Kids today don’t know much about the Bacchants, except perhaps for the story about Orpheus told in Ovid’s Metamorphoses. I had an ASU student looking for it in my shop last week, and he defined the Bacchants for me as “those drunk chicks who killed that one dude because he wouldn’t have sex with them.” His professors must be so proud. I asked him if he knew what maenads were, and instead of correctly answering that it was just another name for Bacchants, he bizarrely thought I was referring to my own testicles—as in, “ ’Ere now, mate, don’t swing that bat around me nads.” The conversation deteriorated quickly after that.

Now that I’m much older and hopefully wiser, I know that the archdruid’s fear was partially his own chauvinist terror of women who did whatever they wanted, but I also know that it was partially well founded.

Bacchants carry around thyrsi, which are staves wrapped in ivy leaves that give them the power to throw an instant party: Slap the ground with them, and wine bubbles forth. They dance and drink themselves into a frenzy, and then they acquire tremendous strength, sufficient to rip apart a bull (or a man) with their bare hands. As a corollary, their frenzy tends to have a ripple effect on people around them, turning fairly civilized parties into orgies of debauchery. It isn’t the sort of magic that specifically targets anyone, and I suspected much of it had to do with simply stimulating human pheromones, so I feared my amulet wouldn’t protect me from it. In addition to this, Bacchants are not burned by fire, and they cannot be harmed by iron weapons. The former didn’t really apply to me, because Druids don’t go around chucking fireballs at their enemies, but the latter presented me with a huge problem, since I basically used my sword whenever I wanted to do unto others before they did unto me. Bacchants were therefore well protected against the talents of Druids, while I feared myself defenseless against their magic.

“We have driven them back twice in years past,” Malina said, “but now they not only outnumber us, they can also fulminate a fine frenzy without fear of us showing up, because we’re stuck here until the German hexen are destroyed. I wouldn’t be surprised to discover that the two groups are working together to take over the territory.”

“This,” I said with a sardonic smile and waggling my left index finger at her, “is starting to sound suspicious to me.”

Malina’s eyes widened in mock surprise. “Only now it’s starting?”

“Yes,” I said, ignoring her sarcasm, “it sounds to me like you want me to run around and take care of your problems while you just hang out at home and watch The Notebook or something.” I changed my voice to her pitch and tried to affect a Polish accent. “Go slay the German hexen for me, Druid, and while you’re at it, take care of those bothersome Bacchants and win one for Orpheus.”

Malina glared at me. “Was that supposed to be an imitation of my accent? It sounded like a Russian trying to imitate Bela Lugosi and failing miserably. My accent is far more sophisticated and dignified.”

“My imitation of your accent is not the issue.”

“Well, I’m making it one. And, besides, you offered to help avenge Waclawa.”

“And so I will. But what does your coven plan to do to fight the hexen?” I asked. Malina deflated, considered her bottle, then thought better of drinking any more and sighed heavily, throwing her head back on the couch. The movement flung her hair about her head like a yellow whorl of silk, coming to rest on the black leather cushion like a halo. She had the power to enchant her hair so that it made men give her whatever she asked for, but I was beginning to think she hardly needed to use magic on it. The white column of her neck beckoned, and my eyes followed the arrowhead formed by the hollow of her throat and her collarbones, downward to linger on her—baseball. Focus, Atticus! Any kind of liaison with Malina would not end happily.

“We have to find them first,” she said, “which is the point of tonight’s divination. “Once we know where they are, we can fight back from here. Nothing so dramatic as eight simultaneous hexes, but we will pick off one here and one there until you are ready to confront them directly. I will keep you informed. And when the Bacchants get here—most likely tomorrow night—I’ll let you know where they are as well.”

“Then I suppose there is nothing left to discuss except whatever you have of mine that you really shouldn’t.”

“Ah, yes.” Malina pushed herself up from the couch and put her wine bottle on the coffee table, weaving a bit on her boot heels. She gathered her hair and tied it back in a knot, talking affably to me as she led me to a bedroom currently doing service as a witch supply closet. “I do hope we’ll get around to signing the nonaggression treaty soon, Mr. O’Sullivan, for despite your uncomfortable questioning when you arrived and your barbaric insistence on walking around with your sword hanging out, I feel we can live and work together peaceably going forward and even prosper, once these current troubles are behind us.”

