Conspiracies are fun, I’ve noticed, only when you’re the one conspiring. Or if you’re one of those guys who live in trailers and believe the government is hiding aliens—they must have fun fantasizing about how badly the nation is being deceived. But to know, for certain, that you are the target of a conspiracy—that’s not entertaining. It’s a recipe for acid reflux.
<That’s not how you spell relief, Atticus.>
It was high time that I did some conspiring of my own. I called to Goibhniu and asked if we could have a quick word. The brewer grinned in good spirits and offered one of those greetings where you grip forearms instead of hands.
“What’s on your mind, most ancient Druid?”
“Can you make one of those cone-of-silence thingies so we can’t be overheard?” I asked. “I never quite learned that trick.”
“Sure,” Goibhniu said. “You kind of have to learn it if you’re going to have a serious talk in Tír na nÓg. Faeries everywhere.” He mumbled a few words in Old Irish and rolled his eyes up and it was done. It was less graceful than the way Manannan had done it, and I didn’t quite catch all the words. “There,” he said. “I’ll teach it to you later if you like.”
“Thanks. What’s the coin of the realm in Tír na nÓg these days?”
“Gold and silver are still acceptable everywhere.”
“Excellent. I was wondering if you had any pods of yewmen frequenting your pub?”
“Yewmen?” Goibhniu’s affable expression disappeared. “Who are you wanting to kill, Atticus?”
I shrugged. “No one important here. Just some vampires on earth.”
Goibhniu frowned. “That battle was fought long ago, Atticus, and the Druids lost.”
“I didn’t lose. I just took a very long time-out. The vampires are after me now. Granuaile too. I’m not going to sit back and let them call all the shots this time. I have resources now—the Fae have resources—and we should use them.”
Goibhniu considered this and nodded once. “All right, but why yewmen?”
“Vampires can’t sense them. No heartbeats. No blood. But the yewmen do have magical sight, so they can see a vampire’s aura and figure out where to stick them, pun intended. They’re made of wood, so, duh, a quick branch through the chest and we’re done. Cut off the head, bring it to you for bounty, keep a tab running, I’ll pay monthly.”
“Whoa—bring the heads to me? And a tab?”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t want to be involved when the vampires start wondering who’s offing them. They can reach us here, you know. They have contacts, and they can hire yewmen or anyone else.”
“Do you know who their contacts are?”
“No.”
“Well, I’m sure you have contacts too and can conduct business as cleverly as they can. Don’t you have a barfly who conducts such shady doings anyway?”
“Yes,” he admitted.
“Employ him, then.”
Goibhniu shook his head. “You’re asking me to start a war.”
“No, it’s already started. I’m asking you to help me win it. And honestly it doesn’t have to be yewmen only. It could be a standing bounty for anyone seeking fortune. Let the vampires relearn what it feels like to be hunted again. They have had their own way for far too long.”
“Any vampire is okay?”
“Yes. As long as it’s from Italy. Start with Rome and spread out from there. Follow the path of the Roman conquest, in fact. That will take out the oldest vampires first, and the hunting will get easier as you go.” Theophilus was in Greece presently, but so was Leif. I didn’t quite want him dead yet, in case he proved useful. The world’s vampires marched to orders from Rome, however, and it was time to hit them where it would hurt most. Theophilus would probably have to move to Italy to take over personally if the yewmen were successful.
“How do we know a vampire’s head is from Italy?” Goibhniu asked.
“Have them document the proceedings with a cell phone camera equipped with GPS.”
“You know they’ll just make new vampires to replace the ones they lost.”
“I know. But they’ll be younger, weaker, stupider, and unclear on why Druids should be feared and hunted if it’s a bunch of wee faeries killing them.”
Goibhniu’s face split in a wide grin, and he laughed. “It’s been a merry few months around here now that you’re back. No one could call you tedious.”
We spoke for a few moments more on bounties and such, and during this time Flidais completed her instructions to Granuaile. I was well pleased and looking forward to the results of my little chat with Goibhniu; when Leif had supposedly died after the Thor business, the news caused vampires from all over the world to fight one another for the right to rule a piece of his territory. Freeing up territory in Rome itself would cause the world’s vampires to flail like Muppets in their eagerness to be the next bloodsuckers in chief; and in their wakes, other, smaller power vacuums would open up and consume even more of them. Hunting two Druids would cease to be important. Mwah-ha-ha-ha.
When Ogma and Granuaile set themselves for the second round, I could tell she would win it by following her eyes. She was watching her opponent. She would play the defensive, letting him commit, and then she’d counterattack—decisively. I’d been on the receiving end of it too many times to count. Ogma was watching his opponent as well, but in the wrong way. He was admiring Granuaile’s legs and the curve of her breasts, already anticipating what he’d see once he won her clothes. An arrogance had crept into his manner, an overconfidence, and he didn’t see that the second round would be much different from the first.
Once it began, Ogma was on the ground in less than thirty seconds, much to the astonishment of everyone but Oberon and me. Granuaile thrust out her hand in his face and said, “Excellent! You are well trained.”
The workshop quieted. To have a new Druid, scarcely into her third decade, speak to a god centuries old like that? Throwing his own words back at him? I was so proud.
Ogma, to his credit, did not take offense. He rose without her help, dusted off his kilt, and grinned ruefully. “Okay, I deserved that.”
He should have apologized. It would have cooled her down and she would have lost focus; she’d pay attention to the fact that she was sparring with a legend and was being watched by gods. But his admission of guilt without apology kept her focused.
The third round was intense and much longer. It was an outstanding showcase of skill from both combatants. Granuaile wanted to win, and against almost any other opponent she would have, but Ogma was roused now, and he did, after all, have centuries more experience than she.
When Ogma finally got through her defense and dropped her for the second time, he was clearly sweating and his face showed relief. The applause was loud—thunderous, even, thanks to Perun clapping next to me.
“I am liking your peoples more all the times,” he bellowed over the noise.
Once it had died down, Ogma leered at Granuaile and said, “Your clothes, please.”
“Certainly,” she replied, then disappeared.
A few confused noises filled the workshop, then laughter, as everyone realized that she had activated the enchantment on her staff.
“Atticus, will you come hold this for me, please?” her voice called.
“Sure.” I walked toward the place where she had been standing and stopped when her hand grabbed my shirt. She pulled me close and then guided my hand to Scáthmhaide. Once I touched it, I could see her.
“I’m invisible to them right now, aren’t I?” she whispered.
“Yes. We both should be now.”
“Let me try something. Hold this against my belly.” She raised her tunic, I touched her belly with the staff, and she let go with her hands. “How about now?”
I checked with Oberon.
<Nope.>
“Okay,” Granuaile said. “Keep it there.” She quickly took off her clothes, always keeping contact with the
