SATYRN MASSACRE, the newspaper screamed at me; 25 dead including two officers in nightclub nightmare. The photo showed body bags lined up outside the club.

SCOTTSDALE: Police are still searching for suspects in the aftermath of the city’s worst mass murder, which occurred last night in the Satyrn nightclub on Scottsdale Road. Witnesses were unsure exactly how the killings began, but the deaths of two Scottsdale police officers ended the carnage.

I scanned the rest of the article quickly. “Huh. They mention the broken bats, but they don’t mention my sword in here,” I said.

“You were whipping your sword around in front of all those witnesses?”

“No, no,” I said. I explained what happened last night and the alibi I’d cooked up with Granuaile via lovey-dovey code. “I still have my receipt from Target,” I pointed out, “and chances are good they’ll find that security tape anyway, if they’re any good at their jobs. So we’ll just say Granuaile’s bats are my bats, slightly scuffed and used from a night of baseball chasing with my dog.”

"This means I need to chew on some baseballs, doesn’t it?"

Yes, it does. But if you’re nice about it, I’ll put some gravy on them first.

“Prints on the bats?” Hal asked.

“Took care of it.”

“So you couldn’t possibly be their man from the club because you have an ear and you still have your bats intact—I see.” Hal nodded. “That might confuse things quite a bit if it were to come to trial, especially since the missing-ear detail is being so widely reported. There’s your reasonable doubt right there. But you’re still in a heap of trouble if any of those witnesses reported seeing the sword. You’ve been riding around with that thing on your back the past few weeks, everyone up and down Mill Avenue has seen you wearing it, and they might have noticed you didn’t have an ear either.”

“So what? The sword never left its scabbard. Nobody died from sword wounds.”

“They’ll use the sword to place you at the scene, Atticus. Look, do you still have it around here?”

“Of course. I have two fancy-schmancy swords now.” The other one had belonged to Aenghus Óg. His sword was named Moralltach—the Great Fury—and it had fallen to me by right of besting him in a duel.

“I suggest you hide both of them right now, and hide them well. Don’t lose a minute.”

“What? Why?”

“I think Tempe’s going to be working with Scottsdale on this to make sure they do things right, because of how royally they screwed up in your shop,” Hal said, alluding to a search warrant gone fantastically wrong that ended up with a Tempe police detective and me getting shot. “Which means they’re going to roll up here with a full search warrant for your place, they’ll do it all by the book, and if they find a sword, they’re going to take you downtown for a long talk.”

“What about bows and arrows and other martial arts stuff like sai and throwing knives and such?”

“Why, do you have any of that floating around?”

“The garage is full of it.”

Hal cursed in Old Norse for a moment, then switched back to English. “Damn it, Atticus, you need to get yourself a bat cave or something for all of your shady shit.”

“Why? I thought it was all legal.”

“It is, but in situations like this, you don’t want them to smell smoke and figure there’s been a fire. Which turns out to be literally true in this case.” He sniffed and wrinkled his nose. “What started the fire, anyway?”

“A visiting goddess.”

“Are you being serious or pulling my hair?”

“Completely serious.” I didn’t tell him the correct expression was “pulling my leg,” because he was doing so well otherwise. Hal was quite a bit younger than Leif and more willing to make an effort to use American vernacular correctly. He usually appreciated it when I corrected him, but I didn’t want to distract him now.

“Anything I should be worried about?”

“Nah, it’s all Irish politics.”

Hal looked at me sharply and shook a finger in my face. “That’s bloody dangerous, getting involved in that. You be careful.”

I gaped at Hal. “I can’t believe you just said that to me.”

"Yeah, because, like, you’re always careful. Fetishistically so."

“What?” Hal protested, shrugging his shoulders and looking aggrieved.

“I called to ask Gunnar for help with the Bacchants yesterday and he shut me down. No well-wishing, no pleas to be careful, nothing. So now we’re dealing with the aftermath of what happens when I try to go it alone, and you tell me to be careful about Irish politics?”

"Can I have a treat for using “fetishistically” in a sentence?"

“Well, I know precisely where Gunnar’s coming from. It’s not our job to keep the magical peace.”

“Neither is it mine.”

"It’s really hard to pronounce. If you’re not careful, you could wind up saying, “feta shit stick-ally,” and then you’d feel like a puppy who forgot to lift his leg, you know?"

“Well, then, why did you get involved?” Hal asked.

I thought about explaining that I needed a safe place to live and work so I could restore the land around Tony Cabin, but it seemed too arcane and he might not understand why I was so eager to tackle a project that would take years to finish. I shrugged instead and said, “Irish politics.”

“There you go. Bloody dangerous. Our job is to keep you out of jail when you get in trouble, not help you get into trouble in the first place. Come on.” He rose from his chair and gestured inside. “I’ll help you get everything stowed.”

"I think Hal should get a treat too, if he keeps you out of jail," Oberon said as we walked inside.

You don’t offer werewolves treats if you want to keep all your appendages. They think it’s undignified and degrading to be offered a treat.

"Well, the moon must have addled their brains when they were thinking that one through, because I don’t see a downside to treats. Honestly, Atticus, it’s like they have no regard for the Canine Code."

I beg your pardon?

"The Code. Has anyone taken the time to explain to them that treats are, by definition, a savory snack of succulence, appropriate at any time and for any occasion, with the possible exception of funerals?"

No. You just made all of that up.

"Precisely! I’m such a creative hound that I deserve a treat."

Clearly. I stopped in the kitchen to grab a handful of treats for Oberon out of the slightly scorched pantry cabinet. After you finish these, I want you to stand sentinel on the front porch and let me know if anyone drives up, please.