That wasn’t English she was speaking: It was the language of diplomacy. “I have no objections to peace and prosperity,” I allowed.

Malina’s witch closet, in contrast to the décor of her living area, was painted a pale moss green and lined with cedar shelves sporting rows of glass bottles. I tried to find one with something unspeakable in it—a human brain or deer lips or otter balls—but saw nothing but herbs, oils, philtres, and a curious collection of claws from big cats. She had claws from tigers, snow leopards, lions, and black jaguars, as well as cheetahs, cougars, and bobcats. She also had beaks from several birds of prey, but otherwise her supplies were entirely plant-based.

In the center of the room was a wooden worktable bought from IKEA’s kitchen department. It supported the obligatory mortar and pestle, a knife for chopping, a peeler for tubers, and an electric hot plate she had plugged in via extension cord. I was vaguely disappointed to see she had a regular saucepan resting on the hot plate rather than a black iron cauldron—and even more disappointed that there wasn’t a hapless amphibian in there. A smaller copy of the large painting in the living room hung opposite the worktable; the three Zoryas watched from the walls, waiting to bestow their blessings on Malina’s work.

“Who supplies your herbs?” I asked. “I could probably be of assistance if you’re having trouble finding something of sufficient quality and freshness.”

“We get most everything at an herbalist in Chandler,” Malina said, “though I’m sure we’re going to need much more bloodwort shortly if we’re to deal properly with the hexen. Have you any available?”

Bloodwort was one of many common names for yarrow. Witches used it in some divination spells, but it could also be used in spells of both protection and attack. For my part, I employed it extensively in my apothecary business, including in several proprietary tea blends: Virus Immuni-Tea for the onset of colds and flu, Digestive Facili-Tea for various gastrointestinal ills, and a truly trippy mixture I called Enhanced Visibili-Tea. I made the latter for artists who wanted to see the world differently, because, in sufficient concentrations, yarrow could cause a temporary color shift in the eyes.

“Sure, I have pounds of the stuff, because I use it all the time. I grow it in my backyard, all organic and very potent. How much do you need?”

“Three pounds should safely see us through.” Malina nodded. “Could you have someone bring it to us?”

“Certainly. I’ll send a courier in the morning. You can pay him. I’ll send along a list of my other herbs in stock, too, and another list of what I can grow for you provided that you give me sufficient notice.”

“Good, let there be commerce between us.” Malina moved over to a shelf near the painting of the Zoryas and looked at an uncorked, unlabeled bottle—also uninhabited by anything that I could see. Sitting next to it on the left, and stretching down the length of the shelf as well as two shelves above it, were jars containing locks of hair with people’s names labeled on the front. All of those people were completely in Malina’s power, whether they knew it yet or not. I felt a twinge of pity for them.

“It should be here,” Malina said tensely. “The last person to visit this floor was the officer who informed us of Waclawa’s death.” She pointed to the labeled jar next to the empty one. Inside was a lock of sandy hair, and emblazoned on the label in purple ink was the name of Kyle Geffert. “Your hair should have been deposited in this empty bottle here,” she said, then looked up to the air vent through which her air-conditioning was softly blowing. Presumably any hair collected from visitors in the hallway got routed through the ductwork to land in the empty bottles, but nary a red hair from my head was to be found in any of them.

“What in the name of Zorya Utrennyaya is going on?” Malina scolded the bottle as if it would answer her, and I fought to keep a smile off my face.

Ha-ha. My personal binding was stronger than her enchantment. Neener neener, Malina. You can’t catch me.

Chapter 6

Washing a filthy Irish wolfhound is entirely unlike washing a Chihuahua. It takes three or four buckets of water just to get the wolfhound thoroughly wet, for example, while one bucket will most likely drown the Chihuahua.

