Trapped (The Iron Druid Chronicles, Book Five) (17 page)

“Sorry,” she said in a tiny voice. “Did I say that out loud?”

“She’s right, Manannan,” I said. “That’s not a viable option.”

“It isn’t?” He looked as if he was going to ask why not but then changed his mind. He shrugged. “Ah, well. We’ll have to do everything the Old Irish way, I suppose.”

“Aye. And speaking of fighting, I have another matter to discuss. Now that my existence is somewhat known again, would it be possible to exchange Moralltach for Fragarach?”

Manannan’s mouth formed a tiny black hole of surprise before he cleared his throat to mask it. “Well. That kind of thing takes some thinkin’ over.…”

I didn’t want that. Someone would talk him out of it. “Moralltach is the sword that killed Thor. Its fame has
grown more than Fragarach’s. You’ll score bushels of points with the bloodthirsty lot.”

“Hmm. It’s good to have them on your side, no doubt,” Manannan said.

“I can guarantee I’ll make life more interesting with Fragarach.”

Manannan Mac Lir smirked. “Now, that’s a compelling argument, that is. All right. I’m not lookin’ forward to what Brighid will say when she finds out, but damn if it isn’t me own sword to do with as I please. A plague on these Pickled Herring, anyway. Follow me back. We’ll exchange ’em and be done. Don’t say a word while you’re in Tír na nÓg, lad. Whoever’s listening in on me won’t realize we made the switch for days. Then go get your apprentice bound properly.”

I beamed at him. “You’re my favorite sea god, you know.”

“Aw, get your nose out of me arse. Just make life interestin’ as ye promised.”

Once I shifted away from Tír na nÓg with Fragarach in my scabbard, I found it difficult not to grin like a geek at a Trekkie convention.

I had it back. After twelve long years, I had it
back
. Gifted to me this time by one of the Tuatha Dé Danann, not stolen from them!

Giddy euphoria seized me and I shivered with it. A squee welled up in my throat because I felt cool again—impossibly, inhumanly cool, like Laurence Fucking Fishburne—but I suppressed it savagely; if I squeed out loud, all the cool would be gone.

“Why are you shaking?” Granuaile asked. “Are you cold?”

“Oh. No. Um, excess energy. Excitement to get started again.” To calm myself, I told Granuaile about the odd origins of the dark elves and how we’d have to fight them if it ever came to that. Keep moving, flank attacks, and, damn it, keep your mouth shut.

“What about your nose or your ears?”

“I don’t think that would work for them. They become flesh and blood once they solidify; the bones of the skull would slice right through their arm. If they’re willing to do that to kill you, then, yeah, I guess you could worry about it. Down your throat, however, that’s all soft tissue. They’d unhinge the jaw, tear
muscles, and rupture the esophagus just by solidifying, then when they pulled their arm free, your throat would come with it.”

Granuaile swallowed and put a hand up to her neck. “Thanks for the visual.”

We were once more on the billowing skirts of Olympus, but this time we were on the western side. There was no reason to search for an appropriate spot; now that Olympia knew of our need, she was only too happy to guide us to an appropriate place to continue Granuaile’s binding. Similar to the cave on the eastern slope in that the required thornbushes also provided cover for the entrance, it was situated a good thirty yards or so from a small creek that would provide us with water. The ceiling of the cave was lower, it wasn’t so deep or comfortable as the first one, and something small and furry had left pellets of shit scattered about, but it would serve. We scouted patrol routes for Oberon and plotted escapes before we cleaned out the cave as best we could. Connecting with Gaia didn’t take quite as long—less than a week, since she’d been expecting us—and soon I was stabbing Granuaile with a thorn as if we’d never been interrupted.

Modern tattoo guns can pierce the skin about eighty to one hundred twenty times per second. I can do it with a thorn about once a second. The tip was sharpened and hardened with a binding, but still it was painful and slow and bloody. And sometimes I’d get a bit distracted.

Because. You know.

Granuaile’s bare leg.

Underneath my hands.