"Okay! Man, these are gravy. Werewolves don’t know what they’re missing."

I collected Moralltach from the garage, a couple of other practice swords, and a roll of oilskin (the real stuff, not the synthetic fabric they call oilskin these days, because I’m a natural fiber kind of guy). Since I didn’t have a bat cave, I’d have to hide everything by using magic. I got out some scissors and started cutting lengths of oilskin, then told Hal to wrap the swords in them so that every inch was covered.

“Do you have some duct tape or something to keep it all together?”

I stopped slicing through oilskin and looked up at my lawyer. “Hal? I’m a Druid. Like, for reals.”

Hal flushed and muttered an apology. “Right. You can bind it yourself, can’t you?”

“Yes, I can. Are you ready with that one?”

“Right. Yes.”

“Hold the edges down, then,” I said, and waited for Hal to do it. “Dún,” I said in Irish. The fibers from the edges threaded themselves into the weave of the full canvas, creating a sort of Möbius strip where the fabric had no beginning or end, save where I could see it. To Hal’s eye it looked as if the edge had just disappeared and smoothed out, an unbroken piece of fabric.

Hal shook his head. “Too bad you don’t celebrate Christmas. Your presents would look awesome.”

We repeated the process three more times, and then I gathered all the swords and moved out to the backyard. Hal followed, his nostrils flaring at all the herbs I had growing back there. “You’re not growing anything that looks remotely like marijuana, are you?”

I snorted. “Only an idiot would think so.”

“Cops can be idiots sometimes.”

“There’s nothing precious here. They can confiscate it all if they feel they have to protect the public from my herb garden.”

“Right. So where are we hiding them?” Hal was looking down at likely spots for burial, and that was the wrong direction.

“See my neighbor’s palo verde tree overhanging my yard? We’re going to hide them up there.”

“Oooo-kay. How?” The trunk was on the other side of a very tall wooden fence, and the fence wasn’t the sort I could climb easily to access the branches high above.

“You use your giant hairy werewolf muscles to throw me up into the branches and then toss me the swords. I’ll bind them to the tree branches first so they won’t move, then camouflage them.”

“Those branches look pretty spindly. Sure they’ll bear your weight?”

“Absolutely. This tree loves me. Its roots go underneath the fence, and we talk sometimes about particulates and nitrogen and the horror of borer beetles.”

Hal looked at me uncertainly.

“Plus, I can temporarily strengthen the wood.”

“Ah, okay, then. I’ll just put my jacket over here …”

It was finished in less than five minutes, and Hal didn’t even break a sweat chucking me up into the canopy. He usually dressed to conceal his muscular frame, because in courtrooms muscles are associated with defendants rather than lawyers. Still, he was an imposing physical presence, a “manly man” with a cleft chin and a broad smile. He wore a pair of spectacles as an affectation, for he wasn’t visually impaired. He thought they made him look more gentle and intelligent to juries. “That’s a pretty good spell,” Hal said, squinting up at the branches where I had camouflaged the swords. “I know they’re there, but I can’t see them.”

“They’ll stay camouflaged as long as I have access to a bit of power. The bindings will stay until I release them.”

“Excellent. So what do we do with the rest of your instruments of death?”

“How much time do you think we have?”

Hal shrugged. “Maybe two hours, maybe two minutes.”

"Atticus, three cars are coming down the street full of guys dressed like the Man."

Thanks, Oberon; come on into the backyard.

“More like two seconds,” I told Hal. “They’re out front right now.”

“Guess we’ll have to wing it.”

“Sure.” I shrugged. “It’ll probably be fun.”

“Put a shirt on, will you? They’re looking for someone who killed a lot of people last night, and it looks like you might have done it.”

“Oh, yeah.” I looked down at my torso, still messed up from the Morrigan. I’d be able to heal it pretty quickly if people would leave me in peace, but that was in short supply today.

“And don’t answer a single question without me right there to harass them every step of the way.”

“Got it.”

As we returned inside, Hal to answer the door and I to put on a shirt, I gave Oberon his instructions. You’d better just hang out in back while we deal with this, I told him. Pretend you’re ultra-docile and stupid. If anyone addresses you, wag your tail weakly but don’t move.

"Do I have to let the Man pet me?"

Well, you can shy away from his touch, but definitely don’t bark or growl or bite anybody.

Struck by inspiration as I rifled through my shirt drawer, I picked out an old anime shirt with lots of pointy noses, large eyes, and giant swords on it. Put it on, and instant nerd!

Lots of men with suits were in my living room when I emerged from my bedroom. None of them had ever seen me before or knew what I was like, so I could play a part and get away with it.

“Dude! What the hell? Who are you guys?” I said, automatically lowering my IQ to everyone assembled.

“Atticus, these are the police,” Hal said.

“Atticus O’Sullivan?” a tall sandy-haired man in a green shirt and silk tie stepped forward with his ID out. “I’m Detective Kyle Geffert with the Tempe Police. We have a warrant to search your house for any swords you may have, as well as any blunt weapons such as baseball bats.”

His name rang a bell, but I couldn’t remember where I’d heard it before. “Oh, cool,” I said. “I hope you find my sword, because I’ve been looking for it.”

“You lost your sword?”

“I guess so, dude.” I shrugged. “I don’t know where it is.”

“So you admit that you own a sword?”

“Well, yeah, if I could find it. I’m training to become a ninja.” The detective blinked and looked over at Hal to see if I was pulling his leg. Hal was completely stone-faced, even nodding slightly in agreement with my story.

“How long have you been missing your sword?”

“Well, I think I lost it last night.”

“Interesting. I see you have both your ears,” Geffert observed.

I flicked my eyes uncertainly between him and Hal. “Um, thanks? And … so do you?”