I have discovered over the years that if I wish to remain fairly dry through the process, I must distract Oberon from the tickling of bubbles and soap with a really good story, or else he will shake himself mightily and spray water and foam on every wall of my bathroom. Bath time is therefore story time in my house, and Oberon enjoys getting cleaned up as a result.

What I enjoy is Oberon’s obsession with the story until the next one gets told. He’d been vicariously living out the life of Genghis Khan for the past three weeks, constantly badgering me to muster the hordes on the Mongolian steppe and start a land war in Asia. Now I planned to take him in a completely different direction.

“When we were messing with Mr. Semerdjian’s head earlier,” I said as I began to soak him, “you asked me who the Merry Pranksters were. Well, the Merry Pranksters were a group of people who joined Ken Kesey on the magic bus in 1964 for his trip to New York from California.”

"Ken Kesey had a magic bus? What could it do?"

“Its primary talent was scaring the hell out of social conservatives. It was an old school bus painted in Day-Glo colors—really bright fluorescents—and given the name of Furthur.”

"So Kesey was some kind of warlock?"

“No, just a gifted writer. But I suppose his magic bus started the cultural revolution of the sixties, so that’s pretty powerful magic. The Pranksters would give away acid for free to whoever wanted it in an effort to shake people out of their dreary lives of conformity. Acid was legal then.”

"Wait, you never told me what acid was."

“It’s the street name for LSD.”

"I thought the street name for that was Mormon."

“No, that’s LDS. LSD is a drug, and they called it acid because the full name was lysergic acid diethylamide.”

"That sounds like it comes with lots of side effects."

“Fewer than most prescriptions nowadays,” I said, applying a sudsy sponge to Oberon’s back. “But back to the Pranksters. They dressed in Day-Glo colors too, tie-dyes and funky hats, and all had really cool nicknames like Mountain Girl, Gretchen Fetchin, and Wavy Gravy.”

"Wavy Gravy? Seriously?"

“Every word is true or I am the son of a goat.” I had him now.

"Wow! That’s the coolest name I have ever heard in my life! What did Wavy Gravy do?"

So I told Oberon all about Wavy Gravy and the Electric Kool-Aid Acid Tests, the origin of the Grateful Dead, the entire hippie scene, and the moral imperative to Stick It to the Man. I made sure he understood that Mr. Semerdjian was the Man and we had been sticking it to him really good so far. He came out of the bath all clean and ready to put on a tie-dye shirt with a peace sign on it.

As Oberon paraded around our living room spreading peace and gravy (Gravy is Love, he explained), my subconscious chose that moment to allow a bubble of memory to boil up to the surface: Did Mr. Semerdjian really say he had a rocket-propelled grenade in his garage?

I didn’t think those were available at gun shows, so I put it on my list of things to investigate, then hit the pillow, grateful to have survived another day.

Chapter 7

I made sure to make a proper breakfast in the morning, since I would be off fighting demons: a fluffy omelet stuffed with feta cheese, diced tomatoes, and spinach (sprinkled with Tabasco), complemented by toast spread with orange marmalade, and a hot mug of shade-grown Fair Trade organic coffee.

Having slept on it, I decided that the only thing to do about the Bacchants was to make somebody else get rid of them. It would cost me—perhaps dearly—but I’d live through it and so would Granuaile. I’d considered using wooden weapons, or perhaps bronze or glass ones, but, regardless of weaponry, I’d still have twelve or so insanely strong women to defeat and no defense against catching their madness.

It was time to work the phones. First I called Gunnar Magnusson, alpha of the Tempe Pack and head of Magnusson and Hauk, the law firm that represented me. Werewolves wouldn’t be affected by the Bacchants’ magic. He received me coldly and rebuffed me in short order.

“My pack will not be getting involved in your territorial pissing match,” he said. “If you have legal matters to attend to, then by all means call upon Hal or Leif. But do not think of my pack as your personal squad of supernatural mercenaries to call on every time you get into trouble.”

Clearly he’d been stewing over the aftermath of our battle with Aenghus Óg and Malina’s coven. Two pack members had died that night in an effort to rescue Hal and Oberon. There was no use arguing with him in such a mood, so I simply said, “I beg your pardon. May harmony find you.”