There are hosts of mental tricks you can play to keep your libido in check—thinking of baseball is just one—but it’s a near-constant battle when there are thighs involved. Smooth, toned thighs that curved and … oh,
damn. And eventually we progressed far enough up her leg to where she had to take her shorts off.

I know tattoo artists barely notice such things; when they’re on the job, flesh is just a canvas to be bloodied and inked. But I wasn’t a jaded tattoo artist, and Granuaile’s body wasn’t simply a canvas to me. It was more like the Holy Grrrail, pronounced with a rolling Scottish rumble.

She wanted to shed her underwear at the same time, but I stopped her.

“Keep those on,” I said, silently asking the Dalai Lama to help me give up all earthly desires. She was still my apprentice.

“Why? I’ll just have to take them off later.”

“No, we’ll work around it.”

“But it’s silly. They’ll get all bloody and nasty.” She had raised her butt off the floor of the cave and had her thumbs hooked in the sides. The top was already partially down, and there was that beautiful flat expanse between the valley of her hips, leading down to—gods!

“I promise to buy you a new pair. Just. Please. Keep them on.”

“Oh. I see.” Her voice was toneless as she lay back down and turned away, hiding behind a shoulder. “You’re still pretending.”

A bit wounded at the accusation, I replied, “I’m not pretending at all. I’ve always made it clear that our relationship needs to remain strictly professional.”

“Right. You go on and keep telling yourself that. You can’t hide it anymore, Atticus, so just stop, okay? You know we both have feelings that go beyond that.”

“We
can’t
go beyond that, Granuaile. I won’t.”

“And what happens when I’m fully bound? May I do as I please then?”

“Technically, yes. The earth will recognize you as a Druid and answer your call, and you’ll be free to go
wherever you wish. But new Druids typically remain with their archdruids for a short while to learn how to shape-shift well and to travel the planes properly.”

She twisted around to face me, a scowl on her face, and then she punched me hard on the arm.

“Ow!”

“You’re being willfully dense! For a man who can see the bonds between all living things, you’re remarkably blind to ours. Have you been filtering them out of your vision, seeing only what you want to see?”

Panic filled my frontal lobe and I tensed, though I’m sure all Granuaile saw was my mouth drop open. She was right—I had been filtering quite extensively; I was seeing only what Gaia needed me to see to get the binding done. And then I realized that was a weak excuse.

“Um,” I said. The truth was, I could have looked at Granuaile in the magical spectrum anytime I wished in the past twelve years, and I hadn’t done so unless I needed to teach her something. When I did, I always filtered out everything extraneous to the objective, just as I was doing now while tattooing her. It was denial, pure and simple.

Once I removed my blinders and looked at the emotional ties between us, I knew precisely what I was looking at. I’d seen knots like this before. Some of them were lust. And some of them, the ones I hadn’t dared to confirm for fear that they wouldn’t be there, were love.

Granuaile could see them now for herself, and she’d figured out what they meant without my coaching. She was right. I couldn’t pretend anymore.

What I could do, however, was feel like a complete dumbass. Again.

I’ve lost track of how often I’ve felt that way in relationships. Somehow, despite having more practice than anyone, I’ve never learned how not to feel like a dumbass. It’s like ordering a medium anything at the
movie theatre and the teenage employee always, always, asks if you want a large for fifty cents more. Even if you ask them nicely ahead of time not to upsell you, they still do it, because the word
medium
triggers an automatic response in their brains. Falling in love is like that: You always feel like a dumbass at some point, even if you know it’s coming—it’s unavoidable.

Before I could offer something beyond a helpless monosyllable, Oberon’s voice in my head demanded my attention.

You mean a thyrsus?

A new panic filled me. Bacchants were on their way.

Listen, buddy. This is extreme danger. Thanks for the heads-up. Lie down right where you are and keep still. Don’t engage them, don’t follow, and don’t talk to me again until I renew communication. Okay?

Excellent plan. Atticus out
.

Granuaile could tell by my faraway expression that something was wrong. “What is it?” she asked.

Before I answered, I sent an urgent plea to Olympia. //Hide Druids / Danger//

//Already hidden//

“Shut down your magical sight right now. Disconnect from Gaia and put on your shorts. We have to stop.”

