Tricked

But no, the dumbass charged. “For Odin!” he cried, thinking perhaps it was a lucky thing to say since it had worked so well against the fallen Druid. But the Morrigan wasn’t off balance and out of position like the faux Atticus had been, and she had all the power of the earth at her command in addition to the powers of a goddess. As Vidar swung at her, she darted quicker than the eye could track to her right, out of the path of Vidar’s sword. She spun around in a blur, past his shield, and swung Fragarach from behind him with two hands, shearing his torso in twain and sending the top half sailing fifty feet as the bottom half staggered another step and collapsed. The Morrigan reset herself facing the thunder gods as Vidar’s head and shoulders smacked wetly to the earth. Her posture dared them to attack, but they had no such intentions. They collectively said, “Ahhh,” and gave her a round of golf claps for the spectacular slaughter.

“An excellent swing,” Shango said.

“You warned him but did not toy with him. I approve,” Lei Gong added.

“Flawless form, worthy of the finest samurai,” Raijin said.

“Marvelush dexterity and wondrous strength,” Indra opined before belching thunderously.

“That shit was awesome!” Ukko said, smiling through his beard, and I decided I liked him, even though he wanted me dead.

“No one else will object if I take Fragarach with me?” the Morrigan asked. The thunder gods all shook their heads and assured her that they thought it best she keep it.

“I mush be going,” Indra said. “But before I do, can you assure us that thish man is, in fact, quite dead?” He gestured to the chunks of flesh on the ground that used to look like me. The motion caused him to sway unsteadily on his feet, and I realized that his slight speech impediment was due to inebriation. A few of his thousand eyes were already passed out or blinking rapidly in an effort to stay awake. So the legends were true; Indra liked to hit the soma hard. “He casht ashpersions on my—urp—parentage,” he added, as if that explained why they’d practically diced the faux Atticus. Indra had pummeled bits of him to paste with the mighty club he carried.

“He is thoroughly dead,” the Morrigan replied. “His shade has already left this plane.”

“Then I am shatishfied that justish is done,” Indra said. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Morrigan. Perhapsh in a happier time, you and I could—”

The Morrigan’s eyes flashed red, daring him to finish. Indra’s thousand eyes blinked.

“Never mind,” Indra said. He took his leave and rose into the sky. The other thunder gods quickly followed suit, offering quick pleasantries before ascending to the thunderheads above, leaving the Morrigan alone with the carnage of a winter afternoon. She surveyed it, rain sluicing the blood off her body and Fragarach’s blade, and laughed.

Chapter 2

Congratulations, the Morrigan’s voice croaked in my head. That was new. Neither she nor any of the Tuatha Dé Danann had demonstrated the ability to communicate telepathically with humans before. What had changed? You have survived your own death, she continued. Five thunder gods will spread news of your demise throughout the world’s pantheons, and you will finally be free to live a boring life.

Could she hear my thoughts in return? Sold! I’ll take it! I said, in the same way I would have spoken to Oberon. Boredom sounds great right now!

Apparently, she could hear me just fine. The Morrigan waved the tip of Fragarach around at the chopped pieces of faux Atticus. Are you sure this native god will rise again?

Positive, I affirmed. You can’t kill Coyote. Well, you can, obviously. But he just keeps coming back. That was the heart of the Plan I’d made with Coyote: He’d assume my shape, die in my place, and I’d do him a favor on the reservation. A pretty big favor.

This mangled flesh will re-form? the Morrigan asked.

Nope. Coyote’s magic, like our shape-shifting, tends to ignore the Law of Conservation of Mass.

All the Old Ways do.

Yep. He’ll re-spawn in a completely new body and have a brand-new set of clothes to boot. I don’t know how he does it. Maybe he has a warehouse full of spare brains and body parts down in First World and a wholesale deal with Levi’s. There were many versions of Coyote running around North America, but this particular iteration of the Navajo tribe’s was one of the oldest and most powerful.

Beware, Siodhachan, the Morrigan said, calling me by my Irish name as always, trickster gods are not usually so helpful. There will be a price to pay for this service he’s done you.

