We chose a specific destination in Tír na nÓg: the tree nearest the home of Manannan Mac Lir, as safe a place as any for us in the land of the Fae. He and Fand welcomed us, feted us, and, once they heard of our intent to visit the Time Islands, offered the use of a singular canoe that would hold its position in a current without the use of an anchor.

“That island is fairly well known,” Manannan said. “I am fascinated to hear that the Morrigan put someone there.”

It was the first time either of us had spoken of the Morrigan. Manannan carefully avoided my eyes, and I could sense that he didn’t want to speak of her death. I respected his wishes and didn’t go there.

“Really?” I said. “What’s so unusual about it? I know it’s way upstream, but I don’t remember seeing anything there when I was young.”

“You wouldn’t have. We didn’t start putting people in there until—well, it was around the time you retrieved Dagda’s cauldron for Ogma down in Wales. Remember that?”

“Yeah. Back in the sixth century.”

“Right. Well, you never did hang around Tír na nÓg very much until recently, so it’s no wonder you haven’t heard of it before now. Some of the Tuatha Dé Danann—myself included—call it Zealot Island. We were bloody sheltered back in the old days, you know. Once we began to have contact with the rest of the world, we were gobsmacked by the intensity with which some people denied the existence of other gods. Lots o’ those people are dangerous, but some o’ them are so bad they’re kind of ridiculous.” Manannan smiled with nostalgia. “My favorite character there is the red-faced Puritan who looks like he’s a biscuit away from an aneurysm. When I snatched him, he was shouting this frothy sermon about the sublime grace of his god’s love, completely unaware of how his body language and voice contradicted every word he said. I know that others have contributed to the island from time to time, but I didn’t realize the Morrigan was one of them.”

That only increased my curiosity, but we spent much of the time relating the details of our run across Europe. I neglected to mention my visit to Brí Léith, however; since Manannan didn’t bring up news of the shocking death of Midhir, I wasn’t going to volunteer the information. He knew, of course, that Midhir was dead—Manannan would have escorted his spirit to his final rest. But that didn’t mean Manannan knew the details of what had happened or had investigated, or that Midhir’s death was public knowledge. It was best to keep silent.

I insisted on cooking in the morning, preparing my signature cheese and chive omelets and serving them with sausages and parsley potatoes. Fand had Blue Mountain coffee from Jamaica that she had sent faeries to harvest on the sly, so it was one of those rare breakfasts you remember long afterward. Bellies full and loving life as we bid our hosts farewell, the three of us set out on the river in the canoe, which Oberon discovered was not designed with a wolfhound in mind. "Yeesh! Shift your weight in this thing and everything moves," he complained after he nearly capsized us. "I don’t think wolfhounds have very good sea legs. I might not be a salty dog after all."

“Best to lie down and just enjoy the scenery, then,” I said. There was quite a bit to see. Zealot Island was about as far upstream as one could get; time moved slower there than almost anywhere. Though narrow, the island sprawled for a decent distance, so there was a rogues’ gallery lined up on the beach who would most likely fight to the death if they were left enough time to do so. An English crusader stood right next to a fighter for the Caliphate, for example, and they didn’t even know it. Millennia would pass before they could turn their heads and register that an enemy stood nearby.

Metal posts offshore rose all the way around the island, supporting an elaborate system of catwalks and machinery far above it. I didn’t know what the contraption was for, but I was sure Goibhniu had something to do with it. We’d go see him next.

On the northern side of the island, at the edge of the beach but by no means under the canopy of trees that dotted the center of the island, a craggy, stooped figure pointed an accusing finger at us, mouth wide in accusation and eyes burning with rage. The Morrigan had obviously plucked him from a cold environment, since he was bundled up in warm clothing and wearing gloves with the fingers cut off. He looked utterly alien standing on that balmy beach.

“Gods below,” I whispered. “What in nine hells was she thinking?”

“Who is it?”

