Trapped Read online

  PRAISE FOR

  THE IRON DRUID CHRONICLES

  BY KEVIN HEARNE

  Hounded

  “This is the best urban/paranormal fantasy I have read in years. Fast paced, funny, clever, and suitably mythic, this is urban fantasy for those worn-out of werewolves and vampires. Fans of Jim Butcher, Harry Connolly, Greg van Eekhout, Ben Aaronovitch, or Neil Gaiman’s American Gods will take great pleasure in Kevin Hearne’s Hounded. Highly recommended.”

  —JOHN OTTINGER III, editor of Grasping for the Wind

  “Filled with snarky descriptions … comradely characters, thumping action and a plot as stylized as a Renaissance Faire, this tale is outrageously fun.”

  —The Plain Dealer

  “A superb urban fantasy debut … with plenty of quips and zap-pow-bang fighting.”

  —Publishers Weekly (starred review)

  “Fans of fantasy and urban fantasy will eat this one up.… Hounded is a series debut that is absolutely not to be missed!”

  —My Bookish Ways

  “For both the urban fantasy and non–urban fantasy geekoids, Hounded is a tremendous read. Fun, well-written, and entertaining.”

  —Blood of the Muse

  “A page-turning and often laugh-out-loud-funny caper through a mix of the modern and the mythic.”

  —ARI MARMELL, author of The Warlord’s Legacy

  Hexed

  “Kevin Hearne … cranks out action and quips at a frenzied pace … in this fun and highly irreverent read.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Hearne’s writing is fast paced and spot on … Hexed is steeped in magic and wrapped in awesome. It really doesn’t get much better than this!”

  —My Bookish Ways

  “The humor in Hexed is non-stop.… Hard to read without a smile plastered across your face.”

  —Blood of the Muse

  Hammered

  “In this adrenaline-spiked third Iron Druid adventure … Hearne provides lots of zippy plotting and rocking action scenes.… Fans will be thrilled.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “I love, love, love this series, and Hammered is the best so far.… You’ll be turning pages in warp speed until the final battle, then you won’t be able to turn them fast enough.”

  —My Bookish Ways

  Trapped is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  A Del Rey eBook Edition

  Copyright © 2012 by Kevin Hearne

  Excerpt from Hunted by Kevin Hearne copyright © 2012 by Kevin Hearne

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Del Rey, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.

  DEL REY is a registered trademark and the Del Rey colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.

  This book contains an excerpt from the forthcoming book Hunted by Kevin Hearne. This excerpt has been set for this edition only and may not reflect the final content of the forthcoming edition.

  eISBN: 978-0-345-53562-7

  Cover illustration: © Gene Mollica

  www.delreybooks.com

  v3.1

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Pronunciation Guide

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Epilogue

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Other Books by This Author

  Excerpt from Hunted

  Pronunciation Guide

  If you’re an old hand with the series, then you know that some of the Irish names can be challenging if you try to say them according to English spelling rules. Since I have a lot of Irish names in this book, I’m taking the opportunity to repeat some names that I haven’t addressed since Hounded. As always, this guide is intended to help those who’d like to say everything correctly in their head. There is no requirement to do so, and I won’t be annoyed if you pronounce things however you like—especially since these are presented largely in the Ulster dialect, and folks who speak in the Munster dialect would pronounce them differently anyway. You’re supposed to have fun, dang it, so have fun whether you say these correctly or not! There won’t be a test later.

