"Hey! What? I smell Atticus! Atticus, is that you?"

I didn’t answer him. There was still another huntress to dispatch. Not caring about the noise I made, I chased after Artemis’s head, snatched it up by the hair, and then chucked it directly at Diana. Her bow was fully raised and drawn now and swerving to shoot. She had to duck Artemis’s head, but she straightened right back up to fire, correctly assuming that I was charging her. She was about to release and I was about to drop and roll when something whacked her hard in the back of the knees, and her shot went high and wide. It was Granuaile, of course, and she’d done me proud, taking advantage of the distraction I’d provided.

All kinds of things can happen in a battle to make you freak out, I’d told her once. Freaking out over friends getting slagged, for example, is perfectly normal. Going Hulk because somebody ruined a picture or souvenir of your significant other, that’s to be expected. And if someone returns from the dead to fight again, nobody will look down on you for losing a tolerable amount of your shit. But you always, always have to deal with the threat first and save the freaking out for later, preferably when some decent alcohol is at hand to numb your noggin.

Diana immediately rolled away when she hit the ground, and thus Granuaile’s follow-up struck the earth with a dull thud. I wouldn’t be able to get to the huntress before she regained her feet; she’d rolled with her bow and would be able to nock and fire another arrow at stupid speed if she made it. A blur in my vision announced that Oberon wanted her to stay down as much as I did; Granuaile must have refocused his attention. The huntress did manage to spring to her feet, only to be yanked back down as she reached for an arrow.

I heard Oberon say, "Got her left arm, you get the right!"

Diana’s attempt to free herself by clocking Oberon upside the head met severe resistance from Scáthmhaide; Granuaile didn’t miss this time, and her blow audibly snapped both bones in the goddess’s forearm. The arm pressed into the turf, where Granuaile stomped on it. Diana shrieked and struggled to free herself, but I imagined that Granuaile and Oberon were both juiced on the earth’s energy for extra strength and she had no leverage.

Before Diana could think of using her legs and possibly kicking Granuaile off her arm, I decided to redirect her attention. I dropped my camouflage and said, “Well, hello there, Diana,” as I strode into her view. Her eyes rounded, and her mouth stopped making noise and just hung open.

"It’s Atticus! I knew it!"

Stay on her, buddy. Don’t let go, okay?

"I won’t! She won’t move!"

Thanks. We’ll talk in a minute.

I smiled at the shocked expression on Diana’s face. Normally I wouldn’t behave this way, but something about the Romans brought it out in me. It probably had something to do with how they had helped to wipe out the Druids. “You gave us quite the chase,” I said. I twirled Fragarach once in my hand and halted it abruptly, feigning surprise at an unexpected thought. “Oh! Hold on. Did you think you were hunting us?”

Her eyes narrowed and she took breath to speak, but she never got to say a word. I hacked off her head with one stroke and kicked it away from the body so she couldn’t heal it back up.

“Whooo!” I shouted, allowing myself a fist pump. “That one’s going on my highlight reel.”

Granuaile dispelled her invisibility and Oberon’s camouflage. Her knuckles were painfully white against the wood of Scáthmhaide, and I couldn’t tell by her face if she wanted to kiss me or kill me.

“Right,” I said. “You probably have questions.”

Chapter 15

“Who are you, and why do you have Fragarach?” Granuaile said through clenched teeth.

That wasn’t the question I’d been expecting. “I’m Atticus, and the sword is mine.”

"He’s Atticus!" Oberon’s tail was wagging and he clearly wanted to jump on me, but he held back, seeing the tension in Granuaile.

Heck yes. Snack for you!

“Atticus is dead.”

“I was only dead for a little while.”

"He just helped us kill the unkillable ladies. He’s on our side."

Ignoring Oberon’s comment, Granuaile drew a knife from her thigh holster—her last one—and raised it over her shoulder, ready to throw. “Tell me who you really are. Are you Loki? Coyote?” I was beginning to understand why the elementals called her Fierce Druid.

