Authors: Kevin Hearne
Tags: #Fantasy, #Fiction, #General, #Contemporary, #Urban Life
“What’s the name of the vampire who created you?”
The vampire narrowed his eyes. “Why do you wish to know?”
I shrugged. “Curiosity.”
Keeping his eyes on me to gauge my reaction, he carefully pronounced, “Zdenik.”
“That doesn’t sound like an Icelandic name,” I observed.
“Your sharp ears serve you well. It is a Czech name.”
My eyebrows shot up. “You were turned by a Czech vampire in Iceland one thousand years ago?”
“I never said I was turned in Iceland,” Leif replied, smirking.
I frowned and reviewed our relationship, realizing that I’d been operating on an assumption all this time. “Touché,” I said. “Will I ever get to hear the story of how and where you were turned?”
His smirk disappeared. “Perhaps someday. For now I have some havoc to wreak and territory to defend.” He stood up and offered me his hand. I stood as well to shake it, and he shrugged diffidently as he said, “There are only eighty of the young ones scattered about the valley, and most of them are at the football game. See you tomorrow night, Atticus.”
I don’t think vampires poop
, I replied.
We saw Leif to the door and wished him farewell.
Time to hit the hay for the last time in this old house
, I told my hound as I closed the door on the vampire.
All right, buddy. What’ll it be?
The Boondock Saints
, because the Irish guys win. Plus the cat ends badly. It affirms my worldview and I feel validated.>
I yawned and stretched luxuriously in the morning. I make noises when I stretch, because it feels ten times better than stretching silently. I made my favorite breakfast with a sense of wistful nostalgia, seasoning the kitchen one last time with the smells of cooking. For Oberon, there was a pan full of sausages. I had coffee and orange juice (the kind with pulp in it), toast with orange marmalade, and a fluffy omelet made with cheese and chives, sprinkled with Tabasco. Making a good omelet is like living well: You have to pay attention to the process if you want to enjoy it.
The newspaper was full of headlines shouting about Leif’s territorial defense at the football game.
STADIUM SLAUGHTERHOUSE
,
The Arizona Republic
splashed across its front page. Phrases like “total carnage” and “war zone” were bandied about. I noticed that the body count was sixty-three, precisely the number of vampires he’d mentioned last night, so he’d managed to wipe out the Memphis nest without killing a single human.
And the humans had no idea that one man—or, rather, one vampire—had been responsible for it all. There had been a blackout—Leif’s doing, no doubt—and when the lights finally came back on, hours later, there were bodies everywhere. Plus a significant number of sexually harassed fans, some injuries, panic in the restrooms, and a
line judge who’d thrown one too many flags and was “accidentally” knocked down by a “disoriented” player. People had exited the stadium using the collective glow of their cell phones, and fantasy football fans shat themselves because Larry Fitzgerald never got a catch, much less a touchdown.
The police suspected it was a gang war. Someone asked Dick Cheney about it and he promptly blamed it on the terrorists. A few of the state’s bigoted politicians pointed fingers at illegal immigrants and human trafficking rings, because in their view everything bad was the fault of someone south of the border. Ugh.
“Sure, pal. I don’t see why not. We won’t stay all day though. I’m just packing up my rare books and stocking some random newer ones in there.”
“Well, I have to hide all the rare magic books somewhere safe. And I need to talk to Coyote.”
I smiled fondly at my hound’s weak grasp of time. “I expect he’s fine, Oberon. It’s been only three weeks, after all. And he’s a survivor.”
There was one final chore to attend to before I left my home for good. I slung Fragarach across my back and adjusted the strap because I was wearing a thick leather jacket over my T-shirt. It was too warm for the mild Arizona autumn, but I figured I’d be grateful for it in Siberia and, later, in Asgard. I locked up the house, then plopped down onto the front lawn and methodically removed every single one of the wards protecting my home, every single alarm, and sent my sentry mesquite tree back to quiet sleep. It had saved my skin not long ago against a demon escaped from hell, so I rose and gave it a hug before I left.
