Shattered: The Iron Druid Chronicles, Book Seven (17 page)

“Indeed. Do you know what that is?” When I shake my head, he continues. “It is the energy needed to keep the ice from melting in warmer climates and to keep the blade sharp and shatterproof. That energy is slowly drained and must be replenished.”

“Replenished how?”

“With the blood of your kills, of course.”

“What?”

“When you stab something with a whirling blade, you are not merely damaging organs and tissue. The tip drains some of the target’s energy through the medium of blood, the water of life. It creates a magical vortex within the body and siphons it.”

“Are you saying it steals their spirit?”

“Not the whole thing, but a fraction of it, yes. A spirit in solution. And what we are doing right now is creating that vortex and providing a temporary energy source. That is why Oddrún was so tired when she joined us at the rink. We each contribute a fraction of our magic to the whirling blade, and once you make your first kill, that will be returned to us. We will remain drained until you do so.”

“Oh, gods below. I didn’t realize … I don’t know if I want a weapon like that.”

Erlendr huffs, impatient with me. “Do you wish to have a magical blade capable of freeing your father or not?”

“Yes, but … won’t this kill him? Steal his spirit?”

“Earlier, when you spoke of your need for this whirling blade, you described cutting the skin and drowning chakra points with water magic. That is clever, and we think it will work. Just don’t stab him with it.”

“What if I accidentally nick my finger with the tip?”

“Don’t do that.”

“Holy shit.”

“Were you not a Druid, we would not consider giving you one. We know you will use it responsibly.”

“What happens if it runs out of energy?”

The eldest of the yeti shrugs. “Then it is no different from an icicle. It will melt as soon as it’s exposed to temperatures above freezing. If you wish, you may use it to save your father, kill a very small animal with it, and leave it in the sun. The kill will release our energy back to us, and then it will not be long until the animal’s spirit is used up and the blade is destroyed.”

“Gah. So until I kill something with it, I’m draining your energy?”

“Not in any permanent sense. We imbue it with the elemental frost magic we inherited from our mother. It won’t drain or expire, because the potential for frost exists wherever there is water in the air, and it is maintained by our will. Our power is diminished, however, until the first kill frees it from the blade.”

“Could I simply return it to you and let you get your energy back without killing anything?”

“No. This magic has a price.”

Of course it does. All magic has a price. The question is never whether you can afford it; it’s whether you truly wish to pay it. When I draw energy from the earth, the elemental passing it on to me is drawing it from the life of its ecosystem. My speed or strength or healing is paid for in the diminished health of all its plants and animals. What makes it bearable is that the drain is distributed and shared so that nothing is destroyed, and they will renew themselves in the ordinary course of the world turning. My responsibility in this contract of mutual protection is to defend the earth from predatory magics, but it’s difficult for me to see these whirling blades as anything but predatory.

It’s not that ending a life is anathema to me, but damaging a spirit, great or small, and then consuming it for my own ends—that’s an unwholesome tea to swallow. Making choices like that must stain you on the inside somehow. It’s why I chose the path of a Druid rather than pursuing the path of dark witchcraft that Laksha once offered me—which she so desperately wishes to escape now. And, as I stand there with Erlendr staring at me, waiting for a response, I am struck with the idea that perhaps the yeti feel stained without realizing it. Their pursuit of art through ice might be their attempt to balance the ugliness of these blades with beauty. Or perhaps they do not feel anything of the sort and I am merely projecting my sympathies.

“I’ve changed my mind, Erlendr. I don’t want a whirling blade. Let’s forget it.”

The ice rings in his mane clink together as he shakes his head.
“We cannot stop now. It must be finished and used or Oddrún will be forever diminished. You see that the vessel is somewhat blue. That is her.”

I look closer at the transparent glass in the knife and see that some of the clear interior is indeed filled, a slightly darker blue against the frosted blue of the blade. I had missed that earlier.

“Fine. Finish it and use it yourself. I want no part of it.”

A great weight of weariness settles about my neck and shoulders. This entire trip has been a waste of time, and I won’t be able to save my father after all. It’s odd how a profound sense of one’s own foolishness tastes like bile. Erlendr doesn’t move or say a word, and the only sound is the hiss and pop of the fire. A single tear escapes down my left cheek, and Orlaith thrusts her head under my hand, making me realize that I must be communicating some of my distress to her.

I kneel and lay Scáthmhaide on the floor, wrapping my arms around Orlaith’s neck and giving her a hug.

I love you too, sweet hound
.

Erlendr shifts his weight uncomfortably, and his mane rings tinkle like wind chimes. “You must be tired,” he says. “Why don’t you rest, and we will speak more later. You can use my room. The furs are warm and you won’t be disturbed.”

It’s true I am very tired. In fact, I might actually qualify for the phrase bone-weary. I don’t even know what day it is; I’ve been awake continuously since I jogged into Ouray and got that phone call from Laksha. I want to get back to Thanjavur, but after a nap I’ll be better able to deal with whatever horror awaits me there.

“Okay,” I say, unable to muster anything more eloquent. “Lead the way.”

He shows me into the first of the bedrooms, wishes me restful slumber, and closes the heavy stone door behind me. I crawl onto the furs, burrow underneath them with Orlaith, and, with an arm draped around my hound, worry about my father until sleep takes my cares away.

This Hal Hauk lad is more than he seems. I mean beyond the werewolf business. Or maybe that’s precisely it. In the first few seconds I can tell that he is an older, tougher dog than either Sam Obrist or Ty Pollard, and he hides it extremely well. He is all manners and easiness on the surface, but there’s a punch in the teeth waiting to strike under that suit and handshake. I get the feeling he would rather avoid fights if he can, but once he’s in one, he’ll pound and tear you until you’re bloody paste, and that’s the kind of lad I admire.

