“Shenanigans.”

“Yes, that’s it,” Odin said. “Shenanigans.”

My aquatic form was a sea otter, and Granuaile could shape-shift into a sea lion. While we could swim the channel like that and Oberon could dog paddle, we weren’t going to kick a lot of ass if the Olympian sea gods got involved. And I could see already how they would rationalize what they were doing; if we were eaten by sharks, well, that happened all the time. It wasn’t direct interference in the hunt.

Though I’d already determined it would be unwise, I asked anyway to see what Odin would say: Can’t we just take the Eurostar train underneath the channel and avoid all that?

"You can try. If you think you can sneak past the sentries they have at the station and wish to trap yourself in a metal container with plenty of innocent people, and if you wish to break the rules of engagement that prevent them from flying down in front of your current location, by all means, go right ahead."

He knew very well I wouldn’t do that. What about Artemis and Diana? Any word on them?

"They are back in Olympus, breaking in their new bodies, awaiting yet another set of chariots to be made. They will not be on the trail again for some time."

I breathed a private sigh of relief—and not just for the extra time. I was glad Diana hadn’t died a true death, for if she had, there would have been no possibility of a negotiated peace between us.

Odin added, " I found your treatment of their heads to be amusing."

Yes, well, I’m sure they found it less so. Listen, Odin, I need a favor if you can manage it. Get word to Manannan Mac Lir of the Tuatha Dé Danann what’s been happening—and Flidais too, I guess. We need some Irish help to get across the channel, because we don’t have anything that can skate us past Poseidon and Neptune, and we’ll probably need Flidais to help us in the UK after that.

The raven squawked at me, and Odin’s voice said, "I am not your errand boy."

I know, and I said it’s a favor. I sensed that Odin wasn’t opposed to helping me, but I’d failed to throw a sufficient sop to his ego first. Thanks to a meal I once shared with Odin and Frigg, I remembered that the Norse diet in Valhalla was quite restricted and unvarying, and Odin might be tempted with gustatory delights. In thanks for which, I’ll send you some Irish whiskey too, plus some Girl Scout Cookies. He could no doubt secure such items on his own if he truly wanted them, but things always taste better when they have the added flavor of contraband.

"Oh, well, if we are exchanging services, that’s entirely different. I want a gross of those Samoas I overheard you mentioning to the witches in Poland and a case of Redbreast. And I mean the fifteen-year-old stuff. Not negotiable."

Done. As long as Manannan shows up and we survive.

"I will do my utmost to ensure he appears. A question before I go: Do you know anything about the vampire situation?"

What vampire situation?

"Rome is in an uproar. Or, rather, I should say the rest of the world is—Rome itself is now silent. Twenty-seven vampires, all of them quite old and part of the vampires’ power structure, were slain yesterday during daylight, their heads missing."

I frowned. Only vampires? Didn’t they have human bodyguards?

"Thralls, yes. Also dead. Their deaths are not causing the uproar."

“Interesting.”

"You know nothing about it?"

I knew all about it. I’d asked Goibhniu to arrange the whole enterprise the last time we were in Tír na nÓg. The idea was to put a bounty on vampire heads, starting with the heart of their power in Rome, and let all the pods of mercenary yewmen know. I couldn’t have known it would work so well or that they’d coordinate and take out every vampire in the city, but I’d hoped for a significant disruption to the vampire chain of command. This sounded like a complete decapitation of their leaders—literally—and it might explain why we hadn’t seen any more vampires since the Polish border, as well as why Leif might be too busy to deliver his own messages. Odin didn’t need to know that, however. There was no telling who else he was talking to, and I didn’t need to have the mysterious puppet master in Tír na nÓg hearing about it and letting the vampires know that I was paying for their heads.

Nope, I said, not a thing beyond what you’ve told me. It certainly brings me joy to hear it, though.

"They were looking for you, weren’t they? This should ensure that they remain preoccupied with their internal affairs for the near future, which coincidentally benefits you, doesn’t it?"