“It’s easy to tell, Granuaile. Look in the magical spectrum. Loki’s a mess of anger and white light. Coyote is a mix of all colors. And all you’ll see from me right now is the iron in my aura because I’m not drawing on the earth at all.”

"Or you could just smell him. That’s Atticus. I can hear him in my head, and he promised me sausage."

I said a snack.

"I will snack on sausage, thank you very much."

Oberon’s test was insufficient, and Granuaile knew it. Coyote was capable of talking mentally to Oberon—or at least hearing him, as far as we knew—and he could also copy my form all the way down to my scent. The latter ability was how we’d fooled Garm and Hel into thinking I was dead back in Arizona.

Granuaile exhaled sharply and then spoke the words for magical sight. I waited patiently while she checked me out.

“What’s your real name?” she asked, still testing me, and now that I’d recovered from my surprise, I approved of her caution.

“Siodhachan Ó Suileabháin.”

“I was once a vessel for another person. Name the person.”

“Laksha Kulasekaran.”

“And what was that one thing we did together that one time?”

“We don’t discuss that in front of the hound.”

"Hey!"

Granuaile dropped the knife. “It really is you.”

I tapped the soulcatcher charm on my neck. “Remember this? It actually worked.”

She dropped Scáthmhaide too and tackled me to the ground. Oberon took it as an invitation to dog pile and landed heavily on the both of us.

"This is so awesome! I’m so happy right now! Atticus is back!"

Granuaile kissed me, and I got to enjoy it for maybe two seconds before Oberon decided to drool on our faces.

“Ew! Oberon!” Granuaile said, as we both wiped away the slime from our cheeks.

"Side effects from doggie joy may include face lube and leg-humping."

“Don’t you dare hump my leg!” Granuaile warned. “And please give us some time to ourselves.”

"Aww." Oberon’s tail was still waving madly back and forth, but he graciously removed his weight from us.

“Granuaile, it’s okay, we need to go anyway.”

“We do?”

“Oh, yes. This isn’t over. They’re not dead any more than I am. We have to keep running. We should be able to make it to France at least.”

Granuaile rolled off me and stood, then offered her hand to help me up. “How are they going to heal up a decapitation?”

“They’ll get help from the other Olympians. I bet Hermes and Mercury will put them back together again.”

“Why not simply start over with another body?”

“Because their current bodies are in great condition. They’re just missing heads. While I was running to catch up, I was thinking about their rules for regeneration—it can’t be arbitrary. They can’t simply wish themselves a new body. They have to suffer a certain amount of catastrophic damage.”

“Decapitation isn’t catastrophic?”

“Not for them. Remember the tale of Orpheus, whose head was washed out to sea and floated around until he was plucked out by women doing their washing at the shore? Their ability to remain functional is mojo on a scale we can only dream of. Probably has a lot to do with having ichor instead of blood. I bet you they’re still conscious and can hear us right now.”

“That is so disturbing.”

“I have a plan,” I said, picking up Fragarach. Granuaile retrieved her throwing knife and Scáthmhaide.

“Of course you do.”

"Hey Atticus, do me a quick favor before we go? It’s easy."

“Sure. What is it?”

"Hold Granuaile’s staff for just a minute. You know, rest it on the ground so that it’s like a walking stick or something and the top of it is near your right cheek."

Granuaile and I traded weapons to humor him and I stood as he instructed.

"That’s perfect! Now say this like Sir Ian McKellen: “I am Atticus the White, and I come back to you now at the turn of the tide.”"

It was too silly and I couldn’t do it, though I tried. I didn’t have the gravitas; I dissolved into laughter before I could finish.

“I’m sorry, Oberon. We really need to move.”

"That’s okay, I enjoyed the attempt."

“So what’s the plan?” Granuaile asked.

