Inari opened her mouth to reply, but angry shouting and the zing of drawn steel interrupted, followed closely by roars and a tremendous impact that shuddered the wooden floor. I stood and darted out of the tiny arbor, drawing Fragarach in anticipation of meeting something large and aggressive.

"Atticus, what was that?"

Probably the ambush I always expect.

Four huge, red-faced oni—horned, bearded, and tusked—tore through the walls of the garden, swinging spiked iron clubs to smash the puny critters drinking sake in serenity. Two black-clad swordsmen, presumably Inari’s chosen heroes, chased them in. I scrambled for the back wall and Oberon automatically followed me, but instead of focusing on the oni, he was riveted by Inari’s heroes.

"Whoa! Atticus, I think I see the ninjas! Do you see them too?"

Those aren’t really ninjas, Oberon.

"Aw, dang it! Well played once again, ninjas. Well played."

Watch out for the red giants. I cast camouflage on my hound in hopes that they wouldn’t be able to target him. I also tried my best to focus on the oni rather than the show Inari was putting on. While I hoofed it to give myself some space and time to set myself, she barked a short command, as animal trainers sometimes do, something like “HUP!”—and then she erupted through the roof of the arbor, an effortless leap during which she drew her katana. At the zenith, she hovered impossibly for more than a second, long enough to make me think gravity had been suspended in her area. It was temporary, however, for a large white flying fox with nine tails materialized in motion underneath her and swept her away in a dizzying spiral of silk and fur that confused the oni even more than it did me.

Remembering the woman who had pointed me to the arbor, I glanced at where she had stood and saw her yukata puddled on the ground. Of course, she was now the flying fox.

The oni swung and whiffed as they tried to bat Inari out of the air, and that slowed their charge. That allowed the two swordsmen to close the distance and slice through the tendons at the backs of two of the oni’s knees. They made almost identical slashes, but the creatures fell very differently. One fell forward, doing no harm to anyone but himself as he was impaled upon a stone lantern, but the other collapsed backward, crushing the swordsman underneath him. The remaining two kept trying to track and lay into Inari, ignoring me altogether, and I felt a small tremor of existential vertigo as I realized that I wasn’t the target for once. The oni thought me insignificant, and as such it behooved me to make sure they dismissed me at their great peril.

Stay back, I told Oberon, and charged silently at the nearest oni as he twisted his neck around to follow the flight of Inari. These guys wore actual loincloths but apparently had missed out on decades of laundry commercials that shared the secret to keeping their undies stain-free. They were savage hulking brutes but still vulnerable to speed and steel. My attack wasn’t the sporting kind, but assassins rarely expect sportsmanship since they don’t practice it themselves. He never saw me coming, so the sword I thrust underneath his sternum and up into his heart was quite the surprise. He spasmed, dropped his club, and began to topple forward. I didn’t have time to yank out the sword, so I tumbled to my right and let him fall on it. Now weaponless, I looked up to see that the attention of the last oni standing had been drawn by my ambush on his comrade. His spiked club was already on its way down, aimed at my head. All I could do was throw up my forearms and hope he didn’t turn me into paste.

Something hit him in the chest, however, as he swung, and that caused his arm to jerk forward in reaction. The club crashed down next to my left shoulder, one of its spikes opening a gash there. I rolled away, pushed myself up, and played some parkour using the slain oni’s body as a launching point. I put the body between myself and the other one, then whirled around to check his position as Oberon’s voice said, "Atticus, are you okay?"

Yeah. Was that you?

"Yep, I took him down."

Thanks, buddy, but get away and let Inari finish him. The goddess was circling around as if she was lining herself up for a strafing run.

"Yikes!" A blur of gray color near the oni’s chest signaled Oberon’s hasty retreat, and Inari sailed off the back of her fox, sword held high until she whipped it down to chop through the oni’s neck. A spray of blood fountained from the throat, ruining Inari’s silks and revealing Oberon’s position once it landed on him. "Auugh! Now I smell like liquid ass!"

