“I suspect nothing, but I wonder plenty. If you have no ideas regarding who might have blown up part of Windsor Castle to prevent us using the Old Way to get back, then we are dealing with someone extremely clever. Who amongst the Tuatha Dé Danann would be able to arrange an explosion on this plane less than an hour after you used it? Or, more to the point, who was following you in Tír na nÓg and saw you leave that particular way?”

Flidais frowned at my last sentence. The idea that she might have been followed disturbed her more than anything else. The challenge faded from her eyes and she looked away, considering the problem.

“I suppose Ogma could have done it. His designs have been inscrutable for a long while.”

The thought chilled me but had occurred to me before. Granuaile gasped, because it hadn’t occurred to her.

Flidais continued, “But Midhir has been keeping to himself recently. He has a mind for such things. And he is a patron of that Fae lord you shamed during your visit to Court, the one in charge of the rangers. What did you call him?”

“Lord Grundlebeard.”

“That’s it.”

“What’s his real name?”

“I never knew it. The irony is that no one ever paid attention to him until you singled him out for ridicule. Everyone calls him Grundlebeard now.”

“Bollocks. Now we don’t have any choice but to stay and fight.”

“It is the best course, Druid—your pardon. At Court you are always Siodhachan, but I know you use other names outside it. Do you still go by Atticus, or do you have a new name?”

“Atticus is fine.”

"Maybe you should change it to Swoony McMushypants."

Granuaile choked back a laugh and then coughed to mask her amusement, while Flidais’s lips pursed in an effort not to smile. She’d heard Oberon’s comment too.

“All right, where do you recommend we fight?” I asked, pretending my hound hadn’t said anything. “Not near the castle, I hope. That’s going to be flooded with British security in short order. In fact, I bet we’re on a satellite camera right now and someone’s going to be reviewing this and wondering who the hell we are. We should stay underneath the canopy and maybe go invisible for a while.”

Flidais scowled at the sky. “I have heard of these satellites. Perfidious creatures.” I didn’t question her word choice, and neither did Granuaile or Oberon. Now was not the time to explain orbital surveillance to a being who had yet to use a computer or a cell phone. Satellites, to her, were as magical as the Fae were to humans. “Yes. We will return to the forest and sort ourselves for a defense.”

Helicopters and distant sirens sounded behind us as we turned our backs on Windsor Castle and jogged through the Home Park toward Windsor Forest again. Once underneath the canopy, we dropped our camouflage and returned to the small clearing in the middle of the forest. Three marijuana plants grew nervously on the western perimeter, seemingly aware that they didn’t belong there, dreading the day when they would be harvested and smoked by a bearded and half-baked local.

"What’s the plan, Atticus?"

Still working on it, actually.

Flidais left her chariot and stags plainly visible just underneath the trees, a clear signal that she was now involved and doing a bit of hunting of her own. We entered the forest together from the northwestern side of the clearing, creating one trail, but after about a hundred yards we decided to split up our forces.

“Before we do, however,” Flidais said, “we might be able to take advantage of something.” She stared at Granuaile while she said this, and Granuaile understandably grew wary.

“Uh … what did you have in mind?” she asked.

“Have you taught her how to modify the camouflage binding, Atticus?” the huntress said. The correct answer would be “yes” if I wished to avoid looking clueless, but since I truly was clueless, there was no use pretending.

“I didn’t know it could be modified. It’s one of the base spells tattooed into our skin.”

“You can’t modify the base spell, of course, but you can add your own flourishes on top of it. I’m surprised you haven’t tried it.”

“I’m full of surprises.” And I didn’t know why she was speaking of camouflage when Granuaile had the ability to turn fully invisible.

“Yes.” The goddess smirked, her eyes taking in Granuaile’s clothes. “Well, I have noticed that Granuaile and I could be mistaken for twins if we made a little bit of an effort. That could give us an advantage, so allow me to make the effort.”