It’s a happy coincidence, I agreed. Theophilus struck me as the sort who preferred to rule from the shadows and not get directly involved, but I bet he would either be required to rule himself now or expend all his efforts in putting some puppets in charge. One of those might be Leif. And I’m sure Leif would be figuring out how to turn the situation to his advantage, as would every other vampire.

"Yesss," Odin said, Hugin’s head cocking to the side and managing to convey that Odin didn’t think it was a coincidence at all. "Well. I’m off to find your sea god. You can leave the cookies and whiskey at the drop point in Colorado."

Many thanks, Odin.

"I am grateful to you for the entertainment. The Einherjar are betting heavily on the outcome, and your return from the dead caused settled bets to become unsettled. The fights that have broken out have been inspired. How did you manage to come back from a bullet to the head, by the way?"

I shrugged as if it were nothing. He didn’t need to know that. How are the odds?

"In your favor now," Odin replied. "But they’re betting the woman and the dog don’t make it. Three to one against."

I broke the connection before I said something unforgivably rude.

Chapter 17

We arrived in Calais, France, around one in the afternoon. Timing and mental exhaustion required an interlude. We needed to give Odin time to find Manannan Mac Lir, and we had a comfortable lead on the huntresses, so we could afford to relax—or at least, not run—and have a decent meal before crossing the channel at night. We snuck into a clothier to grab some duds and walked out looking at least civilized if not fashionable. We also lifted six leather belts for later use. I took note of the name to make sure the establishment got paid later for what we took. Not trusting ourselves to nap briefly, we chose to remain awake and explore the city for a few hours. I kept my eyes peeled for possible enemies but tried to conceal my paranoia. We all studiously avoided talking of the immediate past or the future; we were both desperate, I think, for a thin slice of normalcy. I taught Granuaile a few French words here and there and taught Oberon that the food he wanted was called saucisse. We pulled off another meat heist in a café, but the food was rather pedestrian in Oberon’s view compared to what he’d had in Poland. It took the edge off our hunger until we could enjoy something later, however.

After sundown we walked to a spot near the channel and found a likely looking place to have dinner, called Le Grand Bleu. Before walking in, I asked Granuaile and Oberon to wait while I made arrangements. Casting camouflage on myself, I borrowed a cell phone from the purse of an unsuspecting teenager to call my attorney, Hal Hauk, back in Arizona. I walked a short distance behind her as I called; she missed the phone a bit quicker than I had hoped, due to an addictive need to check for texts or something every few minutes. Her cursing in French was entertaining, but I couldn’t appreciate its fluency once Hal answered his cell phone.

“Whoever you are, it’s four in the morning here,” he said without preamble. “This had better be good.”

“Hi, Hal!” I said, sounding as cheerful as possible. “It’s me, Atticus. On the run in France without ID or money. Need the money right away. Know anybody in Calais?”

Hal groaned. “You’re going to give me a headache, aren’t you?” his gruff voice rumbled.

“Your kind don’t get headaches,” I reminded him. We stuck to vague words because it wouldn’t be wise to have terms like pack and werewolves bouncing around communications satellites.

“That doesn’t mean you aren’t one,” he said. “To answer your question, I believe there is someone nearby, yes.”

“Can someone meet us at a restaurant called Le Grand Bleu and drop a wad of euros in my hand and you wire them some reimbursement from one of my accounts?”

“Of course I can. But what sort of trouble are you in now?”

“Everyone’s trying to kill me. So far they’ve only managed to do it once.”

“What?”

“The good news is that Granuaile is now a full Druid.”

“That’s great, but who’s after you?”

I couldn’t very well tell him plainly without making eavesdroppers raise a red flag, so I improvised a toupee for the bald truth. “Well, I’m running from several different LARPing troupes.”

Hal caught on and said, “Of course. Which ones?”

“The Fae, the Svartálfar, all the vampires, and the Olympians. Plus Hel and Loki.”

Hal ignored everything except the last. “Loki! Loki is free in the world? LARPing, I mean?”

