Ah, Malina had tried to get Radomila’s blood back. I bet she used that hair charm on Perry and he turned the store upside down trying to find it for her. And now I wondered if Fagles and the gang had gone through the books in my study when they searched my house. If they had, they might have found the scrap of paper with Radomila’s blood on it … and that associate lawyer of Hal’s easily could have missed it or not known its significance.

Better to save such questions for Hal at Rúla Búla, I thought. I assumed my house and the shop would be watched, so I took a taxi instead to the widow MacDonagh’s house.

“Ah, Atticus, me lad!” The widow smiled a cheery greeting and raised her morning glass of whiskey at me from the porch. “What happened to yer bicycle that yer drivin’ up to me door in a taxi?”

“Well, Mrs. MacDonagh, I had myself one of the most hectic Sundays you could possibly imagine,” I said, seating myself in a rocking chair next to hers and sighing in satisfaction. That’s always a good thing to do with the widow: She likes to think that her front porch is the most welcoming and relaxing spot in the city. She might be right.

“Did y’now? Do tell, me boy.” She clinked the ice in her glass and eyed the level of liquid speculatively. “But first I’ll be gettin’ meself a refill, if y’wouldn’t mind sittin’ fer a spell.” She pushed herself up out of the chair with a couple of creaks and said, “Ye’ll be takin’ a glass with me, won’t ye? ’Tisn’t Sunday anymore, and I can’t imagine ye objectin’ to a cold handful of Tullamore Dew.”

“Ah, you’re right, Mrs. MacDonagh, I have no need to refuse, nor would I want to. A cold glass would be lovely.”

The widow’s face shone and her eyes began to fill as she looked down at me gratefully, tousling my hair as she made her way to the door. “Yer a fine lad, Atticus, drinkin’ whiskey with a widow on a Monday.”

“Not at all, Mrs. MacDonagh, not at all.” I really did enjoy her company. And I knew too well the loneliness that clamps around one’s heart when loved ones have passed on before. To have that companionship, the comfort of someone being at home for you for years, and then suddenly  to have it anymore—well, every day can seem darker after that, and the vise clutches tighter in your chest every night you spend in a lonely bed. Unless you find someone to spend some time with (and that time is sunlight, golden minutes when you forget you’re alone), that vise will eventually crush your heart. My deal with the Morrigan aside, it’s other people who have kept me alive so long—and I include Oberon in that. Other people in my life right now, who help me forget all the other people I have buried or lost: They are truly magic for me.

The widow returned with two glasses of whiskey on the rocks, humming an old Irish tune as she jiggled the ice around. She was happy.

“Now tell me, lad,” she said as she sank back into her chair, “what made yer Sunday so dreadful.”

I took a sip of the whiskey and enjoyed the burn of the alcohol and the chill of the ice. “At this point, Mrs. MacDonagh, I’m thinking I should have taken you up on your offer and gone to get baptized. Was the service properly mellow yesterday?”

The widow cackled and grinned at me. “So mellow I can’t even remember enough to tell ye what the father said. Right boring it was. But you,” she said, pronouncing the word carefully like an American and grinning, “had an exciting day?”

“Oh, aye. Got myself shot.”

“Shot?”

“Just a flesh wound.”

“Attaboy. Who shot ye?”

“A Tempe police detective.”

“Lord ha’ mercy, I saw something about that in the paper this mornin’! TEMPE DETECTIVE SHOT DEAD BY POLICE, it said, and a subhead said, . But I didn’t read the whole thing.”

“Yep, that was me.”

“Well, I’ll be! Why did the daft fool shoot ye? It wasn’t because of y’killin’ that worthless Brit bastard, was it?”

“No, not at all,” I said. And so I whiled away a pleasant hour telling the widow just enough of the truth to entertain her yet keep her safe. Eventually I made my farewells, promised to trim that grapefruit tree soon, and walked over to Mill Avenue and thence north to Rúla Búla. I got some odd looks, and people gave me a wide berth when they saw the sword hilt peeking over my shoulder, but otherwise it was uneventful.