Behind me, a roar of dismay heralded the end of the final oni who had been hamstrung by the black-clad warriors. The surviving swordsman had dispatched it while it was unable to rise from the ground. Wicking the blood away from his blade, he sheathed it and strode over to Inari, promptly falling to his knees before her and prostrating himself. A stream of profuse apologies flowed from his mouth, along with a demand that she take his head for his failure to protect her.

“Rise,” she said, and he did but kept his eyes lowered. “Which one are you?”

“This unworthy one is Tsukino Hideki.”

“No one survived outside?”

“Only myself, Radiant One. We killed two more oni out there.”

“You have done well, Tsukino-san. Resume your vigil.”

“Hai.” He bowed again and, silent and deadly, slipped outside the breached walls. The giant nine-tailed kitsune took up a position on Inari’s left, sitting up straight on the temple stone, much like the statues outside her shrine.

Oberon, come to my left side please, and do not even think of messing with that fox. That’s not merely a kitsune; that’s a tenko—more than a thousand years old.

"Don’t worry, I won’t. Flying foxes are even more unfair than flying squirrels."

I dispelled his camouflage, and the tenko watched him trot over to me. The poor hound’s coat was matted with blood.

“You see the problem, Ó Suileabháin-san,” Inari said. “I recognize these oni. They lived on the slopes of my own mountain in peace for centuries, out of sight of humans. It would have never occurred to them on their own to attack me here. Loki is whispering and giving the darkness ideas. But we cannot move against him based on whispers.”

“And I can?”

“Yes. It is time for you to act.”

“Act how?”

“As you see fit. Ganesha impressed upon you the need for circumspection years ago. There is no longer any need for such caution.”

“Why not? What’s changed?”

“The Olympians are engaged on our side. Had you acted earlier, they never would have been.”

“Are you saying you could not have recruited them on your own?”

“That is what I am saying. Again, human agency is required. For some actions we need a plea for intercession.”

“Forgive me, Inari, but that sounds faintly ridiculous. I now gather that you are part of a consortium of gods working together. Ganesha is one and I know there are others. At least one of them is omniscient and capable of finding me wherever I am, regardless of my cold iron aura.”

“Correct.”

“So then you are capable of acting together without human agency.”

“No.”

“Loki is hardly acting at the behest of humans. Nor is Lucifer or Iblis or any other deceptive deity you wish to name.”

“True, but that does not disprove my point. The darker powers are fundamentally different. They were conceived from the beginning as free agents to sow chaos and behave in their own self-interest. But about deities such as myself, humans believe differently. They believe that we follow rules and so it is true. Their faith is a fence we cannot climb. In the normal course of events we are confined to ministering to our own people. But, in this case, our collaboration was specifically urged by a singular human who has faith in us all. Someone you know.”

“Who?”

Inari tilted her head to one side and said, “Do you remember Rebecca Dane?”

Chapter 8

Memories of warmth do nothing to combat the cold; they only distract me from the work that must be done to keep from freezing. Had Atticus not taught me the binding to elevate core temperature and do the same for Orlaith, we would have frozen to death by now.

The yeti are not in their cave when we arrive. Though we follow the directions Atticus provided, I have to locate the cave using magical sight, since the yeti have thrown up a veil of snow over the entrance. To the na**d eye, there is nothing to the mountain but snow-covered rock, but Fae eyes reveal the whorl of magic around an entrance ten feet tall and at least as wide. It lets Orlaith and me pass through, and what greets us inside is not a natural cave; it is more of an indoor palace—not hewn, but obviously made by the Himalayan elemental in accordance with Manannan Mac Lir’s instructions. I discover this once I cast night vision and see the stone table against the left wall with three candles and matches on it. I light them all and then take one with me as I step deeper inside, all the while calling out in Old Irish, “Hello? Anyone here? I brought you some bacon,” operating on the theory that there are few sentences more friendly than that.

The entrance opens onto a long rectangular hall with stone counters lining it on either side. These have plenty of additional candles on them, and I light them as I walk along the left wall. A rectangular fire pit, recessed in the ground but rimmed with a lip of stone, lies closest to the entrance. It has a spit crossed over it and various iron grills, pokers, and tongs arranged alongside. I would bet that those pieces were made by Goibhniu but Manannan never told him where they would be used.

