Shattered Read online

  “Possessed him? Shit. How? The way you do it?”

  “No, but it is similar. His spirit still dwells within his body, but the possessing spirit is dominant.”

  “What can you tell me about it?”

  “I found the vessel at the site. Your father had dropped it, or perhaps shattered it on purpose. I pieced it back together in order to read the Sanskrit markings. They warned that there was a raksoyuj inside.”

  “I’m sorry, what was that?”

  “A raksoyuj, which means a yoker of rakshasas. It’s a type of sorcerer that I thought had been eliminated before I was born. They are capable of summoning demons and bending them to their will, and that is what he is doing. The rakshasas your father has summoned are spreading a pestilence throughout the region. People are dying.”

  “Wait, you’re saying my dad is killing people?”

  “The spirit possessing him is responsible, but it’s his body. I can imagine that someone will be wanting to stop him soon, and they might not be very careful about how they do it.”

  “Oh, gods—”

  “Yes, them too.”

  “Okay, I can be there in a few hours.” I’d need to run back to the cabin and throw some things together and then find Atticus, but shifting around the world wouldn’t take any time at all. “Where should I meet you?”

  “Meet me at the entrance to the Brihadeeswara Temple. We are eleven and a half hours ahead of you, so it will be fully dark when you get here.”

  “See you then. Thanks for calling me.” I thumb the OFF button, ask the hounds to wait, and dart into the leather shop to return the phone to the manager.

  Oberon asks, when I return outside.

  Yes, I answer him mentally, then make sure to include Orlaith. We have to return to the cabin quickly. Jog with me; no stopping unless I stop.

  Orlaith says.

  No more of this town. We will go to a different one.

  We turn around and eat up ground quickly, especially since it’s downhill. People on the sidewalk move out of our way.

  Oberon says.

  No, it was my father. Laksha says he’s in India and he needs my help.

 

  Well—damn. I can’t take both Oberon and Orlaith with me unless I make two trips. I don’t have enough “fully furnished” headspaces for it, and a Druid needs a separate headspace for each being she takes along when hopping between the planes. We can slip our friends into the worlds built by scions of literature, splitting our consciousness into self-contained partitions. Atticus explained it to me like so: The tethers are roads, and Druids are the vehicles that drive on them. Headspaces are like seats for passengers. Thus far I have memorized only the world of Walt Whitman, and that would allow me to take one person—or hound—with me when I shift to Tír na nÓg and thence to India. It would be more practical to have Atticus join us if he could; he has six headspaces. He’s like one of those old-fashioned boatmobiles, where I’m only a two-seat Smart Car. Well, scratch that. I’m more like a two-seat Jaguar F-Type. I’m not sure, Oberon. I’ll have to see if I can find Atticus.

  Once we cross the bridge over the Uncompahgre River that leads to Box Canyon Falls, we zip behind some undergrowth and I shuck off my clothes before shifting to a jaguar. I abandon my jeans and sandals but decide to carry my Laser Vaginas T-shirt back in my mouth. Those are rare, after all. We sprint back to the cabin together, the hounds enjoying every moment of it, unconscious of my worries—as they should be.

  When we get home, they both head straight for the water bowl and I head for the bedroom to get dressed for a fight. I doubt that physical weapons will be of any use against a spirit, but the sorts of spirits who possess people tend to have ways to manifest physical threats. I throw on another pair of jeans and a nondescript T-shirt, a simple solid black. No customs agents, metal detectors, or anything like that will delay my travel, so I strap on two holsters that carry three throwing knives each and hide another pack of them between the waistband of my jeans and the small of my back.

  Oberon and Orlaith, I’m going to find Atticus in Tír na nÓg. Hopefully it won’t take long. Are you okay on food?

  Oberon says.

  Orlaith asks, and I smile despite my stress. They are two of a kind.

  Okay, I hear you, I reply. We must adhere to our priorities. Forcing myself to take the time, I fry up some sausages for the hounds and toast some sprouted-grain bread for myself. While I hope this will be a quick trip, it could easily turn into something more lengthy, and I don’t know when I’ll have a chance to eat again—and, besides, I haven’t had breakfast yet either.

  Recognizing that the same uncertainty applies to the hounds, I haul out a bag of kibble and pour it into two gigantic bowls.

  Oberon says.

  “It’s a backup plan,” I reply. “Just in case. You’re free to hunt, of course, and there’s all the water you want in the river. I hope I’ll be back in a few minutes and none of it will be necessary. But you know how weird things can get when you expect Atticus to behave normally.”

 

  “The point is, you won’t starve while I’m gone, and I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  We all make short work of our breakfast and I give the hounds hugs before I shift away to Tír na nÓg, the primary Irish plane to which the Irish gods have tethered all others, allowing us to travel as we wish. I check at Manannan’s estate first, but Atticus isn’t there. Nor is he at the Time Island; the boat he used is moored at the shore with a rope tied to a stake plunged in the ground. He isn’t at Goibhniu’s shop or at the Fae Court, and that exhausts all the places I know to look for him in Tír na nÓg. No one I ask knows where he and the old man have gone. I don’t have time to waste looking anymore, so I shift back to Colorado and find the hounds playing down by the river.