“I can’t…” I trailed off, my mind spluttering to a halt like an AMC Gremlin. Granuaile paused the boat in the river, using the binding Manannan had taught us. She let me stare for a while to get my thoughts in order before she asked again.

“Atticus? Who is it?”

I shook my head. “No. I don’t know how this is going to go. I mean, now that I see him there, of course I need to get him out, but it might turn out to be a terrible idea. Or a great idea. Depends on whether he wants to help us or not. But if it winds up being a terrible idea, I don’t want you involved. It’s safer that way.”

Granuaile crossed her arms. “No. That’s not going to fly. I can take care of myself, as you well know. Tell me who it is.”

“You misunderstand. I know you can take care of yourself, and I’m not worried about that at all. I’m more worried about you killing him than the other way around. He’ll say something atrocious and you’ll have no choice but to destroy him. No, I’m sorry. This is a private matter, and I’m going to keep it private until I know his state of mind.”

Granuaile cocked an eyebrow and bobbed her head at him. “You can’t tell his state of mind by looking at him?”

I gazed at his snarling expression again. “It’s not as easy as you might think,” I said. “He kind of looks like that all the time. That could be joy we’re looking at. I simply don’t know.”

We returned to shore and found Goibhniu at his smithy, working on a personal project. Swirling rods of wrought iron outlined a threatening figure with flowing black hair.

“Is that…?”

“The Morrigan,” Goibhniu said. “Aye. Me mum isn’t too happy about me makin’ a memorial, but she can get stuffed. The spirit feckin’ moves me, y’know. The Morrigan gave me nightmares all the time, but I already miss her. Gonna put rubies in the eyes and enchant Fae lights behind ’em to make ’em glow.”

“Outstanding.”

“Kind of you to say.” He removed his goggles, wiped his hands on a cloth, and came over to shake my hand with a smile on his face. “Good to see you alive, Siodhachan. Heard a bit about that business with the Olympians, owing to your friend there.” He nodded to indicate Granuaile and then turned his grin on her. “Hello, you. And, Oberon, it’s always a pleasure.”

Oberon barked and wagged his tail as Goibhniu rubbed his head.

“Looks like you’ve healed up well,” he said to Granuaile, then included me with his next sentence. “Will ye be havin’ a beer with me? There’s a lot of rumors swirlin’ round about what exactly happened, but I’d like to hear it from you, and, besides, we have business to discuss.”

He must mean the bounty on the vampires. “That would be wonderful.”

“Delighted,” Granuaile said.

“Brilliant. Don’t worry, Oberon,” Goibhniu said, “I have something proper to eat over there too.”

"How come Goibhniu isn’t running everything? He seems to have his priorities straight."

We followed Goibhniu out of his smithy to his brewery and taproom next door, which was decorated in dark wood and brass. There were a few Fae hanging out inside, but they exited quickly after they saw me. I shared a condensed and edited version of our escape from the Olympians while Goibhniu pulled draughts for us and ladled out some bowls of lamb stew from the kitchen. We three ate at a booth, while Oberon ate his behind the bar. I finished with the uneasy truce struck with Zeus and Jupiter, as we sopped up the remainder of the stew with some bread.

Goibhniu shook his head in wonder and raised his glass. “Sláinte, laddie. I love the way you make everybody dance.”

We clinked glasses and then I said, “What do you know about Zealot Island?”

The smith blinked. “I know it’s feckin’ tough to get anybody off it once they’re on.”

“Why?”

“Time moves so slowly there that when you swoop in to pluck them out you’re likely to break their bones. Some o’ them haven’t blinked in hundreds of years.”

“So why put anyone there?”

“We only put a**holes there, until I could figure out a way to get ’em out safely.”

“Oh, so you can get them out?”

“Wait. Are you saying you killed a bunch of people to experiment?” Granuaile asked at the same time, a hint of outrage in her tone. Goibhniu answered her rather than me.