Oh, I’m well aware. But Coyote and I arranged it all beforehand.

No. I mean there will be something else, she said.

I doubt it. I was very careful in our negotiation to specify the limitations of my service.

That may be so, Siodhachan. All I am saying is that tricksters have a way of working around deals. Be on your guard.

I will. Thank you for playing your part.

Through my binoculars, I saw the Morrigan give a half shrug in the rain. It was amusing. More amusing still will be bringing the news to Brighid.

She may be delighted to hear of my death, I pointed out. She was less than pleased when I refused to become her consort.

A rich, throaty laugh bubbled out of the Morrigan. Yes. I remember.

What will you do with Fragarach? I asked.

I will return it to Manannan Mac Lir. He will be surprised, I think, and then he will spend a year reminiscing about the elder days when we forged such things.

Any chance I could get it back after that?

None, the Morrigan said, her tone firm. Even the tiny brains of the thunder gods would figure that one out. No, you must give it up to secure your safety. And you still have the other.

Yes, that’s true, I said. Moralltach, the Great Fury, couldn’t cut through armor and shields, but it killed with a single blow. I had watched it work its magic on Thor. Still, it wasn’t as sweet as Fragarach. I would miss that sword, but the Morrigan was right. Giving it up was the only way to convince people I was truly gone.

Something in the Morrigan’s posture changed, and I was suddenly grateful that I was still up on the water tower and she was far enough away that I needed binoculars to see her well.

Come here, Siodhachan. Her voice in my head changed its tenor, turning all husky and chocolate, like a late-night DJ’s.

Um … why?

I have just killed a god. I want to celebrate with sex in the mud and the blood and the rain.

That’s when it clicked in my head: What had changed was that when we had shagged a couple of months ago—at length, and at her insistence—she had performed some bindings in a proto-Celtic language that had healed my demon-chewed ear. She could have easily bound her mind to mine at the same time—and clearly, the evidence proved she had. I was less than anxious to give her another opportunity to perform such shenanigans. Wow. That’s tempting, I said, but I need to go meet Coyote when he re-spawns.

Oh. So soon? Are you sure? Her left hand drifted over her body, drawing my attention to it. The Morrigan can beat a succubus when she wants to, in terms of stimulating desire in men. I knew this because my iron amulet protected me completely from succubi but only blunted whatever Horndog Lust Ray she was pointing at me now. Without the amulet, I’d already be her willing slave. As it was, I barely held on to my mental faculties; physically I was extremely attracted, much to my embarrassment and discomfort. Some people might like them, but I, for one, am no fan of boners in the rain.

I am sorry, I lied, but I am bound. You could always make a gift of yourself to one of the mortals here.

They never last long, the Morrigan said morosely.

So have ten or more. Twenty if you want. You can suck ’em dry like those little juice pouches and toss ’em away, I said, then winced at the imagery. I felt a brief stab of guilt, but I rationalized it by reminding myself that I’d be the juice pouch if I didn’t distract her.

Mmmm. Twenty men in the mud. Sounds delicious. Her lust stopped focusing on me and began to broadcast like the call of a siren. I sighed in relief.

You’re welcome. See you later, I said, then muttered an inadequate apology to the men who’d be arriving shortly to please the Morrigan. They’d not walk away unscathed, and some of them would probably get drawn into the investigation of what happened out there to Atticus O’Sullivan. Since this was murder on federal land, the FBI would be getting involved. There would be lots of tracks and evidence to pursue in all that mud, especially after the Morrigan had her fun with all the men she lured into the rain, and it would look like the mob or a cult had decided to execute me. That thought was actually kind of fabulous.

Leaving the binoculars behind, I bound my shape to an owl and flew south to my hotel. It’s not pleasant flying in rain like that, but I had to get out of there. Once safely in my room, I greeted my wolfhound, Oberon, who’d been watching Mystery Science Theater 3000 on TV. Then I took a cold shower and tried to think about teddy bears and baseball and those little bouncy air castles you can rent for kids’ birthdays—anything but the Morrigan.

Since it’s always better to clog up someone else’s drain with dog hair, I thought it would be a good time to give Oberon a bath as well. He hadn’t had one for a while, and I didn’t know when we’d have an opportunity like this again.