  Oberon! Orlaith!

 

 

  There are no creatures better at making someone feel welcome than happy hounds. Though I had been gone perhaps only a half hour, their joy at my return was no less than if I had been gone half a year. I wish sometimes that humans could greet each other with such unreserved delight. Leaving out the face-licking, perhaps.

  I can’t play with them, however, and though it breaks my heart, I have to leave Oberon behind if I’m going to go to India.

  “I couldn’t find Atticus. I need you to stay here and explain where I’ve gone so that he can find me,” I tell him. We enter the cabin, and I grab a pen and paper to scribble down a note.

 

  “Tell him I’m with Laksha; we’re trying to find and help my real father, who’s in trouble, and the details on where to find me are in this note I’m leaving. Don’t forget to tell him about the note, okay?”

 

  “Good hound.”

 

  I smile and answer him privately. You’ve seen too many human movies. Hounds are allowed to miss whomever they want at any point in a relationship without any creep penalties.

 

  I will miss both you and Atticus, I say, picking up my staff, Scáthmhaide, and walking outside with Orlaith trailing behind. I hope to see you soon.

 

  I put my hand on a tethered tree and ask Orlaith to put one paw on me and one on the tree. Orlaith says,

  I tell Oberon what she said, and then we shift away to India.

  “Why did they do it?” Owen asked. “Cover up the earth?”

  “They would say it speeds
their transport system, but I think primarily it’s an aversion to mud. They don’t feel the magic of the earth like we do, so it’s not a moral decision for them. It’s convenience.”

  “Oh, Siodhachan,” he said, shaking his head in despair. “Are you going to tell me that everything’s worse? Hasn’t the world gotten better in two thousand years?”

  The bartender arrived with our shots and beers, and I thanked him. “Some things have improved dramatically,” I said, looking down at our drinks.

  “What’s this, then?” My archdruid scowled at the glasses, distrust writ large on his face.

  “A sampling of Ireland’s genius,” I replied, and switched to English for the next sentence. “Whiskey and stout.” I picked up the shot glass and returned to Old Irish. “Begin with this and toss it down. Then follow with a few sips of the dark beer.”

  “All right,” he said, picking up the shot glass. “Your health.”

  “Sláinte,” I replied in modern Irish.

  The whiskey burned precisely as it should, and the Guinness was a perfect pour.

  Owen coughed once and his eyes watered. “Oh, thank the gods below,” he said, putting down the pint glass. “My people aren’t completely lost.”

  We both laughed—a common enough occurrence, but one that I couldn’t recall ever sharing with him—and then I answered a stream of questions about what he’d seen on the way to the inn. That turned into a stream of questions about what he saw inside the bar and what was this strange new concept called science anyway?

  We talked through a couple more rounds, and the after-dinner crowd started to filter in. Owen became particularly animated at one point, and this amused some young toughs at the bar. They laughed and one of them aped him—an astoundingly poor decision, which meant that his night of fun with his mates was about to turn into The Night He Got His Ass Kicked.

  “Shut your hole, you,” Owen growled at him. It was in Old Irish, but the tone was unmistakable. The grin disappeared from the punk’s face, and he put down his drink and did that jaw-flexing thing that some guys do because they think it makes them look tougher.

  “Are you talking to me, old man?”

  In the punk’s experience, that was the point where most people backed down. He’d left room for Owen to say, “My mistake,” and look away, and he thought that would be the end of it. But my archdruid wasn’t the average senior citizen. He knew a challenge when he heard it, and he had never refused to accept one. Keeping his eyes on the punk and sneering the entire way through his next words, he said, “Siodhachan, tell him his mother makes badger noises when I tup her sideways.”

  I grinned but elected not to translate. There was no need; there was plenty of offense to be taken from Owen’s body language and voice, and the punk was happy to take it. He balled his hands into fists and approached the table.

  “Look, old man, if you want trouble, I’ve plenty to give you.” He raised a fist and pointed at Owen when he got near. “In fact—”

  That was it. Owen grabbed his arm, yanked it toward him, and head-butted the punk. He went down with a yelp and Owen stood up, kicking his chair away behind him. “Respect your elders, lad!”

  The inn got quiet the way things will when shit gets real. The punk had four friends at the bar, who had just seen him lose in less than a second to a man who looked to be more than seventy and unable to pay for his drink. For a brief moment they had a choice regarding their mate: They could laugh at him and give him unending grief about it for the rest of his life, or they could back him up. Owen wasn’t going to let them get a laugh out of it. He kicked the punk in the gut and beckoned the others forward.

  “Come on and have your lesson, then,” he said, and though they didn’t speak Old Irish, his meaning was unambiguous. The dinosaur wanted a fight, and the huge grin on my face probably didn’t help matters.

  “Now, wait, boys—” the bartender said, but they all put down their drinks and rushed Owen. Pride and brotherhood wouldn’t allow them any other choice. I didn’t move but muttered words to boost my strength and speed in case they decided to involve me.

