spat.
“Surely I don’t need permission to defend myself?” I asked. “He tried to use his glamour to cut me down, Morrigan. If I hadn’t been wearing my necklace, I never would have seen the sword he pulled on me.”
“You would have survived,” the Morrigan pointed out.
“Aye, but in what condition? Forgive me if I do not wish to experiment with various levels of pain and disembowelment,” I said, as I lowered my shoulder and let Bres fall unceremoniously onto the widow’s Bermuda grass.
“Tell me precisely what happened, every word that passed between you.”
I told her, and she regarded me with stony silence, except for those red eyes. They finally dimmed when I told of how I had used a camouflaged dog to trip him and finish him off.
“Well, that was unforgivably arrogant of him. He deserved to die a fool’s death,” she said. “And look at that horrendous armor.” But then she looked at his head resting a yard to the right, and her eyes blazed red again. “When Brighid hears of this, she will want me to bring her your head! And I will have to tell her no! Do you know what position that puts me in, Druid?”
“I am sorry, Morrigan. But perhaps if you tell Brighid precisely how he died, she will be less inclined to demand blood for blood. Think of your own reaction to it: His death was the most dishonorable of any of the Tuatha De Danann. And why was he doing Aenghus’s bidding, anyway? Demanding restitution for one such as he would be almost ridiculous.”
Her eyes cooled down as she considered my words. “Hmm. You reason well. Perhaps we can avoid conflict if we present it to her properly.” She looked again at Bres’s headless body and his head sitting at Oberon’s feet. “Leave the body with me,” she said. “I will take care of it.”
I was only too glad to let her. “My thanks. If you have no objection, I will go wash the blood out of the street.”
“No, go ahead.” The Morrigan flicked her hand dismissively, her eyes still on the body, and I took off before she changed her mind. Besides, I honestly didn’t want to see what she was going to do.
I grabbed the garden hose attached to the front of the house and turned it on full blast. The widow came out with a glass of lemonade for me and a fresh whiskey for herself, surprised to see me back so soon.
“Have y’buried the fecking tea bag already?” she said.
“No,” I admitted, and tried to cover my shock at the widow’s language. “I just came back to wash the blood out of the street.”
“Ah, well, then, I’ll leave ye to it,” she said, handing me the glass and patting me gently on the arm. “I think it’s time for Wheel of Fortune, y’know.”
“Good night, Mrs. MacDonagh.”
She swayed a bit as she searched for the door handle. “Yer a good lad, Atticus, mowin’ me lawn and killin’ what Brits come around.”
“Think nothing of it, please,” I said. “And it’s probably best if we kept this between us.”
“O’course,” she said, finally finding the door and yanking it open. “G’night.”
As the door closed behind her, Oberon said, ‹You know, I think the television might have desensitized her to violence.›
That or living in Northern Ireland during the Troubles, I said.
‹What were the Troubles about?›
Freedom. Religion. Power. The usual. Would you mind standing sentinel again on the edge of the lawn while I do this?
‹No problem.›
I took out Fragarach first to hose it down, then pointed the spray at the street to wash the worst of the gore away. I was just about finished when I heard Oberon’s voice in my head, sounding very tense. ‹Hey, you said to listen for heavy footsteps. Well, I hear a whole bunch of them, and I think they’re coming this way.›
Chapter 10
“Time to go home!” I said, throwing down the hose and scrambling back to turn off the water. I hopped onto my bike and told Oberon we were going full tilt. I had to get away from the widow’s house or she could become a casualty.
‹What’s making that noise?› he asked, his long stride keeping pace with my bike as I pumped furiously to get some speed.
Those are the Fir Bolgs, I told him in my mind, saving my breath for bike riding.
‹I think they sped up. They’re running now.›
They’ve spotted us. Don’t look back, keep going. Now, listen: These guys carry spears, but you won’t see them. Just trust me, they will have them. They’re not going to see you either. What I want you to do is go for their left legs, that soft spot above the ankles.
‹The Achilles tendon? I remember that.›
Good. But you need to go for their calves. These guys are actually a lot bigger than they look, and their Achilles tendons are going to be about where a human’s calf would be. I want you to bite them once and then get the hell out of the way before they fall on you or take a swipe at you.
‹But what if they’re wearing armor?›
They won’t be. Anything you see is an illusion. They’re going to be barefoot, most likely. They have pretty tough hides. I risked a look back up Roosevelt as I turned the corner onto 11th. My normal vision showed me nine assholes in Harley-Davidson riding gear running after me under the streetlights as if I’d just toppled their bikes outside the pool hall. My faerie specs showed me nine nearly naked Fir Bolgs wearing nothing but breechclouts and woad. They carried spears in their right hands and large wooden shields in their left, and they were grinning in anticipation, because they were gaining on me.
When I got to my house, I rode up on the lawn and leapt off my bike, letting it roll, riderless, up to the porch. I heard a curse coming from the porch and I drew Fragarach from its scabbard, wondering who was lying in wait for me there.
“Damn you, Atticus, what are you playing at?” a familiar voice said as my bike came to an abrupt halt and then got tossed half the distance back to me.
I felt my face relax into a brief grin. “Leif!” I called, and he could not help but hear the relief in my voice. “I’m glad you’re here.” I had forgotten I’d asked Hal to send him as soon as the sun set. “I hope you’re dressed for a fight.”
“A fight? Is that what I hear coming down the road?” My vampire attorney stepped from the shadow of the porch into the dim glow of the streetlights. A white mane of hair floated around his pale face, which was scowling at me above an impeccably tailored suit. Not dressed in his fighting togs, then.
The Fir Bolgs rounded the corner, and the noise of their approach became intimidating, even without the senses of a vampire.
“I didn’t intend this, Leif,” I said. “But if you don’t help me now, you might not have your favorite client around anymore. There’s two glasses in it for you.”
“In addition to my fees?” he raised his eyebrows.
“No, one glass is your fee, the other is off the books for your help in this fight.”
There was no time to negotiate. He nodded once and said, “They do not look very tough.”
“They’re giants using glamour, so don’t trust your eyes. Use your other senses. What does their blood smell like?”
They were almost upon us, but it was a worthwhile question. Leif’s eyes widened as he caught the scent of their blood. “They are strong,” he said. “Thanks, Atticus.” He grinned, his fangs lengthening as he smiled. “I have not had my breakfast yet.”
“Look at it like an all-you-can-eat buffet,” I said, and then there was no more time for talking. Not one to be shy, Leif launched himself in a superhuman leap against the leading Fir Bolg, far above where his head was according to mortal eyes. That’s because the giant’s neck was actually about three feet higher, and the Fir Bolgs