“Hey, Oberon,” I called, filling up the tub for him, “it’s time for your bath!”

"It is?" He sounded doubtful. "Do you have a decent story?" Oberon wouldn’t sit still for baths unless I told him a story—a real story about historical figures. He never settled for faerie tales.

“I’m going to tell you the true story of a man named Francis Bacon.”

"BACON?" He came running so fast that he couldn’t negotiate the sharp turn into the bathroom very well, and he slammed into the door awkwardly and then splashed into the tub, soaking me after I’d just finished drying off.

"Oh, this is going to be great! I can tell I’m going to like this man already. He had to have been a genius with a name like that. Was he a genius?"

“Yes, he was.”

"I knew it! I have an instinct for that kind of thing. But I hope this story doesn’t end with him chopped into bits and sprinkled on a salad. That would be tragic, and a story about bacon should be uplifting."

“Well, Francis Bacon was quite inspirational to many people,” I said, pouring water on Oberon’s back. “He’s the father of modern empiricism, or the scientific method. Before he came along, people conducted all their arguments through a series of logical fallacies or simply shouting louder than the other guy, or, if they did use facts, they only selected ones that reinforced their prejudices and advanced their agenda.”

"Don’t people still do that?"

“More than ever. But Bacon showed us a way to shed preconceived notions and conduct experiments in such a way that the results were verifiable and repeatable. It gave people a way to construct truths free of political and religious dogma.”

"Bacon is the Way and the Truth. Got it."

As I shampooed Oberon’s coat, I explained how to craft hypotheses and test them empirically using a control. And then I stressed safety while I rinsed him off.

“It’s best not to experiment on yourself. Bacon practically froze himself to death in one of his experiments and died of pneumonia.”

"Right! Bacon must be heated. Knew that already, but thanks for the reminder."

I love my hound.

Chapter 3

I have a thing for breakfast. Thing is a word I usually frown upon; I consider it a crutch for the chronically confused, a signal flag that says I don’t know what I’m talking about, and, as such, I studiously avoid it, like cheerleaders avoid the chess team. But in this case I feel justified in using it, because there isn’t a precise word in English to convey the character of my feelings. I suppose I could say that I regard breakfast with a certain asexual affection, a gustatory relish that’s a bit beyond yearning yet well short of pining—or some other verbal brain-fondle that penny-a-page hacks like Charles Dickens used to take delight in crafting—but no one talks or thinks like that anymore. It’s far faster and simpler to say I have a thing for breakfast (or eighties’ arena rock, or classic cars, or whatever), and people know what I mean.

Oberon shares my thing for breakfast, because in his mind it equals hot, greasy meat of some kind. The culinary art of the omelet is lost on him—as is the sublime pleasure of parsley potatoes or a cup of fresh-squeezed orange juice. Regardless, when we wakey-wakey, we always make time for eggs and bakey.

"Oh, great big bears," Oberon said, yawning and stretching out his back legs at the same time. "I’m going to need half a yak and an industrial winch to keep my eyes open this morning."

Where am I going to find half a yak?

"Duh. Attached to the other half. Hound 1, Druid 0."

Oh, you want to keep score today? I’m going to win this time.

"Never let go of your dreams, Atticus."

Tuba City—alas!—doesn’t have a wide variety of places to eat. There are some chain restaurants peddling fast food, and then there’s Kate’s Café. The locals eat there, so that’s where we went after we collected Granuaile from her hotel room, a few doors down from mine.

As you enter Kate’s, there’s a register and waiting area, and to the right of that is a long white counter with bar stools and a window to the kitchen behind it. The menu is displayed above the kitchen window on one of those old-fashioned marquees with red plastic letters spelling out items and prices. If you keep going past the counter, there’s a rectangular space that serves as the main dining room, full of gunmetal-gray vinyl booths and tables. The walls are painted a sort of burnt orange, kind of like sandstone with lots of iron oxide in it. I camouflaged Oberon, and he squeezed himself underneath one side of a booth while Granuaile and I slid in on the other side.