Hammered [3] (36 page)

I agreed and cast camouflage on both of the coffins and us. Once we got to populated areas, people would probably feel the wind of our passage and see a blur overhead, but I couldn’t bring myself to get too concerned; I figured they’d blame it on aliens or secret military experiments or the mushrooms they ate and that would be the end of it. But I was careful to cast this using magic stored in my bear charm and not draw anything from the earth. I had a theory that the Hammers of God could track those draws somehow and thus pinpoint my location. It would explain how they knew about most of my activities—but not how they had found me at Rúla Búla. That mystery aside, I was going to be operating on a reduced magic diet as a general policy now that I was back in Arizona. There would be too many people—and perhaps too many gods—looking for me here, and I didn’t want to give them any clues.

“Where are we going?” Perun asked.

I didn’t want to fly back to Tempe under these circumstances. Any magic, including Perun’s, was likely to
draw attention now. So I named a town about seventy miles from Tempe and hoped I could arrange a ninja operation from there. “A copper-mining town called Globe, northwest of here. I know the perfect place. You can drop me off and I’ll buy you a Big Boy.”

“I am not fond of children.”

“Don’t worry, it’s a drink.”

We reached Globe a little after eleven in the morning by riding the winds, and I directed Perun to an alley behind Broad Street downtown—specifically the alley behind a sports bar called the Huddle. It wasn’t an urban alley full of rats and moldering dumpsters but rather a wide sort of throughway with parking and a couple of trees. Asphalt laid down decades ago was deteriorating, crumbling to gravel and allowing weeds to poke through.

The Huddle had a back patio constructed specifically for smokers; it faced an unused parking lot on the other side of the alley, currently fenced off with chain link. A single trash can sat in front of that fence, enjoying the shade of a willow acacia tree. I had Perun set us down there, and we stacked the coffins on top of each other about five feet away from the trash can. No one saw us do this, because the Huddle isn’t full of smokers at eleven in the morning. The smokers tend to come out at night.

“I need to make a couple of calls in there,” I said, gesturing at the back entrance of the bar, “and then we can enjoy our Big Boys.” I’d chosen this place precisely because it had a back entrance; those come in handy sometimes.

I dispelled our camouflage but left it on the coffins. After a bit of conversation, Perun was convinced that he didn’t need to wear his fur cloak into an American bar around lunchtime. Besides, we were in Arizona now: It was sixty degrees outside in December. He removed the
fur to reveal another layer of fur underneath—his own hairy arms and shoulders sprouting from his thin sleeveless shirt. I grinned as I camouflaged his cloak on top of the coffins. Americans have a visceral fear of body hair—a fact exploited by hippies, bikers, and construction foremen—so Perun’s appearance would likely scare everyone in the bar, including the bikers.

After I reminded Perun to speak English again, we entered the Huddle and I threw a wave at Gabby, the owner. She had a quick smile, a ready laugh, and the supreme confidence that she could handle anything. I watched her size up Perun, who was probably two feet taller than she was and weighed twice as much, and savored the moment when I saw she had decided she could take him, even though he was holding Odin’s spear.

“Hey, Atticus, it’s been a while. Good to see you again,” she said. My familiarity with her and her place of business was based on several hunting excursions I’d made in this vicinity with Oberon. She pointed at our weapons. “You need to put those behind the bar.”

“No problem.” I carefully leaned the swords and spear up against the bottled-beer fridge.

“What’ll it be?”

“Two Big Boys full of Bud.” She had a fully stocked bar, complete with a large mirror behind it, but most people came in to enjoy the thirty-four-ounce frozen mugs of beer. Perun and I pulled up stools and avoided eye contact with the locals. They were staring at us and trying to decide if they’d pick a fight if Gabby weren’t around. After a minute I felt their eyes slide away, probably because they reasoned that anyone as aggressively unshaven as Perun was thoroughly dangerous.

Gabby gave us our beers and Perun eyed his uncertainly. “This is Big Boy?”

“Correct.”

“Is not vodka,” he observed.

“Right. You’re in an American bar, so to fit in you have to drink this.”

Perun glanced around the bar at the other patrons, who were mostly wearing jeans and T-shirts and shaved responsibly. “Do you really think I can fit in here?”

“Not a chance. But it’s your duty to make the effort. Cheers.” I clinked his mug and started chugging. Perun took a few cold swallows and then set down the mug abruptly, shuddering as some of it dribbled down his beard.

“Americans
like
this?” he asked.

“They say they do. Bestselling drink in the States.”

“Should I give them my respect or my pity?”

“It’s a dilemma, isn’t it?” I said. “Hey, Gabby, mind if I borrow your phone?”

I had my cell phone, but there was no way I was going to turn it on at this point; it was most likely dead anyway. Gabby handed the bar’s phone to me, and I punched in a memorized number while Perun took in the sights of the bar. There was plenty to see, starting with the mounted jackalope wearing a pair of sunglasses near the bottled-beer fridge. There was also a mounted javelina head staring at us with glass eyes, because dead animals are practically mandatory objets d’art in Arizona bars. The centerpiece of the place was a pure carven teak sculpture of an Indian motorcycle, resting on an old bartop that was hung from the ceiling by chains. Two pool tables in the back room were currently awaiting players, and an old Lynyrd Skynyrd song moaned on the jukebox in the corner opposite the bar.

A puzzled Granuaile answered her cell phone, not recognizing the number calling her.