On the counter opposite me, across the pit, five stone plates sit with a fine dusting of snow on them. There are also a couple of large serving bowls and a platter waiting to be filled with food. I see giant three-tined forks but no knives.

Proceeding deeper into the hall, lighting it as I go, I come to a beautiful five-sided oak table, carved with bindings of health and harmony around its edges. Creidhne’s work, no doubt. The high-backed chairs, too, are oak, no arms, but proportioned for very tall and very wide people. Something akin to a polished marble chess board sits in the middle of the table, but there are forty-nine squares instead of sixty-four. It’s a fidchell game, the old Irish version of chess, and the pieces are miniature ice sculptures of remarkable beauty. Parts of them are clear ice, parts are purposefully cloudy, swirling through the forms in thin ribbons, and parts on the surface are a frosted blue, creating additional depth and texture and reflecting light in unexpected ways.

Much larger sculptures of similar artistry sit on the long table lining the opposite wall. Five representations of the Tuatha Dé Danann, at least two feet tall and finely detailed, stare at me with—ahem—cold expressions. I recognize, from left to right, Flidais, Manannan Mac Lir, Brighid, the Morrigan, and the Dagda. An interesting selection of the pantheon: hunting, the sea, fire and creativity, the Chooser of the Slain, and a god of fertility. The Dagda’s inclusion is curious for a group supposedly incapable of reproducing. I theorize that the yeti are praying for bounty elsewhere—amongst the animals they prey upon, perhaps. I wonder if the statues are unmelting and bound with water magic, like the ice knives, or if they are made of mundane ice. I smile at an idle thought: What would an unmelting ice sculpture of the Dagda, hand-carved by a yeti, bring at one of the New York auction houses? I suppose the identity of the artist would be most difficult to establish.

I wonder why their mother never taught them to worship the Æsir—or, if she did, when they converted.

A high arched passage beckons to more rooms beyond. I feel hesitant, however, to stick my head through it.

“What do you smell, Orlaith?” I ask.

"Smells old."

“You mean like old people?”

"No. Old smells. Long time gone. Smells are old."

“Huh.” The news worries me but fits with the thin coating of snow I see around the room, little lines of white powder tossed about by the odd circulation of air. It does circulate, somehow; there must be vents scattered about.

Leading with Scáthmhaide and triggering no ambush, I step carefully through the arch and discover a twisting hallway, which leads to the left and curls around clockwise. To the right is a door, barred closed with a plank of wood on a hinge, crossing the jamb and fitting into a bracket. Checking it out in the magical spectrum, I perceive no bindings that might be booby traps. That doesn’t mean there isn’t a mundane trap attached to it, though. The staff serves me well again; using the end of it, I flip up the plank from its slot and thereby free the door. It puffs out a smidge but doesn’t open, and nothing dangerous leaps out.

“Smell anything through there?” I ask Orlaith.

"Dead wood."

Her nose is on target, for it turns out to be a room full of firewood, oak and birch and juniper—hauled up from who knows where, since we are above the tree line. Cords of it, stacked and waiting, fuel for the fire pit in the other room. Where is the food? Another door, through the fuel depot, provides the answer.

The room is bigger than the dining hall we first entered, and it might be the world’s largest natural walk-in freezer. Carcasses of boar, yak, and musk deer hang from hooks—hooks made of solid ice, which droop from the ceiling like frozen scorpion tails. A butchering station, notable for its lack of anything sharp, offers evidence of past activity but shows no signs of recent use. A hole in the floor, presumably for refuse, tells me nothing except to watch my step.

I scan the room in the magical spectrum to make sure I’m not missing something important, but fail to see anything beyond the impressive provisions. There are no other doors, so we retrace our steps back through the wood storeroom and out into the hallway. I follow its curling path, asking Orlaith to report on anything she hears or smells that would indicate we are not alone here. While I am still worried about possible traps, I no longer think the yeti are home. I hope, however, that I will find an ice knife somewhere that I can borrow.