“I’m a tree hugger, no doubt about it,” I said.
When we got to the shop, Oberon sprawled contentedly behind my tea counter and basked in the sun as I served my regulars their Mobili-Tea. I let them know they probably wouldn’t see me around for a while but Rebecca would take care of them in my absence. After they left, there was some dead time in the shop, and I spent it packing my rare books into boxes. Rebecca was to come in later, and I’d prefer her to think that nothing had changed. I doubted she had ever taken a very close look at the books behind glass.
The numerous wards in the shop also had to be dissolved, and I even unmade the binding that prevented people from shoplifting my merchandise and the binding on the trapdoor to my roof.
FedEx dropped off the random rare books Hal had ordered for me, and I called Granuaile to come pick me up. While she loaded the truly rare books into her car, I restocked the shelves with these other works that were all less than two centuries old. There were a few gems in there: a first edition of
Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland
, an early edition of
The Origin of Species
, and a signed first edition of
Dune
.
Rebecca showed up at around half past eleven and I tossed her the keys to the rare bookcase, now guarded by nothing more than a pedestrian lock. “If you get time, you might want to catalog the rare books, organize them however you think best.”
Rebecca’s already large eyes widened further and she nervously fingered the ankh dangling from her neck, one of many religious symbols she wore out of a mixture of indecision and desire for karma points. “Are you sure? I thought that case was off limits.”
“Not anymore. I trust you with the whole shop.” I
clapped her on the shoulder as I exited. “May harmony find you.”
I piled into the car with Granuaile and Oberon and directed Granuaile to drive east to the Bush Highway. It’s a winding road favored by training cyclists that follows the Salt River and provides access to Saguaro Lake. We found a place to pull off with a few palo verde trees to serve as landmarks, then carefully hauled the boxes of books one at a time into the desert landscape while Oberon stood sentinel by the car. When we had them all transferred, I sat on the ground lotus style and placed my tattooed right hand on the earth.
“I’m going to make three calls,” I explained to Granuaile. “One is to Coyote, and the other two are to elementals. Elementals are a Druid’s best friend. We couldn’t get much done without them. Gaia takes too long to respond. Even my extremely long life is little more than a half hour of hers, if you see what I mean. The elementals live in the present, though, and they change as the earth does.
“They’re going to protect these books while I’m away. And I’m going to tell them to surrender the books to you if I don’t come back. One of the books is actually written by me. I wrote it originally in the eleventh century, when it was clear that I was the last of the Druids, and I’ve re-copied it periodically to make sure that none of the knowledge is lost. It is the only written copy of Druid lore in existence.”
“But I thought nothing was ever written,” Granuaile said. “Because of the oral tradition.”
“Right, well, circumstances are a bit different. I’m extraordinarily endangered, aren’t I? So this is a long shot sort of fail-safe. It contains all my herblore, all the rituals, and instructions on how to bind yourself to the earth. You’ll have to get someone else to bind you—you can’t tattoo yourself, trust me. I recommend asking Flidais of
the Tuatha Dé Danann to help you. Don’t go to Brighid or the Morrigan or you’ll get drawn into their power struggle. What?”
Granuaile was shaking her head. “You’re coming back, sensei. I don’t need to know this.”
“Don’t be silly. There’s a distinct possibility you will need to know. The existence of the universe is living proof that shit happens. Now, pay attention.”
“I can’t even communicate with these elementals, much less with Flidais,” Granuaile protested.
“I’m going to set that up right now. Be patient and I’ll show you.” I sent my consciousness down into the earth, calling the Sonoran Desert elemental first, asking it to please inform Coyote I wished to speak with him. Then I asked it to help me bury and store the valuable knowledge contained in my books.