“Hey, it’s me, back safe,” I said. “No names, okay? Are you in town yet or are you still working on the Verde River thing?”

“I got back a few days ago.”

“Great. I need you to come pick me up at the Huddle on Broad Street in Globe as soon as possible.”

“I’m bartending,” she said, by which she meant she was at Rúla Búla. “Just came on shift.”

“Time to quit that job,” I said.

“Again?”

“Again, and for good. We have to move. Your new life begins now.”

“Oh. Should I pick up the dog?”

The smart answer would have been yes, but I wanted to see the widow one more time if I could. So I said, “No, we’ll get him together.”

“Right. See you in an hour.”

She was so quick and decisive. I hoped she’d make it through the training. For that matter, I hoped
I’d
make it through the training. The Morrigan’s vision was very much on my mind, not to mention the consequences Jesus had mentioned.

Before I could make my second phone call, Perun whispered urgently, “Do you have Arizona money? I have none.” How sweet of him to be worried about the bill.

“Oh, it’s no problem, Perun. The drink’s on me,” I said. “Especially since it doesn’t look like you’ll be finishing it.”

“Ah. My thanks. I think I go now, Atticus, explore country, find place to hide.”

“So soon?” I thanked him for his invaluable aid and hoped that in his exploration of America he would find a town populated by many beefy, hairy women.

“America has such places?” he asked, hope and wonder filling his face.

“I’m sure it does. It’s a land of opportunity,” I said. He hooked me up with a couple of extra fulgurites for Granuaile and Oberon before he left, and I made sure to dispel the camouflage on his fur cloak outside. “Meeting you was a pleasure,” I told him. “It’s one of the few things
about the trip I can say was one hundred percent positive, in fact. As gods go, you’re one of the best I’ve ever met.”

“You are only Druid I ever met,” he said, “but I think best also.” He tried to leave by pounding me manfully on the back a couple of times, but then decided that was inadequate and crushed me with a companionable hug. It was like getting squeezed between large hairy rocks. As he exited out the back of the Huddle, I tried not to laugh out loud at the collective sigh of relief from the locals. I covered my amusement by taking a long draught of my drink.

The extra alcohol gave me the courage I needed to dial the next number. I punched it in and steeled myself for an unpleasant conversation.

“Hal, it’s me. I’m back. And I have bad news.”

“Yes, I’ve been waiting for your call,” the new alpha of the Tempe Pack said, his voice tight with tension. “I already know it’s bad, but how bad? Are they both gone, or just my alpha?”

“It’s uncertain. Better that I show and tell,” I replied. “I brought them back, Hal. I did everything I could.” I told him where to find me and to bring the new IDs I’d ordered for both Granuaile and myself. “And come in a work van, or maybe borrow Antoine’s wheels,” I added, referring to the local ghoul who collected and hauled bodies around in a refrigerated truck.

“Tell me this much before I drive out there,” Hal said. “Did they at least get their revenge?”

“Yes. They got their revenge. But I never got to ask them if it was worth it.”

“I don’t think it was,” Hal said.

“No. No, it wasn’t.”

All my old haunts were possible traps now, and the Morrigan’s vision of my death had me practically loony with paranoia. Granuaile was already teasing me about my constantly swiveling head, half in jest and half in annoyance; I was making her nervous. Despite her impatient sigh and the rolling of her eyes, I had her park out of sight of the widow’s house so that I could call to Oberon through our mental link from up the street.

Oberon, can you hear me?

He sounded alarmed at my arrival rather than welcoming. That wasn’t right.
What? Why not?

Is the widow all right?

Yes
. I was sitting with Granuaile in her car, near University Drive.

His question jangled alarm bells in my head. What if I wasn’t talking to Oberon? That scene from
Terminator 2
where Schwarzenegger imitated the voice of John Connor and the T-1000 imitated the foster mother replayed in my head. I wasn’t sure if such a switch could be accomplished magically, but I didn’t want to take the
chance. Instead of answering him, I asked a question of my own.
Oberon, can you get out of the house?

Jump over the fence and come to the front. By yourself. Right now
.

“Start the car,” I told Granuaile. She nodded and turned the key in the ignition. Oberon appeared alone at the edge of the widow’s property in a few seconds, looking south down Roosevelt first and then north to where we were parked.

See the blue car? That’s us
.

He went from dead stop to full speed in about three seconds.

What are you talking about?
I got out of the car and opened the back door for him to jump in. He didn’t stop to be petted or anything. He leapt in and immediately started barking at Granuaile before I could close the door.

Oberon, what on earth? Stop that racket
. I ducked back into the car and told Granuaile to get us off Roosevelt Street as I closed my door. Oberon’s behavior needed an explanation, but if matters were truly as urgent as he suggested, it would be unwise to demand one before leaving. We could always return if it was a misunderstanding. Granuaile made a U-turn and turned east on University, heading toward Rural Road.

“Where to, sensei?” she asked, checking her mirrors.

“Same place we discussed earlier,” I said. “Oberon says we have to get out of town.” I turned in my seat to collect an overdue explanation from my hound.
Now you will tell me why we’re running. What’s happened to the widow?

Ah, so she is alive after all?

Then who’s been walking around in her house and feeding you and letting you outside since then? You’re not making sense
.

Well, maybe she’s just in a funk, Oberon. She’s been depressed lately
.

What?