Staked

“Hmm.” Malina taps her index finger on the granite kitchen countertop a few times, considering. Her eyes travel around the room, taking in the witches present. There are six in all, and she nods. “Okay, it’s worth a try if it gets us closer to a vampire-free Poland. There are some here in Warsaw and a few others preying on students in Poznań that we particularly do not enjoy. Anna, will you remain here and give Granuaile her first Polish lesson? The rest of us will try to find the equivalent of a magical ruckus.”

As the other sisters file out to the back acreage, Anna does a little Muppet flail in her excitement to teach me her language. She grabs a pad and pen and starts with the alphabet and sounds. I’ve always liked the letter z, so discovering that Polish has three versions—z, ź, and ż—confirms that I have made the right choice. Time slips by in language acquisition over tea until Malina and the others return. I notice they have little moonshine yarrow blossoms in their hair.

“Rome,” Malina says without preamble. “You need to go to Rome.”

“Why? What’s happening there?”

“Something very strange is going on in the Piazza di Spagna. I’d say it’s almost Rosicrucian, except it feels a bit off.”

“I don’t know what you mean by that.”

“The short version is that there are powerful wards around some of the buildings there, but they’re unusually constructed. They’re probably traps. I wouldn’t simply walk in there to see what happens.”

“And these are recent?”

“Yes. We haven’t sensed anything like this before.”

“Okay,” I say, getting up. Orlaith rises with me and wags her tail. “I’m on it.”

“Be extremely careful, Granuaile. Call us if you want to talk about it once you take a closer look.”

“All right, will do.” I thank Anna for the language lesson and take my leave, jogging back to Pole Mokotowskie with Orlaith. I teach her the names for Italian charcuterie on the way, with the result that she can’t wait to try prosciutto and culatello and salama da sugo ferrarese.

“We’ll see what we find first once we get to Rome: a deli or Atticus and Oberon.”

CHAPTER 23

Funerals are a bit fancy now, I notice, since everyone dresses in the best black clothing they have. In me own day ye had one set of clothes, two if ye were doing well, and ye washed them when ye got tired of the dirt and the bugs on your balls, not because somebody died. But Greta gets me some proper mourning clothes, because that’s a sign of respect, she says, so I go along because Hal fecking deserves all the respect I can give—Nergüi too, of course, who entrusted his family to me.

It’s really a hastily arranged memorial service instead of a funeral. Hal left instructions to be buried in Iceland, and Nergüi is to be returned to Mongolia. But the idea is the same: Ye remember the fallen and share why they were important to ye and give what comfort ye can to the family, even if it’s fecking useless and your words can’t possibly mend the hole torn open in their world and the yawning abyss of the future without their loved one. People still need to know that ye would fix everything if ye could.

Since Greta came back, she hasn’t said very much beyond “We’ll talk later” and a few grunts. I don’t have to cast wands to guess that it won’t be a pleasant talk, and I admit me guts are in a twist about it. Since I got pulled back into this time, the only thing that’s kept me from throwing shite at people is Greta. I know that when ye think o’ love you’re supposed to think o’ kissy faces and scented soap and hummin’ happy songs together, but there’s another vital part to it that people rarely admit to themselves: We want somebody to rescue us from other people. From talking to them, I mean, or from the burden of giving a damn about what they say. We don’t want to be polite and stifle our farts, now, do we? We want to let ’em rip and we want to be with someone who won’t care if we do, who will love us regardless and fart right back besides. I’m thinkin’ that maybe Greta could be that person for me. Or she could have been, until the fecking vampires showed up.

The entire Tempe Pack has driven up for the memorial on Greta’s land, and I think the plan is they’re going to do a run in the mountains later tonight for Hal, with most if not all the Flagstaff Pack joining them for Nergüi, and the next full moon will be dedicated to them as well. I hear dark mutterings that the vampires will be paying for this.

Meg and Tuya are going to stay, which surprises me. Nergüi and Meg both wanted their daughter to be a Druid, and Meg hasn’t changed her mind about it. They’re going to take care of things in Mongolia for a while and then they’ll be back.

I keep me face shut during the memorial; I didn’t know Hal or Nergüi half so well as the rest, and this is a pack thing if anything is. There are some interesting noises made at werewolf memorials: half barks and yips and growls, plus faces sliding around as they fight to keep hold of their emotions and their human forms. Nobody completely loses it, though. Afterward, Greta crooks a finger at me and we walk off some distance into the trees before she speaks. She has a black veil over her eyes, but the cold blue of them still seizes me when she looks up. Her voice is tight and controlled and distant. She’s wearing a man’s suit and tie in silver, which has some kind of symbolism to the pack. Out of the inside jacket pocket she withdraws the plastic bag that Hal brought with Siodhachan’s new documents in it. She tosses it to me and then spits to the side.

“I want you to find him and tell him he’s not welcome here anymore. He’s not welcome among any members of the Tempe or Flagstaff packs, and, yes, I speak for Sam and Ty in this.”

She waits for me to say something, but if she’s expecting an argument she’s going to be disappointed. “Okay,” I says.

“I wouldn’t ask you to never speak to him again. But I cannot stress how much we are tired of his shit. No, no—tired isn’t the word. Furious, enraged, ready to destroy him—that’s closer. We do not want our pack to be collateral damage in his endless series of crises. So henceforth we will have no association with him whatsoever.”

I don’t know what collateral damage is, so I just nod and look it up later. Greta takes that as her cue to continue. “If you wish to meet with him, do so far away from here. How he gets in touch with you must be mundane as well. No Fae messengers. He needs to use either mail or social media. I will help you with that if you need it.”

“All right.” I’m so relieved that she’s not sending me packing over this that I can’t manage anything else.

“No favors. No more IDs. His legal relationship with Magnusson and Hauk is terminated, and they will serve papers to that effect. No watching his hound or his sword—which Sam and Ty brought to the service, by the way, and you’re to take with you. It’s waiting in the house, on the dining room table. So nothing from now on. He may live in peace outside our territory, but if he is stupid enough to enter it again, we will do whatever we can to end his very long life. Is that clear?”

“Absolutely.”

Tension drains out of her shoulders, and she exhales slowly and closes her eyes. She’d said what she wanted to say.

“Good. Do you have any questions?”