“Same as the last one, except now we run with heads tucked under our arms like footballs.”

“We run na**d in plain sight with severed heads? A murder streak?”

“Heh! No, we’ll go camouflaged if we have to escape, but I’d rather keep in plain sight for now. It’s part of the plan. And so is speaking in Old Irish from now on, to keep the goddesses from listening in. Either that or communicating mentally through Oberon.”

“All right. Give me a sec.”

She jogged over to the sad collection of hounds, presumably in search of her other two throwing knives. I found a way to keep myself occupied while she was busy doing that. The chariots of the huntresses, along with their teams, still waited a couple hundred yards away. Grinning to myself, I unbound the chariots to hunks of metal and set the stags free by unbinding their harnesses and giving them quick mental shoves: You’re free. Run. They took off, and I wondered how willing Hephaestus and Vulcan would be to forge the huntresses yet another chariot.

Granuaile returned and declared herself ready.

“Okay, which one do you want?” I asked.

“I’ll take Artemis.”

“Watch out for the mouths. I’m sure they’ll bite if you give them the chance. Old Irish from now on.”

She looked doubtful. “Are you sure it’s safe? What if they know it?”

“Old Irish never spread beyond Ireland, unless you want to count Scots Gaelic. The Olympians would have had no reason to learn it, especially since the Tuatha Dé Danann took pains to learn Greek and English. And by the time the Greeks and Irish intermingled in any great numbers, the language was transitioning to Middle Irish anyway.”

“What about the Romans?”

“They never conquered Ireland. They called it Hibernia and left it alone for the most part.”

“Got it.”

We found the heads with little trouble and confirmed that the immortals were still very much alive. They didn’t have breath to speak, lacking any physical connection with their lungs, so they did their best to glare meaningfully at us. We each tucked our grisly goddess head into the crook of a left arm and resumed running south. Soon we would swerve west again to head for Calais. The elemental promised to keep us on a rural route as much as possible to avoid being seen.

I apologized first to Oberon for excluding him from the forthcoming conversation, explaining that it was intended to taunt the goddesses and not to cut him out.

"That’s fine, Atticus. I’m just happy you’re back."

Me too, buddy.

Switching to Old Irish, I said to Granuaile, “The main reason I know this isn’t the end of things is because the Morrigan said we wouldn’t be safe until we reach Windsor Forest. That’s still a good run ahead of us.”

“Why do you think the rest of the Olympians haven’t gotten involved?”

“I’m sure it has something to do with pride. The huntresses want to claim our kills as their own, though they’d never be able to touch us if we were able to shift planes. And when it comes to the rest of the Olympians, Odin said they’re under orders to keep out of it from other deities—though I don’t know which ones. So I’m certain the Olympians are watching the hunt, but they’re also acutely aware that others are watching it too. Odin isn’t the only one keeping track, you can be sure.”

“Oh. They’re tracking me, you mean.”

“Yes. You are not so anonymous as you once were. But my point was that this is now an inter-pantheon power play. We removed Bacchus from the board, so now they’ve killed the Morrigan and penciled in a hash mark under the column that says badass. If they can’t finish us off, though, with everyone watching, then that makes the Morrigan’s death a fluke—or what it truly was, which was suicide.”

“Suicide?”

“Yes. The Chooser of the Slain chose herself.”

“But why?”

I wasn’t ready to discuss that with her yet. Primarily, of course, the Morrigan had felt all the weight of an eternal prison sentence; she could never change who she was, because of the constraints of belief. But the question of why she wanted to change would lead to a discussion of our strange relationship. The revelation that the Morrigan had loved me dumped a load of guilt ferrets on the back of my neck, and I hadn’t managed to shake them free. I doubted it would be a comfortable topic of conversation. We’d have to talk of it soon, but now wasn’t the best time.

“Let’s talk about her later, if you don’t mind,” I said.

“Okay, as long as we don’t forget.”