“Yes, but that’s never bothered you before.”
“It’s just that we’re supposed to be working together now. I gave him whiskey and Girl Scout cookies. We’re practically … bros.”
“That shouldn’t change, Siodhachan. The point is to get the Svartálfs working with you as well.”
I shook my head at the enormity of the task. “There’s centuries of prejudice there on both sides, lots of mistrust. It would be like asking the Fir Bolgs or the Fomorians to work with the Tuatha Dé Danann on a friendly basis. Turning enemies into allies in a day sounds impossible.”
“It is fortunate then that you don’t have to do that in a day. Merely prevent genocide so that trust can begin to build.”
“Did you say ‘merely’ prevent genocide?”
“That’s something you can do in a day, Siodhachan.” She slid forward through the water and planted a cold kiss on my cheek while her sharp, frigid fingernails rested on my throat. “Don’t disappoint me.”
“Morrigan, the dark elves have tried to kill me recently on multiple occasions. I don’t think they’ll accept me as a diplomatic envoy.”
“Go anyway.” And her fingers tightened on my throat, drawing blood under her fingernails. “Unless you’d like me to visit you again as the Battle Crow.”
“Well, no, I can’t imagine why I’d want that—”
She sank into the water and melted away in it, the visitation abruptly ended. I checked. No one in the pool but me.
“She’s gone,” I said, mostly to myself, but Oberon thought I was talking to him.
“I’m glad. I know she gave me food once, but she still scares me.”
“That’s okay. She scares me too.” I needed to get moving but realized that, while I had a sword and a stake and a hound, I had no clothes. The faeries attending the healing pools had taken my hospital gown. I called one over and asked if she might do a couple of things for me.
“Please tell Brighid I’m here,” I said, “and need to speak with her on an urgent matter regarding the Morrigan.” That should bring her running. “And then if you could find me some clothes, I would appreciate it.”
“Very well, but how are you feeling?” the faery asked. “Are you ready to leave?”
“Well enough,” I said. After she departed, I hauled myself out and checked a bit more thoroughly. Most of the internal organ damage was mended, because that was always a priority of healing, but my muscle tissue in my back and right leg was still tight at best and remained torn in places. I would have to limp for a while and eat some protein to repair that more quickly, and in truth I could use some more time in the pool, but time I didn’t have.
I also didn’t have any idea of what happened to Werner Drasche after his arrest. Was he still locked up or did he escape? And where was…?
“Oberon, did you remember to get that binder out of the hotel room in Toronto?”
“Uh, no. Was that important? I told Owen to bring the sword.”
“Thank you for that, sincerely. You deserve a snack.”
“Heck yes I do!”
“But the binder was important too. I wonder if it’s still there. I mean, I didn’t check out, so it should be.”
“I will go with you and you can lean on me as you limp.”
“Thanks, buddy.”
“And I’ll show you where the poutine is.”
“Excellent.”
The faery appeared to say that Brighid would arrive soon and gave me a white fluffy robe that had obviously been stolen from a hotel on earth—the logo was still embroidered on the breast. I’d been hoping for something like pants and a shirt, but I guessed I could suffer the stares I would get walking through Toronto in a robe. I would go to the front desk, ask for a key to my room because I’d lost it, and then they would ask me—oh, no.
“My ID was in my clothes. Which Owen left at the hospital.”
“Oops.”
It wasn’t an insurmountable problem. I could still get into the room by unbinding the lock. But the identity of Sean Flanagan would have to be retired permanently. There would be plenty of questions for the gunshot victim who disappeared.
I mentally reviewed what else I had to do before I took off to Svartálfheim, perhaps never to return. I wished I could check in with Granuaile—I hadn’t heard from her since I left for Ethiopia. All I knew was that she was in Asgard and therefore very difficult to reach at the moment. I hoped she was well. But since reconnecting with her would be impossible, there was one other matter to see to in England.
Brighid arrived before I could make plans, looking annoyed. It turned out not to be annoyance with me, however—she had loads on her mind after Fand’s revolt. And, much to my surprise, she had no problem whatsoever with me going to Svartálfheim at the Morrigan’s urging. “She gave me the same message,” she said.
“She did?”
“Via Eoghan, yes. He relayed the message. And I’ll go with you. Tomorrow, then, at dawn?”
“Uh … yeah,” I said. Her quick agreement knocked me off balance. “But you’ll want to wear the super-tough armor.”
“Oh, I will. Would you like some for yourself?”
I hadn’t worn armor in centuries, but against dwarfs it might be handy, especially in my condition. “Do you have any that would fit me?”
“I can get you something that will serve,” she said, a tiny smile on her face.
“Great. At dawn.”
Brighid departed, and Oberon and I left soon afterward. For the record, Toronto is a wonderfully diverse city and people are used to seeing all types, but a limping man wearing nothing but a robe and a sword will draw attention. Oberon carried the stake in his mouth, because it looked innocent there. If I carried it, I might look like I planned to stab someone, and the sword was already giving that impression.
I was unclear on just how much time I had spent in the healing pools, but it was morning again in Toronto and we passed by the same Timmie’s we had before. Ed and his companion were there, sipping their coffee and watching the world go by, though I didn’t realize it was them until the first man spoke up as we passed. “Boy, ya never know what you’re gonna see in Trahno, Ed.”
“Yep.” Ed was the best color commentator in the business.
We took the elevator to the sixth floor, where I took the time to bypass the lock on my room. It turned out to be gloriously undisturbed. The binder was there and so was my backpack and a very welcome change of clothes. Open-ended stays with a reliable credit card on file can be wonderful.
If the police were monitoring the financial records of Sean Flanagan, checking out would let the police know that I was still alive. That was fine; they’d never hear from him again, because I’d be getting a new identity from Hal. The hospital could have my old ID.
Once outside and walking back to Queen’s Park, I had to break the news to Oberon that the poutinerie wasn’t open yet and I didn’t have any money anyway. We would have to snaffle something to eat elsewhere.
“Let’s head over to the UK. It’s midafternoon there, that dead time of the day in pubs when cooks are either cleaning the kitchen or taking breaks. They’re not hovering over the food, in other words. Should be able to lift a few bangers without any trouble.”