  Irish

  Aenghus Óg = AN gus OHG (Epic douche. Dead now)

  Brighid = BREE yit (First Among the Fae, her magical powers are rivaled only by those of the Morrigan)

  Cnoc an Óir = KNOCK a NOR (Location on the plane of Mag Mell; source of the healing hot springs. Literally means gold hill)

  Creidhne = CRAY nya (One of the Three Craftsmen, specializes in bronze, brass, and gold)

  Dubhlainn Óg = DOOV lin OHG

  Emhain Ablach = Evan ah BLACH (That’s a guttural ch that often gets left off and pronounced like an ah, as it does in the words Fragarach and Moralltach. Means Isle of Apples)

  Fand = Fand (I know, right? What are the odds that you’d say it the way it’s spelled? Daughter of Flidais, married to Manannan Mac Lir)

  feeorin = FEY oh rin (A type of faery in Irish lore, which precedes the birth of George Lucas; bears absolutely no relation to the reptilian alien species in the Star Wars universe)

  Fir Darrig = fir DAR ick (They’re like Fir Bolgs but woodier)

  Flidais = FLIH dish (Irish goddess of the hunt)

  Fragarach = FRAG ah RAH (Legendary sword that can cut through any armor; the Answerer)

  geancanach = gan CAN ah (Another type of faery)

  Goibhniu = GUV new (One of the Three Craftsmen, specializing in smithing and brewing)

  Granuaile = GRAWN ya wale (People ask me about this one a lot, so there you go)

  Luchta = LOOKED ah (The ch is kind of a guttural job, but I’m approximating with a k sound here. One of the Three Craftsmen, specializing in woodcraft. He’s sometimes referred to as Luchtaine in myth.)

  Mag Mell = Mah Mell (One of the Irish planes of paradise; the really posh one)

  Manannan Mac Lir = MAH nah non mac LEER (God of the sea and psychopomp to five planes of the afterlife, including Mag Mell and Emhain Ablach)

  Moralltach = MORE ul TAH (Another legendary sword with an enchantment of necrosis on it; one strike and you’re toast. Means Great Fury)

  Ogma = OG ma (First syllable rhymes with log. One of the Tuatha Dé Danann)

  Scáthmhaide = SKAH wad jeh (Means Shadow Staff)

  Siodhachan = SHE ya han (The real first name of Atticus given to him by his own dear mother)

  Tír na nÓg = TEER na NOHG (Land of Youth. The primary Irish plane through which Druids shift to other planes.)

  Tuatha Dé Danann = TWO ah day DAN an (The race o’ people who were the first Druids and eventually became the gods of the pagan Irish)

  Norse

  Álfheim = ALF hame

  Einherjar = EYNE her yar

  Gjöll = Gyoll (Short o as in not)

  Hugin = HYOO gin

  Munin = MOO nin

  Nidavellir = NIH da VETTL ir

  Niflheim = NIV el HAME

  Sigyn = SIG i
n (Hard g)

  Skadi = SKAH dee (With a softish d)

  Svartálfheim = SVART alf hame

  Vir = VER

  Yggdrasil = IG drah sil (World Tree)

  Ylgr = ILL ger

  Greco-Romans

  Agrios = AG ree ohs (A Thracian horror)

  Bacchant = BOCK ent (There are alternate pronunciations for these that are perfectly valid; this is just the one I prefer)

  Bacchus = BOCK us

  Oreios = oh RYE ohs (Brother to Agrios, another Thracian horror)

  Polyphonte = polly FAWN tay (Learned what happens when you displease Aphrodite; mother to Agrios and Oreios)

  Thracian = THRAY shen

  Chapter 1

  You know those spastic full-body twitches you get sometimes when you’re almost asleep and your muscles want to play a practical joke on your brain? You startle wide awake and immediately get pissed at your nervous system, wondering what the hell that was all about. I’ve caught myself talking to it before: “Damn it, Dude”—yes, I call my nervous system Dude, and the Dude abides—“I was almost asleep, and now you’ve slain all the sheep I was gonna count.”