Siodhachan introduces the two of us and then he putters away in that horrible car he rented, off to visit a country where women dress in colorful robes and turn into foxes with five tails. Are they women first and foxes second, or is it the other way around? He called her a kitsune, so I guess that’s not human. I’m not too clear on what exactly I witnessed there. I must investigate that country when I can.

Hal walks me up to his office, a second-floor suite off Mill Avenue, situated on a balcony that overlooks a red brick courtyard.
In the middle is a solid sphere of stone with water bubbling out of the top. It cascades down the sides into a pool, but the level of water never rises. How is such a thing possible, I wonder? Are werewolves water mages?

The door of his office is made almost entirely of glass, and black letters floating on the surface say M
AGNUSSON AND
H
AUK
, A
TTORNEYS
-
AT
-L
AW
. Siodhachan told me that the Magnusson fellow used to be the alpha but died in Asgard, killed by the golden boar of a Norse god. If he was tougher than Hal, I would have liked to meet him.

There are pictures of wolves on the walls of the office, but they are somehow idealized and not a true likeness. I learn later that they are called
paintings
. There are sculptures too, cast in bronze. A woman with an unnaturally pale face and lips the color of roses sits behind a gigantic block of wood, and I cannot imagine why. When I ask Siodhachan about it later, he says that she is probably something called a receptionist. She smiles at Hal and says, “Good afternoon, Mr. Hauk,” and he grunts at her as we walk down a hallway to the left and enter a room lined with shelves of books. He sits behind a large block of wood and invites me to sit in a chair on the other side of it. He presents me with a driver’s license, a birth certificate, and a passport. From what I can tell, I will never need to use these things for their intended purpose—I will never drive or check in at an airport in other countries. But together they establish to modern humans that I was born forty-three years ago and am therefore permitted to work in this country and participate in the international banking system and be taxed until I die. There is also a fictional work history that I am supposed to memorize.

“So I take these in to a bank and they give me money?”

“No, the money is paid to you in return for work that you perform. What that work might be is up to you. If Atticus is willing to support you for a while, let him. He can afford it. Are you hungry? Let’s go to lunch and bill it to him.”

I chuckled. “I like you already.”

He takes me to a pub called Rúla Búla, claiming that it’s Irish.
I had no doubt that it was, but in my day the Irish didn’t have fecking pubs; they had fires. Still, I like the place. It’s furnished in wood and smells of whiskey, and the people are ready to pour you plenty of it. Hal recommends a particular whiskey, and I order it along with lamb stew. He tries to talk me into ordering the famous fish and chips, but that involves a process called frying, which I don’t understand. Stew is something I understand. I’m glad people still eat it.

“So what are your plans?” he asks me.

“I need to absorb and adjust more than anything else,” I says. And, of course, at the time of that conversation I wasn’t all that fluent in English yet. In these writings I am making myself sound more clever than I actually was at that point. But whatever I said made sense to Hal.

“Where are you planning to do that?” he asks. “I mean, I presume you will be on your own for a while. So where are you going after this lunch?”

I shrug. “I have to go to Tír na nÓg and say hello to the Tuatha Dé Danann. And while I’m there, I have to figure out who’s trying to bend over me apprentice.”

“You mean Atticus or some other apprentice?”

“Siodhachan, aye. I know he’s been a proper Druid now for longer than I’ve been alive, but I still think of him as me apprentice.”

“And you were speaking metaphorically about the bendingover thing?”

“Aye. But it’s not all that far from the truth if ye think about it. If the Tuatha Dé Danann haven’t changed much since the old days, then there will be lots of drinking and sweating underneath the blankets together. Probably won’t learn a thing while I’m there.”

“Not much of a detective, eh?”

“What’s a detective?”

His eyebrows shoot up and then his mouth spreads into a huge smile, which tells me I’m in for something. “It’s someone who looks at a crime scene and figures out from clues who could
have committed the crime. If they’re successful, they accuse someone and try to prove that they are guilty and deserve to be punished. It’s my job to defend the accused and prove that they are innocent—or at least cast doubt on their guilt.”

“You’ll have to define a lot of words for me there,” I says, and he smiles again and spends the rest of lunch giving me a basic introduction to criminal justice. Then he says to hell with it, I’ll call it a day, why don’t you come over to my house and I’ll show you the most famous detective in human history.

“He lives with you?”

“No, he’s a figure out of stories. Think you’ll like it.”

I see no reason to refuse, because while meeting with the Tuatha Dé Danann is necessary, it’s not an urgent business. Hal settles our bill with a rectangle of plastic called a credit card, says I’ll need to get one of those soon, and then we walk to his car: a wee silver box, low to the ground and more pleasing to the eye than the thing Siodhachan rented. The paint job matches his tie, and I remember Siodhachan saying something about how the leaders of werewolf packs often wear silver for symbolic reasons. Sam Obrist didn’t, but maybe I caught him on his day off.

When we get in and fasten the seat belts, he presses a button on the steering wheel and then says, “Call office.” I’m wondering if he’s talking to me when a ringing noise comes from the middle of the car, clicks off, and then a woman’s voice says, “Magnusson and Hauk.” I try to conceal my surprise and casually look around the car to see where she might be hiding. There’s no room for anybody in the car but us.

“Nicole, it’s Hal. Clear my schedule for the rest of the day, please, and invite the pack over to my place at their convenience to meet Owen Kennedy.”

“Absolutely, Mr. Hauk,” the woman says. Where was she? Behind the console? Siodhachan said there was an engine in the front part of a car underneath the hood, and this was supposed to give the car its animating force, but her voice seemed to be coming from there. Then I realize that this is the voice of the woman with rose-red lips in Hal’s office.