Talking to elementals is sort of like writing a mental picture book. They don’t use human languages; they speak in images connected with a syntax of emotions. My attempts to render the communication in writing invariably fall short of the true experience, but here is what I sent to Sonora: //Druid spells / Books / Need protection / Aid//
A minute passed by, and then I felt the reply travel up my arm and images formed in my mind: //Sonora comes / Query: Need?//
I formed a picture in my mind of a pit, eight feet deep, with steps leading down into it that would bear our weight. I kept it firmly in my mind’s eye, and slowly, to my right, the pit began to form. Granuaile gasped. To her it must have looked like I was pulling a Yoda, but Sonora was doing all the work. A barrel cactus disappeared into the earth and got reabsorbed; grasses and roots tore away as the pit widened and deepened. It took only a couple of minutes.
“Right, now we schlep the boxes down in there.” That
took more than a couple of minutes, but once we were finished I had more talking to do with Sonora, as well as with another elemental—an iron one.
“Now, if I just leave these books in the earth, they won’t do so well. On top of that, someone who’s looking for those books will be able to divine their presence if we don’t shield them somehow.”
“Who would be looking for them?”
“Bad guys. So I’m going to have an iron elemental encase them all in iron.”
“Wicked. Do all the elementals do what you want?”
“Excellent question, and the answer is no. Some are more helpful than others, but in general they’ve all been more accommodating since I’ve been the only Druid around to take care of them.”
“Wait.
You
take care of
them
?”
“Sure. Why else would they give us access to their power?”
“But I don’t understand why they’d need your help. They’re beings of super-duper mega-big magical mojo.”
“True. And sometimes they get bound against their will by witches and warlocks seeking to steal their mojo for selfish purposes. When that happens, it’s a Druid’s job to set them free. Happened just a couple months ago, in fact. Three witches bound up the elemental Kaibab, and I was nearby to set it free before they were able to do anything extraordinarily stupid.”
Yep
.
“You’re talking about the Kaibab Plateau north of the Grand Canyon?” Granuaile asked, and I nodded confirmation. “What happens if an elemental needs your help in China?”
“I hear about it through the elemental grapevine, then I shift planes to Tír na nÓg and back to earth near the spot where the trouble is.”
“What if you don’t get there in time? I mean, what if an elemental dies?”
“Then you get the Sahara Desert.”
I watched her lips. She almost said, “Bullshit,” but then she collected herself and said, “The Sahara’s been there for millions of years.”
“Aye, but it hasn’t always been as dry as it is now. Used to be quite a bit wetter, able to support a broader base of life. Then about five thousand years ago, a wizard bound the Sahara elemental and absorbed it into himself.”
“How’d he do that?”
“Not well. He went mad trying to contain it and died.”
My apprentice frowned. “Wasn’t the elemental released at that point?”
“Aye, the power was released, but it no longer had a coherent identity as an elemental. It was wild magic, and it was released around the Nile Delta. Shortly thereafter the Egyptian civilization started building pyramids.”
“Are you saying …?”
“No, because I don’t appreciate fallacies of causality. Interesting coincidence, though, don’t you think?”
She nodded. “Did the elementals tell you all of this?”
“Yes. That was three thousand years before my time. They’ll tell you all sorts of secrets if you’re nice to them. And they respond more quickly once they get to know you. This iron elemental I’m calling has been fed lots of faeries over the years. He likes me quite a bit. Calls himself Ferris.”
Granuaile looked at me sharply. “Stop it, sensei.”
“Stop what?”
She huffed and tucked an errant wisp of hair behind
her ear, then squinted her skepticism at me. “Its name is Ferris? As in the word
ferrous
? You can’t expect me to believe an iron elemental is as fond of puns as you are.”
I smiled. “No, you’re right. He allowed me to give him a name, since we’ve worked so much together over the years.” I paused. “I think of him as male, even though elementals have no gender. That’s probably sexist of me.”
“Probably,” Granuaile agreed. “I’ll give you a sensitivity point for noticing, though.”
“Thanks,” I said to them both, and then I returned my attention to the earth, sending my thoughts down through my tattoos.
//Druid needs Ferris / Book protection / Iron cell//