visions of letting her and Perry run the store for days at a time while Granuaile and I tried to restore the land around Tony Cabin.
“You’re hired,” I told her, and her wide mouth split into a huge smile. “You’ll start out three dollars above minimum wage, but learn the apothecary side of the business in a month and I’ll double it.”
She was quite excited, and that made filling out the government paperwork less of a chore. She didn’t know what to think of Perry at first, but he put her at ease once he smiled and proved not to be the stone-cold Goth he looked like.
I enticed Granuaile to hang out with me for a while after work by telling her she could ask me anything she wanted about history and I’d answer to the best of my ability. I gave her full disclosure that I’d make her drive me to the airport to pick up Laksha if and when she called, and we also had the onerous chore of sipping Irish whiskey with the widow ahead of us.
“What’s onerous about that?” Granuaile asked.
“Nothing at all. I was being facetious. You’ll love the widow.”
Granuaile had seen the widow before and vice versa, but they’d never been formally introduced. Granuaile had been sharing her skull with Laksha at the time, and the widow had been preoccupied watching werewolves landscape her front yard. The prospect of introducing them actually made me nervous-what if they didn’t like each other? But I should have known I had nothing to worry about. Mrs. MacDonagh is the soul of hospitality to anyone who isn’t British and doubly welcoming to redheaded freckled gals with Irish names like Granuaile. I made sure to introduce her as my employee so the widow wouldn’t assume, as older citizens frequently do, that the young man and woman must be having loud, acrobatic sex every chance they got.
“Does Granuaile know all yer secrets, then, Atticus?” The widow winked as we settled down with clinking glasses of the Irish. It was a clever way of asking if she could talk freely.
“Yes, Granuaile knows how old I really am. She’s going to become a Druid herself, so you can talk about whatever you like.”
“She’s becomin’ a Druid?” the widow cast a surprised look at Granuaile. “Weren’t ye raised a proper Catholic girl?”
“I’m not a proper anything, I suppose,” Granuaile replied. “Majoring in philosophy kind of turns positive assertions into maybes.” That was the sort of observation I had already come to admire in my apprentice. Her philosophy degree compensated somewhat for starting her training so late. Her mind had not lost any of its flexibility, and she was very quick to pick up on the difficulties she’d face in the modern world as a magic user and a pagan to boot.
We chatted pleasantly until the sun went down, when I suggested I should be getting home to Oberon. I rode my bike and Granuaile trailed behind in her blue Chevy Aveo. I let Granuaile keep Oberon happy on the front porch with a belly rub while I put in a call to Leif.
He didn’t spend time on niceties like saying hello. He answered the phone with, “Have you changed your mind about Thor?”
“Um… no,” I said, and he promptly hung up on me. My disappointment must have shown on my face, because Granuaile asked me what was wrong.
“It seems my lawyer’s feeling unusually bloodsucky,” I replied. “Our cordial relationship may be over.”
“No way to patch it up, huh?”
“Well, no, it’s not like I can send him a box of chocolates. I have scruples about sending him people for dinner. And I can’t possibly do what he wants me to do.”
“What’s that?”
“Kill a thunder god.” Before Granuaile could reply, my phone started ringing in my hand. It was an unknown number.
“I’m back in town, Atticus,” Laksha Kulasekaran said on the other end of the line. “Pick me up on the north side of Terminal Four.”
She and I were going to hunt some Bacchants. I slung Fragarach across my back before Granuaile and I jumped back into her car, because while it would do me no good against them unsheathed, I could simply brain them with the scabbard if necessary-and I can’t count how many times I’ve wished I had it with me when I left it at home.
Chapter 11
The tendency of modern American women to exclaim “Hiiiiiiiiiiiii!” in soprano octaves and hug each other upon sight can be disconcerting to those unfamiliar with it. Laksha was definitely unfamiliar with it, judging by the widening of her eyes and the stiffness of her limbs when Granuaile assaulted her with effusive greetings.
At least, I assumed it was Laksha: Granuaile was hugging a young olive-skinned woman in a black salwar kameez with a gold brocade border at the neckline and sleeves. I recognized the magnificent necklace of rubies set in gold that circled her throat; it was a magical focus she claimed was demon-crafted. There was a black chiffon duppatta, also with brocade on the borders, that Laksha had wrapped around herself intricately and in which Granuaile managed to tangle her arms. I have seen more-awkward hugs in my life, but few so amusing and so clearly perplexing to the person being hugged.
Granuaile finally realized that Laksha probably didn’t know what the hell she was doing, and she switched from ecstasy to embarrassment at about Mach Five.
“Oh, I am so sorry,” she apologized, trying and failing to return Laksha’s duppatta to its former graceful sweep. “I keep forgetting you’re not used to American customs yet. Women here always get excited when they haven’t seen each other for a while.”
“But I saw you just last week,” Laksha said.
“Well, yes, but you’ve been so far away,” Granuaile explained.
“So distance must be taken into account when deciding whether to greet someone like this?”
“Um, well, I never thought about it quite that way before, but I guess that must be true, yes,” Granuaile said uncertainly.
I popped the trunk of Granuaile’s car and grinned at Laksha as I picked up her bags. “Welcome back, Laksha. You look fabulous.”
“Thank you, Mr. O’Sullivan.” She smiled primly at me. Her lips were the color of wine in a heart-shaped face, which was framed with a cascade of glossy black hair. She had a dimple on the left side of her mouth, a diamond stud glinting on the right side of her nose, and her eyebrows were expertly tweezed or waxed or whatever the proper beauty exercise is called. Her dark eyes shone with amusement, and one didn’t get the sense at all that she was used to making deals with rakshasas and transferring her soul from body to body. “I am rather fond of this particular form.” She held up her left hand, adorned with golden bangles on the wrist, and admired it with proprietary pride. “I am thinking I would like to keep it for a while, especially since the previous owner of it yielded it to me so willingly. I have not possessed a body free of karmic debt since the one I was born in, and I confess it holds much attraction for me.”
“There are no problems with it, no scars from the auto accident the young lady was in?”
Laksha gave a small shake of her head. “Nothing on the surface. She suffered some broken bones, but they are all healed. She lost her spleen. The head trauma that put her in a coma is something I can work around for now and perhaps mend with time. Of course, the muscles are atrophied and I still tire easily, but they will strengthen with a little work.”
“Fascinating,” I said. “Let’s continue talking in the car. We’d better go before the TSA guys get impatient with us.”
As Granuaile got us on the eastbound Loop 202, Laksha announced she was hungry for Mexican food.
“I know just the place,” I said, and gave Granuaile directions to Los Olivos, a Scottsdale landmark since the 1950s. It was on our way to Satyrn, and it would give us a chance to talk.
Laksha was fondly anticipating a divorce from Mr. Chamkanni. “Taking off like this without his precious masculine permission will drive him to irrational behavior,” she said, smiling. “He will think he’s lost all control-not that he ever had any-and his friends will egg him on to put me in my place. He will make demands of me when I