  The first one came in with the intent to tackle Owen to the ground, the better to pummel him into submission. It wouldn’t work out well; the archdruid used to have us charge him in just such a fashion for training, because it was a common tactic in unarmed combat. Owen feinted to his right, causing the punk to veer that way, then hopped left, slapping the outstretched right arm away to ensure he’d pass by. Pivoting as the poor bloke chugged past and keeping his fists near his sternum, the archdruid delivered a blow with his left elbow to the lad’s temple and then kept spinning around, taking the charge of the next guy in the back and stunning him with a right elbow to his guts. The punk stopped, bent over, and Owen raised his right arm again, still cocked, and completed his turn, this time giving the man an elbow to the jaw. He lost some teeth on the way down to the floor.

  The third bloke slowed down, deciding to search for a weakness, and the fourth chose to have a go at me, even though I had a sword plainly slung across my back. He came at me from my left side, fist cocked, and I waited for him to throw it at me. Once he did, I caught it in my left hand and took my cue from Owen: I head-butted him, using his own momentum against him. I smashed his nose and let him go down cradling his face.

  The last guy rarely behaves as tough as he had with his mates still standing around him. Morale evaporates rapidly when you encounter something that’s able to take out your friends in a few seconds.

  He held up his hands and backed off. “Hey, our mistake. Sorry.”

  “What happened to all his piss, Siodhachan? He charged me and now he’s thinking better of it?” Owen said.

  “Wouldn’t you, in his position?”

  “I might think about fighting another day, sure. But only after I learned how to fight. These were hardly any fun.”

  “Fun’s on its way,” I said, pointing past him at the approaching bouncer. He was the tall hulking sort who could take a lot of punishment and patiently pound you on the head until you dropped. “It’s that man’s job to throw you out of here.”

  “Is he any good at his job?”

  “You’re about to find out.” I pulled some money out of my pocket and switched to English to talk to the bartender. “Sorry about the mess. I’ll leave enough for our drinks and then some.” I didn’t have anything but American dollars, but they could exchange those easily enough. There wasn’t a lot of damage yet beyond some blood to mop up, but I figured that would change in a moment. Unlike the punks, the bouncer knew how to fight. He looked ex-military and at some point had been trained in Krav Maga. He introduced Owen to its finer points. The archdruid was down and under control, gasping for breath with his arm twisted behind him, in about twenty seconds. The bouncer was breathing heavily too, for Owen had gotten a couple of licks in, but both men were smiling bloody smiles.

  “Grandpa’s got some moves,” he said, and spat blood on the floor before looking over at me. “You going to give me trouble too? You pull that sword on me and you’ll have an issue with the law, not just me.”

  “Nah, I don’t need my attitude adjusted. Thanks very much for adjusting his.”

  “Right. Out you go, then.” He jerked his head toward the door. “I’ll be right behind you with Grandpa.”

  I passed by, keeping my distance, and preceded them toward the inn’s front door. Owen was laughing as the bouncer pulled him to his feet. “Siodhachan, tell this giant oaf I like him.”

  “What did he just say?” the bouncer asked, pushing Owen along. “He’ll kick my arse later?”

  “No, he said he likes you.”

  “Oh. Well, that’s different.”

  “I’ll kick his arse later, of course,” Owen said, and I laughed.

  “There it was.”

  The bouncer chuckled. “They always say that. Look, I’m kind of glad you came in here and laid those wankers out, because they’re tosspots, but don’t come back here again, guys, or I
won’t be so nice.”

  “No worries,” I said, walking outside. He pushed Owen out behind me and closed the door.

  “What was with all the elbows in there?” I asked.

  “Oh. That. Fecking aches in me knuckles.” He stretched, held his lower back, and winced. “Abuse my hands now and they won’t open in the morning. Getting old is about as much fun as swimming in shite.”

  “I know; I tried it once.”

  “That so? How old were ye before ye started aging backward?”

  “I was seventy-five when I met Airmid and she taught me the trick. That ache you’re talking about, they call that arthritis now.”

  “Did I ask ye what they called it? I don’t care, because I’m goin’ to call it an ache in me knuckles.”

  “All right.”

  “So what’s your secret to stayin’ so young and fresh, eh? Did you get one of Manannan’s hogs?”

  “No, I drink a certain tea. I’m going to make some for you, in fact, before we arrange to get you a modern identity. How old would you like to be?”

  “You’re asking me seriously?”

  “Aye.”

  “Well, I don’t want to look as young as you. I know you’re older than me now, but it doesn’t feel that way, if you know what I mean.”

  “I do.” I liked appearing young, however. It made everyone underestimate me.

  “I suppose I’d like to revisit me forties. Young enough to be strong and active again but old enough to command some respect.”

  “Sounds good. Let’s head back to the trees and we’ll go get the necessary supplies. Your legs are better now, aren’t they?”

  “Oh, aye. Feel as good as they ever have in me dotage. That bacon Fand gave me was wonderful.”

  We began walking toward the grounds of Kilkenny Castle, and his stride was much more confident than during the trip in. I thought perhaps the drink and the fight had helped him as much as the healing powers of Manannan’s miracle bacon.