“Well, yeah, but, like I said, they were a**holes. Vikings, mostly, what were going around raping and pillaging the Irish coast back then. But, come to think of it, we’re still putting a**holes there. Only now we can get ’em out without killing ’em. Mostly.”

“What do you mean, mostly?” I asked.

Goibhniu shrugged. “It’s a tricky business. Have you been out there and seen the rig I set up?”

Thinking of the bizarre machinery erected over the island, I nodded.

“Well, I can snatch ’em out with that. The time bubble has a low ceiling. We sweep what amounts to an ultra-soft mattress in behind ’em and then scoop ’em up. Thing is, you’re practically guaranteed to break their legs, because we hit them first to make ’em fall backward and usually they have their legs locked up. Sometimes we get additional breakage, but it’s hardly ever fatal anymore.”

“Can you get someone out for me?”

“Who?”

I shot a glance at Granuaile, who was listening intently. “I’d rather not say,” I replied, “but he was left there by the Morrigan.”

Goibhniu’s eyes rounded. “She said someone would come asking about that someday, but I never thought it would happen now. And I certainly didn’t think it would be you.”

“Do you know the person I’m talking about?”

“No, I don’t. She only told me that she left someone there and that far off in the future somebody—not her—would ask to get ’im out. She paid me in stupid huge pots of gold to get this guy off the island and make sure he healed up all right.”

“But you don’t know who it is?”

“Nope. She said whoever asked about it would identify him.”

That gave me pause. Considering how long ago she must have put that man on the island, she had been flirting with the idea of her own death for a very long time. Or she had divined some purpose for him far beyond his own era.

“All right, I need you to go around to the north side and look for an old man in winter clothes pointing at the shore in mid-shout. Can’t miss him. Epic eyebrows. That’s the guy.”

“Done,” Goibhniu said. “Or it will be in a couple of weeks. Takes that long.”

“Good enough,” I said. “What news from the yewmen?”

“Ah! I’m thinkin’ we need another beer for that. This is good.” He collected our glasses and went back to the tap and checked on Oberon, who had fallen asleep behind the bar after wolfing down his lamb stew.

“You heard what they did the first night, right?” the god of brewing said as he deposited the old glasses in the sink and fetched some fresh ones. “Took out every vampire in Rome. It was a sort of cooperative enterprise from several different pods. They split up from there and took a day to find new targets. Meantime, the rest of the world’s vampires wake up at night and some of them realize that they’re hearing nothing from their leaders. A few go to find out what’s happened, and then it’s chaos. Lots of different reactions. Some are battening down the hatches and increasing security until they know more. Some are sending minions to Rome to seize the city for them and take control. Others are claiming that fighting over Rome is a moot point, as it’s no longer the center of vampiric power—which is a fair point—and then they claim that their city should be the new capital, or whatever you want to call it.”

“Huh. Which cities?”

“Istanbul, Las Vegas, and Paris are the names I’ve heard.” I’d half expected to hear Thessalonika in there, which would mean Theophilus was making a play, but then it made sense that he would let others step forward. He was the sort of leader who moved in the shadows, safely out of reach. In that he was very similar to his mysterious counterpart amongst the Tuatha Dé Danann.

Goibhniu brought over our draughts, and I noticed it was a different beer than the first. “This is my Ballyshannon Blond Ale,” he said.

We clinked glasses and took an appreciative sip. “Did the yewmen get any more after Rome?” I asked.

“Oh, aye,” Goibhniu said, nodding. “They’ve been making hits just about every other day, spreading throughout Italy. It’s driving the bloodsuckers crazy. They’re upgrading their daytime security and hissing at one another, and I’m over here eatin’ popcorn and laughin’ me ass off.”

“So what’s the count?”

“They’re able to hit around twenty to thirty a night, but that’s only every other day. So right now we’re at a hundred sixty-two vampires who are finally dead for real.”