“Well, to some extent, yeah. The backstory for his role is that he busted out of his binding a few months ago, but he’s been napping for much of that time, trying to heal up a bit after centuries of scarring and sleep deprivation. I’ve been able to distract him from the business of Ragnarok with one shenanigan or another, and right now he’s under the control of Malina’s coven in Poland. Oh, and before I forget, do you remember that cabin in Colorado I had you buy for me?”

“Yes.”

“Good. I need you to buy a case of fifteen-year-old Redbreast whiskey and somehow get your hands on a gross of Samoas and put them in the cabin right away. Send Greta to do it or something.”

Silence greeted this for several seconds, and I began to fear I’d lost the connection. Just as I was about to check, Hal said, “Pardon me, is this some kind of social experiment? You want me to get a hundred and forty-four Samoans and cram them into your cabin with a case of whiskey?”

“No, I said Samoas. The Girl Scout Cookies with chocolate and coconut. Luxury item outside of the States, you know. I’ve seen them go for fifty bucks on the Malaysian black market, but they’re only four dollars a box for us. The problem is they’re out of season right now, so it’s going to be tough.”

“Out of season?”

“Yeah, they don’t sell them year-round, Hal. It’s usually January through April and here we are in October. I’m sure you can find them somewhere, but it’s going to be tough. This is a major quest I’m giving you here.”

“I’m too old to be chasing after Girl Scout Cookies.”

“Well, I’m older, and I’m paying you to be my lil’ cookie monster.”

“This is not why I have a law degree.”

“No, but the law degree is why you get to charge me that hourly rate.”

Hal sighed audibly through the phone. His frustration carried across the Atlantic very well. “How did our conversation get to this place? I mean, didn’t we start with everyone trying to kill you? Let’s go back to the part where you said they already killed you once.”

“Hal, I don’t have time to explain. I borrowed this phone and need to give it back. Just have an associate of yours show up at Le Grand Bleu with a fat stack of bills and get that contraband to the cabin. Pretty please.”

“Fine, but I’m going to bill you for my therapy session.”

“You do that. Oh, and we have a few local vendors who would probably appreciate some reimbursement for my activities today. Have your dude also drop off a few hundred euros at this store.” I gave him the address of the clothier as well as the café from which we’d snaffled lunch, and he quickly rang off before I could think of anything else for him to do.

I slipped the phone back into the teen’s purse and then dissolved my camouflage. Granuaile was about a half block away with Oberon sitting by her side, and he was getting plenty of attention.

"Ah, the French are so lovely," he commented as a pair of women paused to smile at him and scratch him behind the ears. "Great food, amusing little bulldogs, and super-hot poodles. They have made their mark on the world, have they not? But yet they also appreciate the greatness of the Irish—me—and that is why their hands are so soft. They honor me with their soft hands."

Oberon, you’re doing that thing again where your ego replaces your reason.

"Sorry? I didn’t get that; I’m too busy being adored. What’s that they’re saying right now? They’re telling me I’m a good boy in French, aren’t they? They sound so sweet. It’s like they’re feeding my ears with sugar while massaging them with those wonderful fingers at the same time—"

Don’t get carried away, now.

"I can’t help it. They moisturize. Haven’t you ever heard of lotion, Atticus?"

I ignored his gibe and said, We’re going to be heading indoors to eat. Ready to squeeze underneath a table?

"Not really. Can I take a nap while you go do your knife-and-fork thing and then you can bring me something in a doggie bag?"

Okay. Where do you want to plonk down?

Oberon wandered around to the rear of the restaurant and stretched out against the wall. "Unconsciousness in T-minus five minutes! Five! Four!"

You mean seconds?

"Whatever."

I cast camouflage on him to prevent someone from calling in a stray and then took Granuaile’s hand and squeezed it gently. For another hour, perhaps two, we would have some time to enjoy our lives instead of running for them. She smiled at me and leaned in for a quick kiss. We decided, however, to give it an extended run.