“Again?”

“Yes. Don’t draw from the earth in any way. Drop Olympia’s marble if you have to. No magic whatsoever.”

The marble made a soft scratching noise against the stone floor as she complied. “Okay. Tell me what’s happening.”

“Oberon’s spotted Bacchants. They can smell magic, and they’re coming this way.”

“How do you smell magic?”

I lowered my voice. “I didn’t know it was possible until shortly after we met. Remember that time in Scottsdale, when Laksha was helping me against them? I was
standing still at night with camouflage on. I should have been undetectable, right? But one of the Bacchants took a deep breath from across a parking lot and walked right toward me. We had a conversation. Her eyes were unfocused, but she knew I was there. My body odor wasn’t
that
bad, so what did she smell? My camouflage.”

“So the smell of our binding ritual has led them here.”

“Exactly.”

We arranged ourselves so that we were lying on our bellies and able to see a severely screened view of the creek and woods below our wee cave. A flicker of bright white from the south caught my eye, and I jerked my head in that direction for Granuaile’s benefit, wordlessly directing her gaze.

More white appeared, floating draperies weaving through the foliage, and animals fell silent before their advance. We heard nothing but the soft chuckle of the creek below.

Skin gradually stood out from the searing white. Arms and heads. Dark tangles of hair, groomed by static or maybe playful kittens, provided stark chaotic frames for pale symmetrical faces. They might have been pretty by some standards, except that their eyes were glazed and polluted with madness.

And it was little wonder. Behind the three women strolled Bacchus, the lord of madness himself. Unlike the last time I’d seen him, he appeared calm and in full control of his mental faculties. Indeed, he appeared freshly scrubbed and moisturized, as if he’d emerged from a salon rather than spent the last few hours trekking through the wilderness. His lips were not smiling or even turned up at the corners, but he still radiated a sense of being satiated, drowsy eyelids reveling in Epicurean luxury, an androgynous beauty who’d just gorged himself on full-bodied wine and unpronounceable cheese. As I gazed on him, I realized he had known
pleasures that I could never know myself, and a twinge of envy trembled at the hollow of my throat. There were many who would do anything to take the smallest sip of the epic draughts of pleasure he had sampled in his immortal life. And once they had wetted their tongues on it, they were his thralls, for they would endure any abuse to taste it again, and, if withheld from them too long, they would go mad. Either way, Bacchus was worshipped and served.

The allure of unthinking animal bliss is powerful; it always calls to us, in the same way as the edge of a cliff or the waves of the ocean:
Jump
. It is a necessary part of our natures, full of delight and danger in equal measure. Yet to the mind trained in language, taught to spy subtleties and take joy in them, such crude, baser matters can pale after a while. But
there
lies grave peril also: The propensity to empathize with pain expressed in words encourages a poet to avoid the real thing, and a too-passionate love of books can mew one in a cloister, putting up walls where there should be free range. I decided long ago—to keep myself sane amongst the illiterate and unthinking—that there would be poetry in my life. But there would also be fucking. I would have them both, but follow the sage advice of modern beer commercials and enjoy responsibly. There was nothing responsible about the god of the vine.

The Bacchants stopped in front of the cave entrance but did not see it. They raised noses into the air and sniffed, scowling. One of them spoke in Latin, a language both Granuaile and I understood.

“It was here, or near here, but it’s gone now.”

A second Bacchant observed, “There’s something else in the air. Desire. I wonder if it was sex magic.”

“That’s the best kind.”

“Mmm. Lord Bacchus, might we pause to relax? I’m in the mood.”

I winced. Her mood, if given rein, would kill us both. My amulet provided absolutely no defense against Bacchanalia, and once they drew us into it, we’d be completely in their power. I fervently hoped that Bacchus had a headache.

He didn’t. Instead, he had an agenda. “No. We cannot spend ourselves in sport. Faunus cannot keep him trapped here forever. We must continue to search.”

The Bacchants whined. I very nearly mocked them and gave away our position, but I held my tongue until long after they had disappeared to the north and the birds started to chirp again.