I’d noticed the resemblance before, as had others. Ogma had mistaken Granuaile for Flidais once while we were visiting Tír na nÓg.

Keeping her eyes on Granuaile, Flidais began to speak a binding in Old Irish. I recognized the words for camouflage at the beginning, but she kept speaking past the point where it should have ended, targeting Granuaile’s black outfit and reflecting it onto her own clothing before energizing the binding. Her hunting leathers all turned black.

“Whoa,” Granuaile and I said in stereo.

Oberon shuddered. "I just got chills! Coming soon on BBC One, The Dark Druids of Windsor!"

Flidais removed the bracer on her left arm, which protected her skin from the lash of her bowstring. That gave her the same sleeveless look as Granuaile.

“All right. Hair next,” the huntress said, for that was a significant difference. The color was almost identical, but Flidais had quite a bit more curl and frizz to hers than Granuaile did, and it made her look a bit like an eighties rocker.

“Maybe if we tie it up in a knot?” Granuaile said.

“Yes, but first I need to straighten.” Flidais improvised a binding that had simply never occurred to me—or to Granuaile either—and the kinks smoothed out until her hair lay flat and wavy like Granuaile’s.

"Great big bears, Atticus, think of how much money she could make in Hollywood! Speak some gibberish and you get Oscar-night hairdos in five minutes!"

“Amazing,” Granuaile said, smiling.

“Tie up your hair as you like and I will copy it,” Flidais said.

Granuaile gathered and twisted her hair behind her in a practiced series of movements. When she was finished, it was tight against her scalp, pulled back from her ears, and piled in a neat sort of bun on top. Flidais studied it for a few seconds and then produced a matching bun on her head.

“Not bad at all,” Granuaile said.

“Here, let’s face him,” the huntress said.

They turned toward me, side by side, so that I could compare. Same height and build, same skin tone, though Granuaile had a few more freckles. The hair looked identical now. Up close you could tell that Flidais’s clothes were made of a different material, but from even a mild distance away it would simply be a black silhouette. Likewise, the minor differences in facial features could be easily distinguished up close, but from a distance in a combat situation, anyone would have trouble telling them apart.

“That’ll work,” I said. “How shall we proceed?”

“We will appear from the flanks one at a time and throw a knife before going invisible again. We will alternate until we run out of knives—we only have five total, correct?”

Granuaile nodded. She had three, to Flidais’s two.

“Then you should go first,” Flidais said. “To them it will appear that the same person is teleporting around them. Quite the distraction. Someone should be able to take advantage of that.” She arched an eyebrow at me and I nodded.

“If it turns out to be possible, target Diana,” I said. “She’s probably a bit more invested in this than Artemis is, and anything we can do to slow her down would be good.”

With all of us agreed, we separated to lie in wait. I continued deeper into the woods on the same path, Flidais took off to my left, and Granuaile melted into the trees with Oberon to my right. Once I’d traveled another fifty yards or so and turned around to face my trail, the directions were switched, with Granuaile waiting somewhere off to my left and Flidais to the right.

I drew Fragarach from its sheath and stood so that I had a good view through the trees. The first gray fingers of dawn were reaching through the canopy.

I cast camouflage as a helicopter chopped the air above the Home Park, probably very near where we had paused after the explosion. These days, British security would be prone to suspect any attack on Windsor Castle as a terrorist strike, and not even in their wildest theories would they suspect that someone was simply trying to slam a door in my face. The two men that Granuaile and I had rendered unconscious by Frogmore House would become a part of the investigation now, and satellite feeds from that area would be scoured. One frame we’d be there and then the next we’d disappear. That would make them start searching in an ever-widening circle, and eventually they’d get here—maybe would even spot Artemis and Diana as they were inbound. That would complicate matters. Our duel required privacy.

I shuddered merely thinking the word. This wouldn’t be a duel. There wouldn’t be any rules or codes. They would simply come at me knowing that the worst I could do to them was deliver some brief pain and annoyance.

