have declared open season on Druids again—all three of you. They were the ones who spurred the Romans to wipe ye out, ye know, back in the old days that I guess you missed, and only Siodhachan survived. And you, o’ course, by skipping past it all.”

“I didn’t know that. He never told me that.”

Greta breaks in and says, “I thought he told you everything while you were touching up his tattoo.”

“No, no, he must have left out that part. Mostly he talked about cocking up with the gods, and there was only one vampire he talked about—no, two. One almost killed him because the first one betrayed him.”

“Right, that was Leif Helgarson who betrayed him,” Hal says. “He betrayed us as well.”

“But it’s this old vampire named Theophilus who’s out for your blood now,” Creidhne says. “Or anyway he’s the one who’s giving the orders.”

I turn to Greta. “Well, this changes things a bit, love. We can’t start a grove here when we might have bloodsuckers coming after us. It wouldn’t be safe.”

Her eyes flash at me and she shakes her head. “They’ll be perfectly safe and you know it. They’ll be inside a warded house at sundown and up at sunrise, all of them protected by us and their parents, and none of us easy to kill.”

“I don’t know what grove you mean, but look at these stakes, Owen,” Creidhne says. “They can’t be splintered or snapped, just like Scáthmhaide, and they have the unbinding for vampires carved right into them. Stab a vampire anywhere—left hand, right big toe—and they’ll be unbound. You don’t have to hit them in the heart with these.”

“I didn’t know such a thing was possible.”

“Neither did Luchta until he tried. Look, Brighid wants the Druids to win this time. These stakes were
her
idea, and Luchta made it happen.”

“Brighid’s idea, eh? Well. I need to pay a visit to your mother in any case. I have to talk to her about starting a grove here, and maybe she knows where Siodhachan is.”

“I don’t think she does. I brought all the stakes to you because we thought you would know where to find him.”