I got there a few minutes early and Hal wasn’t there yet, so I took a seat at the bar and grinned charmingly at Granuaile. Gods Below, but she was a vision! Her red hair was still curly and damp from a shower she must have taken right before coming to work. Her teeth flashed white at me for a moment, and then she sauntered over to me with a lopsided smirk on her face.

“I knew I shouldn’t have worried,” she said. “When I saw that article in the newspaper, I was thinking I might not see you for weeks. And now here you are, a supposed shooting victim, looking downright thirsty.”

“Oh, I’m a shooting victim all right,” I said. “I just heal fast.”

Granuaile’s expression abruptly changed. Her eyes narrowed and she tilted her head to the side as she placed a bar napkin in front of me, and her voice became throatier as she spoke with a newfound accent: “Druids usually do.” With only three words to work with, all I could do was hazard a guess that the accent was from somewhere on the Indian subcontinent. Then, without much of a pause, the old Granuaile—the perky and beguiling barmaid—was back. “What’ll it be? A Smithwick’s?”

“What? How can you change gears like that? What did you just say to me?”

“I asked if you wanted a Smithwick’s,” she said, her face bemused.

“No, what you said before that.”

“I said you looked thirsty.”

“No, what did you say after that and before the Smithwick’s?”

“Um …” Granuaile’s eyes boggled at me uncertainly for a moment, and then comprehension dawned—at least, it did for her. “Oh, I know what happened.  must have talked to you. It’s about time. She’s been wanting to talk for weeks now.”

“What? Who? You can’t throw around pronouns like that without their antecedents if you want people to follow you.”

She smiled and then held up her hands. “Listen, you’re going to need a drink and time for a long story.”

“Well I’ll have a Smithwick’s, then, but I don’t have much time. I’m meeting my lawyer here in a few minutes.”

“Gonna sue them, eh?” She grinned as she went to pull a draught for me.

“Yes, I’m thinking that they deserve a nice lawsuit.”

“Okay then, maybe you can hang out for a little while afterward and I’ll let you talk to her again.” She placed the dark beer down on my napkin and smiled again. I melted inside and began to wonder if it was Granuaile that had this effect on me or whoever it was she had hitchhiking in her brain.

“You’ll let me? Seemed like whoever it was chose her own time to speak up and you didn’t have much say in the matter.”

“She doesn’t do that often,” Granuaile said, brushing off her temporary possession as a minor irritation, as if it were a mosquito bite. “Usually she’s very polite about leaving me in control.”

“A name. Give me a name. Who is she?”

Before she could answer, Hal and Oberon entered the pub, both of them greeting me loudly, though only Hal could be heard and seen by everyone else. Oberon was still in camouflage, but I could see flashes of color shimmering rapidly in the air—he must have been wagging his tail like mad. Someone was bound to notice if that kept up; it wasn’t as if Rúla Búla was empty during the lunch hour.

"Atticus! I’m so happy to see you! Werewolves have no sense of humor!"

“Hi, Hal,” I waved, then switched mental gears for Oberon’s sake.

I’m glad to sort of see you too, buddy. Go hide under the table of an empty booth really quick before someone sees your tail wagging and wonders if they’ve had too much to drink. I’ll come pet you and get some sausages for lunch. Be careful not to run into anyone.

"Okay! Wow, I’ve missed you!"

I told Granuaile we’d settle up later when I settled down for a nice long talk. She nodded and waved as I followed Hal to a booth where Oberon was waiting, his tail thumping loudly against the seat. People were looking around, wondering what was making the noise.

“By Odin’s beard, get that hound to calm down,” Hal growled.

“All right, I’m on it,” I said as we slid into the booth. I found Oberon’s head and began scratching him behind the ears.

Okay, buddy, you need to calm down. Your tail is giving you away.

"But I’m so excited to be with you again! You have no idea how bitchy werewolves can be!"

I have a pretty good idea, believe me. And I appreciate your being good all that time. That’s why I’m getting you two orders of bangers and mash, but you need to chill out, because we’re starting to get unwanted attention.