How to placate an implacable foe? The Morrigan’s advice came back to me: Gaia loves us more than she loves the Olympians. The solution, I realized to my chagrin, was to take hostages—figuratively as well as literally. I am not a fan of taking hostages, since it’s an act of desperation and so rarely works, and when I kicked Bacchus through a portal it was more to save my life than anything else. But now I could see how the Olympians would view it as a hostage situation. Right now my leverage was tenuous: On the one hand they said they wanted Bacchus back, but on the other a couple of them were doing everything they could to snuff me. The leverage could change—they knew that if they took Oberon or Granuaile I’d give them anything. There might, however, be a way to increase my leverage—or to at least make them talk, which was the entire problem, from my point of view. It wouldn’t be pretty, but it had a better chance of working than expecting the Olympians to be reasonable without significant encouragement. It made me wonder why the Morrigan, or the rest of the Tuatha Dé Danann, or anyone else who’d ever had occasion to fight the Olympians, hadn’t thought of compelling them to talk. Perhaps in some cases it was simply not an option for them, but more likely it never occurred to them that there was any way of winning other than through force of arms.

Communicating with Albion through my tattoos, I introduced the elemental to the concept of storage units, in case my plan turned out to work.

Chapter 23

I should be confident of what’s to come, but somehow that confidence has fled. With Atticus here and Flidais too, and the theoretical aid of Herne—I’m not sure if he’s coming back—we ought to be a bit more evenly matched. But nothing went the way I expected it to the last time we tried to ambush the Olympians. I am strategically ill equipped to deal with them. Unless I land a powerful blow to the head with Scáthmhaide, I don’t have a way of taking them out. My knives will only annoy them, and they are so very annoyed with us as it is.

Atticus claims that I fight better when I’m angry, and if that’s true, I’m sure he’s right about the effect but not the cause. When I fight, I am occupied not only with the exertion but with the manner in which I win—a distinction that Atticus believes pointless. In battle there is no moral high ground, he says, only high ground that puts either you or your enemy at a disadvantage, depending on who occupies it. I privately disagree. People can lose—or die—with dignity. If I could give them that, I would. But I admit that I cease to care if my own dignity is wounded first. With anger comes a remarkable clarity of purpose, a stillness from which many paths to victory lie in front of me. Some paths are much less dignified than others, and the distance to travel much shorter. I need only choose one and take the first step. But I do not have that clarity of purpose yet with the Olympians, for I think they have some just cause to be incensed with us. Though messing with the dryads on Olympus was ultimately a successful stratagem—it gave us the time to complete my binding to the earth—I always knew we would have to pay a price for it.

Perhaps my insecurity stems from the knowledge that for the majority of this journey I have been watched and judged from afar by beings who, if my current run of luck holds true, may prove to be my adversaries someday. Or it could come from the fact that Oberon and I nearly lost our lives the last time—in almost no time at all.

My experience thus far has shown that battles in martial-arts and action movies always last longer than the real thing—especially when there are gods involved in the real thing. When you’re watching in the theater with your salted popcorn and high-fructose corn syrup, the battles linger and slow-motion sequences pay exquisite attention to killing blows and masks of rage, a celebration of violent death intended for people like me who (until recently) customarily do nothing more violent than buy butchered meat at the grocery store. Once the movie hero and villain finally have their showdown, they discover that they’re evenly matched and there is time for a long, beautiful silhouette sequence in front of a dawning sun as the soundtrack composer mashes down some organ keys and a boys’ choir sings whole notes until they drop dead from hypoxia. What makes such shots exceedingly silly is the weeks or months of preparation it takes the actors to rehearse the battle so that they don’t accidentally kill each other. If they wanted to truly go at it, they wouldn’t need to rehearse. Like all true battles on the individual level, it would be ugly and anguished and over before the cinematographer could focus. I have learned that our emotions and adrenal glands won’t have it any other way.