  What I felt as I walked on the Kaibab Plateau was kind of like that, except it was Gaia doing the spastic full-body twitch. It was more of an uncomfortable shudder that I felt through my tattoos, like when you step barefoot into the garage in winter and your nipples pucker up. But, as with those nervous muscle spasms, I got irritated about it and wondered what the hell was going on. And while I wasn’t about to go to sleep, I was about to enjoy the culmination of twelve years of training an apprentice—and, save for the first few months of it and a harrowing episode halfway through, I’d conducted it all in peace. Granuaile was finally ready to become a full Druid, and we’d been searching for a place to bind her to the earth when I felt the tremor. I shot a question to the elemental, Kaibab, in the cocktail of feelings and images they use instead of language: //Confusion / Query: What was that?//

  //Confusion / Uncertainty / Fear// came the reply. That chilled me. I’d never heard confusion from an elemental before. The fear, on the other hand, was perfectly normal: Despite their awesome power, elementals are afraid of almost everything, from placer mines to land developers to bark beetles. They can be real scaredy-cats sometimes. But they’re never uncertain about what’s going on with Gaia. Stopping in my tracks and causing Granuaile and Oberon to turn and look at me quizzically, I asked Kaibab what there was to fear.

  //Plane across ocean / Early death / Burning / Burning / Burning//

  Well, that confused me too. Kaibab wasn’t talking about an airplane. He (or she, if Granuaile had been the one talking to the elemental) meant an entire plane of existence, a plane that was tied to earth somewhere on the other side of the globe. //Query: Which plane?//

  //Name unknown / God from plane seeks you / Urgent / Query: Tell him location?//

  //Query: Which god?//

  The answer to that would tell me what plane was burning. There was a pause, during which time I stalled with Granuaile and Oberon. “Something’s up with Kaibab. Hold on.” They knew better than to interrupt, and they took this news as an invitation to be on their guard, which was wise. Anything worrisome to the avatar of the environment you currently occupy should rouse you to a caffeinated state of paranoia.

  //God’s name: Perun// Kaibab finally said.

  Almost unconsciously, I sent //Shock// in reply, because it was truly my reaction. The Slavic plane of existence was burning, perhaps even dead? How? Why? I hoped Perun would have the answers. If he sought me in hopes that I had them, we’d both be disappointed. //Yes / Tell Perun location//

  I’d also like to know how Perun even knew to ask for me—did someone tell him I’d faked my death twelve years ago? There was another pause, during which I filled in Granuaile and Oberon. Thanks to Immortali-Tea, they hadn’t aged any more than I had.

  Oberon asked.

  Yep, that’s the one.

 

  I don’t know why, but perhaps you’ll get a chance to ask him.

  //He comes// Kaibab said. //Fast//

  “Okay, incoming,” I said out loud.

  “Incoming what, Atticus?” Granuaile asked.

  “Incoming thunder god. We should move near a tree and get ready to shift away to Tír na nÓg if necessary. And get the fulgurites out.” Fulgurites would protect us from lightning strikes; Perun had given them to us when Granuaile was just starting her training, but we hadn’t worn them for years, since all the thunder gods thought I was dead.

  “You think Perun is going to take a shot at us?” Granuaile asked. She shrugged off her red backpack and unzipped the pouch containing the fulgurites.

  “Well, no, but … maybe. I don’t know what’s going on, really. When in doubt, know your way out, I always say.”

  “I thought you always said, ‘When in doubt, blame the dark elves.’ ”

  “Well, yeah, that too.”

  Oberon said.

  We stood in a meadow of bunch grass and clover. The sky washed us in cerulean blue, and the sun kissed Granuaile’s red hair with gold—mine too, I suppose. We had stopped dyeing our hair black because no one was looking for two redheads anymore. And after twelve uncomfortable years of being clean-shaven—my goatee had been distinguishable and damn difficult to dye—I was enjoying my new beard. Oberon looked as if he wanted to plop down and bask in the light for a while. Our backpacks were weighted down with camping gear that we’d bought at Peace Surplus in Flagstaff, but after Granuaile retrieved the fulgurites, we jogged over as best we could to the nearest stand of Ponderosa pine trees. I confirmed that there was a functioning tether to Tír na nÓg there and then looked up for signs of Perun’s arrival.

