Granuaile leaned forward. “You’ve met Baba Yaga?”
“She calls him that muscle-cocked goatfucker!” Laksha slapped the table, leaned back, and laughed heartily while we stared at her bemusedly. At another time I might have found it amusing-especially since I used to pick fights with Scotsmen by calling them something similar-but not when I was trying to keep “Raid Asgard” off my honey-do list. Granuaile seemed to be having the same difficulty with the comic timing, focused as she was on the revelation that Baba Yaga was a real person familiar with Thor’s intimate life.
An elderly diner from a neighboring table had been dying for an excuse to stare at the exotic woman with rubies around her neck, and now Laksha had provided her one by laughing so loudly. She noticed the woman’s stare and waggled her finger between us and explained, “We were just talking about goatfucking.” The woman’s eyes bulged in shock-and so did those of her dinner companions-but rather than scold Laksha for being so rude, they hastily returned to attacking their enchiladas with their dentures, eyes studiously contemplating plates of melted cheese and red sauce.
“You seem a little impatient, Mr. O’Sullivan,” Laksha teased when she turned her attention back to me. “I would think one so wise and learned would have cultivated an appreciation for the many branches of a conversation.”
“This is the sort of conversation where I’d like to stick to the main trunk, if you don’t mind.”
Laksha drummed her fingers on the table a couple of times and then grimaced in disappointment. “So be it. I will dispatch your Bacchants tonight if you give me your word you will get me the golden apples before the New Year. If we cannot agree to this, I will thank you for the meal and the visit and return to my husband, who is undoubtedly worried about his precious Selai by now.”
“Why do you want the golden apples specifically?”
Laksha executed a facial shrug with a twitch of her eyebrows and a tilt of her head. “I like this body I am in. I don’t want it to age; I don’t want to have to change bodies every few decades.”
We paused while a white-shirted man refilled our water glasses. “There are other ways to prolong life besides the golden apples,” I said quietly when he had disappeared.
“Ah, yes.” The witch nodded knowingly. “I have heard of these vitamins, and they may prolong life, but they will not halt the aging process.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I mean truly miraculous brews.”
Laksha raised an eyebrow. “Such as?”
“The ale of Goibhniu,” I said. “Brewer of the Tuatha De Danann. His brews confer immortality.”
“Ah, this is one of your gods, and you feel it will be easier to procure.”
“I am owed a reward for killing Aenghus Og.” I nodded, thinking it was time Brighid followed through on her promise.
“Congratulations, but it is not an acceptable substitute. This brew of Goibhniu is almost certainly one that I must drink repeatedly to maintain my youth, which means I would be dependent on one of your gods for my continued vitality. I cannot trust myself to such an arrangement.” I supposed from that comment she would not be interested in my Immortali-Tea either. It was just as well; I didn’t want to brew it for her in any case.
“With the apples it is different,” Laksha continued. “Once I have them, I can grow my own tree from the seeds.”
I was gobsmacked. “You think you can grow a tree of Asgard here in Midgard? It can’t be done. We’re talking two completely different sets of soil chemistry.”
“Bullshit, as you Americans say.”
“He’s Irish,” Granuaile pointed out.
“The Irish say bullshit too,” Laksha retorted, “and he’s pretending to be American now anyway.” She pointed a finger at me and said, “Don’t try to talk me out of this with Druidic word games. The ontological nature of a mythical tree does not include details on soil chemistry. It is a magical tree, and so it will grow magically regardless of soil chemistry.”
Clever witch. “It may grow magically anywhere, I grant you, but most likely only at Idunn’s behest.”
“That is a distinct possibility.” Laksha shrugged. “But we will never know until I give it a try.”
The temptation to get up and walk away nearly overwhelmed me: This wasn’t my fight. It was Malina’s. And if her covern couldn’t hack it, then Leif could tear them apart, or Magnusson would sic his boys on them once they screwed enough of his clients. I hadn’t lived for 2,100 years by volunteering to take point in every magical scrap in my neighborhood. Besides, I had an apprentice to protect and teach now. Granuaile and I could go anywhere and set up shop under a new identity, leaving these covens and other creatures to claw at one another for the privilege of drawing comfortable consulting salaries and living in glass towers. I almost did it; my leg twitched and my shoulders tensed.
But.
There was the dead land around Tony Cabin to resurrect. That was definitely my fight-a vitally important one-and no one else could fight it for me. It would take care of itself in another thousand years or so, but healing it now would erase all traces of Aenghus Og’s work in the world, and I couldn’t let it lie when I’d been indirectly responsible for it happening. Its very existence nagged at me; I felt it through the tattoos binding me to the earth. It was like a necrotic wound on the back of one’s hand that might allow the limb to function but slowly poisons the sense of health and harmony a soul needs for peace. Still, it would take me years to restore that land, which meant I’d have to stay in town and guard the proverbial castle.
It also meant I’d have to play nicely in the sandbox and pitch in when Malina needed help. She at least was willing to live peaceably with me, while die Tochter des dritten Hauses had forcefully demonstrated they were not.
Another thing to consider was the likelihood that I was under surveillance and could not disappear as easily as I had in the past. Father Gregory and Rabbi Yosef certainly seemed to be watching me closely or were in close contact with someone else who was. Like it or not, I had raised my profile considerably by killing Aenghus Og, and if various beings decided they would like to test themselves against me, I’d be better off defending myself in a place where I’d had years to build up wards.
But why did Fortune seem to be pushing me into a street fight with Thor? Stealing the golden apples of Idunn would rouse him as surely as would sitting down on a porcupine.
“Have you been talking to my lawyer, Leif Helgarson?” I asked Laksha. “Pale, spooky bastard with blond hair and an English business suit?”
“No.” She shook her head and frowned. “I thought your lawyer was the werewolf we rescued in the mountains.”
“He is. I have two lawyers, but they both hate Thor. Did either of them put you up to this?”
“Most of the world hates Thor.” Laksha smiled. “But, no, they have not spoken with me about this.”
“Is this your way, then, of getting me to fight him? It seems like everyone wants to put us in the Thunderdome and buy front-row seats.”
“No, this is my way of preserving this body so that I avoid further karmic debt.”
I sighed to release some of the tension in my muscles and rubbed my eyes with my knuckles. “All right. Let’s think this through. If your goal is to grow your own apple tree with the super-duper fruit of eternal youth, you don’t actually need all of Idunn’s apples, right? You only need one for the seeds.”
“No.” Laksha shook her head again and tapped the table repeatedly to emphasize her point. “I want them all, in case I get a dud.”
“Well, I want to have a chance of living through this if I’m going to consider it. If I steal one apple, I might be able to get away without anyone noticing, because the mythology says she keeps her apples in a basket and it’s always full. But if I steal the whole lot, every single Norse god will be after me-and after you too, I might add. Be reasonable. One apple will suffice.”
“How can I be assured the apple you bring me is Idunn’s?”
“Well, it’ll be golden, for one thing, and after you take a bite of it you should feel pretty fucking good, if reports are to be believed.”
Laksha laughed. “All right. You have proven to be as good as your word in the past. Twelve dead Bacchants tonight in exchange for one of Idunn’s golden apples before New Year’s Day.”
We shook hands on it while Granuaile shook her head in wonder. “I’ve listened in on some pretty weird conversations while tending bar,” she said, “but I think this is the weirdest shit I’ve ever heard.”
