“What sort of trouble?”
“My wolfhound is wanted for murder. He killed a park ranger who surprised us during a hunt. And this ranger was wearing an earring enchanted with Fae stealth spells.”
The Morrigan’s eyes flashed even redder. “There are clearly machinations going on in Tir na nOg of which I am unaware. I dislike being left out; it gives me the feeling that I may be a target.” She huffed and shook her head. “I must investigate. I will linger on this plane awhile to see what Brighid does-but after that, I am going back to Tir na nOg to get some answers.”
Her eyes cooled down abruptly and she turned toward the door. “She comes,” the Morrigan said. “It would not do for her to see me here. Farewell for now, Siodhachan O Suileabhain.”
She melted back into a crow and flapped her wings toward the door, which unlocked and opened for her as she flew through, leaving me alone with Oberon, who was enjoying all the comings and goings from his position behind the counter.
‹You know, Atticus, that turning-into-a-crow business is pretty slick, but that’s not her best godlike power by a long shot. She can sense when specific people are approaching in time to avoid them! Wouldn’t it be cool if you could automatically avoid assholes for the rest of your life?›
“Hush, Oberon,” I said. “Brighid is coming. You need to be polite. Keep yourself still back there and don’t come out unless I give you express permission. She can fry us to bacon as easily as breathing.”
I’d no sooner finished speaking than a ball of flame blew through my door, breaking the glass and melting my door chimes. It extinguished itself in front of me, leaving a tall, majestic, fully armored goddess in its place. It was Brighid, goddess of poetry, fire, and the forge.
“Old Druid,” she said in a voice of music and dread, “I must speak with you about the death of my husband.”
Chapter 14
Brighid was a vision. I don’t think there’s ever been a hotter widow in history. Even though she was in full armor and all I could see of her actual person were her eyes and her lips, well, I felt like a horny teenager again. I really, really wanted to flirt, but seeing as I was the guy who widowed her, I thought perhaps there was a line somewhere I shouldn’t cross.
I cleared my throat and licked my lips nervously. “You’d just like to speak about his death?” I asked. “No summary incinerations or anything like that?”
“We will speak first,” she said severely. “What comes afterward depends on what you say. Tell me of his death.”
I told her everything. One doesn’t even attempt to lie to Brighid. I sort of left out precisely how I had seen Bres pull his sword on me-I was rather hoping she wouldn’t notice my necklace or how much power it held-but I told no untruths.
“The Morrigan told me the same story,” she said.
“It was purely self-defense, Brighid,” I said.
“I realize that.” Her manner softened. “And in truth, Druid, I owe you my thanks. You have relieved me of an odious task.”
Gadzooks! Brighid just said she owed me. That was a huge admission, and not what I had expected at all. “I beg your pardon? I do not understand.”
Brighid removed her helmet, and her red hair spilled out across her pauldrons like one of those self-inflating life rafts. It wasn’t sweaty or tangled from being confined in a helmet across miles of desert. It was glorious, shining, Age of Aquarius hair that would make Malina Sokolowski envious, a full-blown movie star ’do that a team of stylists would spend three hours teasing before the cameras rolled. It smelled of lavender and holly. I remembered to breathe only with some effort.
“I will explain,” Brighid said. “But might you have any tea? It has been a long journey from Tir na nOg.”
I leapt to my feet and hurried behind the counter where Oberon waited patiently. “Oh, certainly,” I gushed. Making tea for the goddess of fire was so much better than being summarily incinerated by the goddess of fire.
‹Can I say hello to her?› Oberon asked meekly.
Let me check, I told him. “My wolfhound would like to greet you, Brighid. Would that be acceptable to you as I brew your tea?”
“You have a hound here? Where is he?”
I dispelled Oberon’s camouflage and told him to mind his manners. He trotted into view and padded up to Brighid with his tail wagging like a metronome set to something allegro. She had seated herself at one of my tables, and she smiled at his enthusiasm.
“My, you are impressive. Can you speak?” She was binding her consciousness to his so that she’d be able to hear his answer.
‹Yes, Atticus taught me. My name is Oberon. Nice to meet you, Brighid.›
“And it’s nice to meet you, Oberon, Shakespeare’s King of the Fae.” She smiled, scratching him behind the ears with a gauntleted hand. “Who is Atticus?”
“That would be me,” I admitted.
“Oh? Nobody told me you were using a new name. They always use your proper name when they speak of you in Tir na nOg. I suppose you must make interesting choices, living amongst the mortals as you do. But you,” she said to Oberon, cupping her hand underneath his jaw, “I hear you killed a man. Is that true?”
I had been measuring loose-leaf tea into sachets as the water boiled, but at this I looked up sharply. Oberon’s tail stopped wagging and dropped between his legs. He sat down and whined. ‹Yes. I didn’t mean to. Flidais commanded me and I had to obey.›
“Yes, I know. I don’t blame you, Oberon. In a way, it was my fault. I sent Flidais to see your master.”
Gods Below! If she kept dropping bombs like that, I’d have to be very careful when handling the boiling water.
“Things didn’t go the way I planned at all,” she added. She began removing her steel gauntlets to pet him better. They clanked noisily on the table, and the magic in them was palpable. The armor of a forge goddess would be sans pareil-I wondered what it would take to even scratch it. Like, Fragarach, maybe? “And now things have gotten to the point where I need to get directly involved.”
‹Can you make the cops forget about me?› Oberon asked hopefully.
“I might be able to in normal circumstances. Unfortunately, someone is trying very hard to make sure that they don’t forget about you.”
“Wait, please, don’t say anything else,” I said. “Let me just pour this water and sit down, then we can talk.”
“Very well. Would you like a belly rub while we wait, Oberon?”
‹Oh, I like you a lot,› Oberon said, and he flopped down happily at her feet, his tail swishing across the floor.
Trivia: Brighid takes milk and honey in her tea. Just like me.
“Thank you,” she said, before taking a sip and sighing appreciatively.
“Most welcome,” I replied, and sat down and took a moment to savor the surrealism. I was having tea with Brighid, a goddess I’d worshipped since childhood, in a city that didn’t exist when I was a child. And my wolfhound was joining us-I had made him a cup and cooled it down with ice, and he was now lapping it up from a dish on the floor.
Brighid appreciated it too, for she smiled and said, “This is very strange.”
“I like strange things,” I said. “At least the non-threatening kind of strange.”
“Yes. Unfortunately, there has been plenty of the threatening kind of strange going on lately. You deserve an explanation, I think.”
“That would be lovely,” I allowed.
“Here, then, is the short version: My brother Aenghus Og is moving against me. He seeks to supplant me as supreme amongst the Tuatha De Danann, but I suspect this is only a stepping-stone to something larger. To that