  Granuaile noticed and craned her neck upward. “What’s up there, sensei?” she wondered aloud. “I don’t see anything but sky.”

  “I’m looking for Perun. I’m assuming he’s going to fly in. There, see?” I pointed to a dark streak in the northwestern sky trailed by lightning bolts. And, behind that, at a distance of perhaps five to ten miles—I couldn’t tell from so far away—burned an orange ball of fire.

  Granuaile squinted. “What’s that thing that looks like the Phoenix Suns logo? Is that him?”

  “No, Perun is in front of it, throwing all the lightning.”

  “Oh, so what is it? A meteor or a cherub or something?”

  “Or something. It doesn’t look friendly. That’s not a warm, cozy hearth fire that you gather ’round with your friends to read some Longfellow while you toast s’mores. That’s more like napalm with a heart of phosphorus and a side of hell sauce.” The lightning and the fireball were turning in the sky and heading directly our way.

  Oberon said.

  I hear ya, buddy. I’m ready to scoot too. But let’s see if we can talk to Perun first.

  The sky darkened and boomed above, making everything shudder; Perun was traveling at supersonic speeds. He crashed into the meadow about fifty yards away from us, and large chunks of turf exploded around a newly formed crater. I felt the impact in my feet, and a wave of displaced air knocked me backward a bit. Before the turf could fall back to earth, a heavily muscled figure carpeted in hair bounded out of it toward us, panic writ large on his features.

  “Atticus! We must flee this plane! Is not safe! Take me—save me!”

  Normally thunder gods are not prone to panic. The ability to blast away problems tends to turn the jagged edges of fear into silly little pillows of insouciance. So when an utter badass li
ke Perun looks as if he’s about to soil himself, I hope I can be forgiven if I nearly shat kine—especially when the fireball whoomped into the crater Perun had just vacated and sucked all the oxygen out of my lungs.

  Granuaile ducked and shrieked in surprise; Oberon whimpered. Perun was tossed through the air toward us like a stuntman in a Michael Bay film, but, upon rolling gracefully through the landing, he leapt back up, his legs churning toward us.

  Behind Perun, the fire didn’t spread but rather began to shrink and coalesce and … laugh. A high, thin, maniacal laugh, straight out of creepy cartoons. And the fire swirled, torus-like, around a figure twelve feet tall, until it gradually wicked out and left a lean giant with a narrow face standing fifty yards before us, his orange and yellow hair starting from his skull like a sunburst. The grin on his face wasn’t the affable, friendly sort; it was more like the sociopathic rictus of the irretrievably, bugfuckeringly insane.

  His eyes were the worst. They were melted around the edges, as if they’d been burned with acid, and where a normal person would have laugh lines or crow’s-feet, he had bubbly pink scars and a nightmare of blistered tissue. The whites of his eyes were a red mist of broken blood vessels, but the irises were an ice blue frosted with madness. He blinked them savagely, as if he had soap in them or something, and soon I recognized it as a nervous tic, since his head jerked to the right at odd intervals and then continued to twitch uncertainly afterward, like a bobble-head doll.

  “Go, my friend, go! We must flee!” Perun said, huffing as he reached us and putting one hand on my shoulder and another on the pine. Granuaile followed suit; she knew the drill, and so did Oberon, who reared up on his hind legs and leaned one paw against me and the other on the tree.

  “Who in hell is that, Perun?” I said.

  The giant laughed again and I shuddered involuntarily. His voice was smooth and fluffy, like marshmallow crème—if the crème also had shards of glass in it. But he had a thick Scandinavian accent to go with the nervous tic.

  “This p-p-place—is M-Merrica, yes?”

  A twitch, a stutter, and an English-language learner. He’d drive me insane just listening to him. “Yes,” I replied.

  “Hah? Who? Thppt! Raah!” He spat a fire loogie and shook his head violently. Perhaps this was more than a twitch. It might be full-blown Tourette’s syndrome. Or it might be something else, as the signs all pointed to a highly unpleasant conclusion.