"OH! Okay! I’ll try! But it’s REALLY REALLY hard to chill! I want to play!"

I know, but we can’t right now. Back up and trap your tail against the wall—there. Now, did you behave perfectly while you stayed with Hal?

"Yes, I didn’t leave a single mark on his upholstery, and I didn’t break anything in his house either."

Aren’t you leaving something out? Hal told me you ripped up his air freshener.

"I was doing him a favor! No self-respecting canine enjoys the smell of citrus!"

Heh! You have a point. Quiet now, here comes the waitress.

We ordered two plates of the finest fish and chips and two plates of bangers and mash for Oberon. The poor dog was about to go nuts—I really needed to let him run somewhere until he collapsed.

“Thanks for your patience, Hal,” I said after the waitress left. “He’s just happy I’m still alive and all that.”

“Snorri fixed you up, then?”

“That and a night in the park worked wonders. I feel great.”

“Try to feign some pain when the Tempe police see you, please. You have a bandage on your chest, I hope?”

“No, but I can put one on if I need to.”

Hal nodded. “I think it would be wise. It will be tough to press our suit if they see no evidence of you being shot the day after.”

Hal reviewed with me what the security camera revealed—namely, that we had the most airtight case possible against the Tempe police for shooting a citizen for no probable cause—and we spent some time hashing out how to deal with police questions, the nature of the suit, and how much we’d ask for.

“Look, I’m going to give you my instructions now,” I said. “When the money is finally in your account, I want you to take your cut, then reimburse me for Snorri’s fees for last night. The remainder should go to Fagles’s family as an anonymous donation, all right? I don’t want to profit from some binding of Aenghus Óg’s on an innocent man.”

Hal regarded me steadily for a moment as he chewed a succulent piece of beer-battered cod fillet. Then he said in a dry voice, “How very noble of you.”

I nearly choked on a chip. “Noble?” I spluttered.

"Told you werewolves were bitchy," Oberon said smugly as he inhaled a sausage. I ignored him and concentrated on Hal’s gibe.

“Nobility has nothing to do with it. And I’m not knocking you for making a buck on the situation. All I’m saying is that I don’t want to profit by it, not even by getting some dubious credit for my charity.”

Hal apparently had some doubts but wasn’t willing to say them aloud, so all he said was “Hmph,” as he wiped his hands on a napkin.

“So listen,” I said, changing the subject and trying to cover the slobbery licking noises Oberon was making, “I got a lead on our mysterious barmaid.”

“The redhead who smells like two people?”

I blinked at him. “You never told me that,” I said.

“As I recall that particular conversation, you asked me if she smelled like a goddess”—he began to tick off my queries on his fingers—“a demon, a lycanthrope, or some other kind of therianthrope.” Hal smirked. “You were too smitten at the time to ask me what she actually smelled like.”

Oberon? Is the werewolf telling me the truth?

"Don’t know for sure. I never paid her much attention, and his nose might be a bit better than mine. If you would just let me go have a nice sniff of her ass, I could—"

Never mind.

“All right, Hal, what else does she smell like?”

“I’ve told you all I know, Atticus. You can shift to a hound and smell her yourself if you want.” He placed his hands flat on the table and drummed his fingers, deliberately trying to goad me.

“Thanks, but I’m going to find out the old-fashioned way. She’s going to tell me what’s going on—after I’m through with you.”

“Ah. Is that my cue to leave, then?”

“Almost. This might take a while, so I want you to take Oberon with you to the widow MacDonagh’s house.”

Hal winced and Oberon whined.

"Do I have to?"

“Must I really?”

“Yes,” I said to both of them.

They left a bit disgruntled but quietly enough, leaving me to settle up with the waitress. She looked at the plates of bangers and mash, which looked like they had been licked disturbingly clean, and then at the plates of fish and chips, which had a few scraps of detritus and slaw on them as normal plates would—and then glanced at me uncertainly, knowing that something was very wrong but unable to imagine a satisfactory explanation.