The archdruid didn’t give me any thanks for saving his hide or even comment that I had done well to take out eight Fir Darrigs all by myself. Fortunately, due to long acquaintance with him, I didn’t expect either thanks or praise.

“What did ye just do?” he said upon shape-shifting back to human, his breathing somewhat labored. “They had ye all laid out for killing and then they exploded! Ye could have left me a couple.”

I stood up, dusted myself off, and tapped my necklace. “One of the reasons I’m still around—koff!—is this amulet. It’s cold iron and I’ve bound it to my aura, mostly for magical protection. But a useful side effect is that my aura kills Fae on contact. They call me the Iron Druid because of it.”

“You’re wearin’ cold iron? And you can still cast bindings?”

“Aye. It took some experimentation, but the mass is low enough to permit it.”

Owen grunted and waggled a finger at the rest of my necklace. “What’s all that silver on either side?”

“Charms. They let me cast basic bindings with mental commands rather than using my voice. It’s faster. Gives me an edge.”

He grunted again and considered. “All the Druids are doing this now?”

“Just me. But that’s pretty much all the Druids.”

“What?” My archdruid’s eyebrows, wild and white affairs that could do double duty as household dusters, drew together and folded his skin into grooves on his forehead.

“Not counting the Tuatha Dé Danann—and we can’t really count them, because they’re supposed to stay in Tír na nÓg as much as possible—there are only three Druids left, including us.”

“Shut your hole. How is that possible?”

“The Romans came for us. They burned all the groves on the continent and hunted us down. We couldn’t shift planes and so they were able to trap us. You heard about it, I’m sure. Julius Caesar was in Gaul in your day.”

Owen stiffened. “Aye, I remember. Did the Romans take Ireland?”

“No, they never made it there.”

“Well, then, why are there only three Druids?”

“Because the pagan Romans eventually turned into Christian Romans. The Holy Roman Church did make it to Ireland, centuries later, and a man named St. Patrick converted much of the populace to his religion. The Druids died out for lack of apprentices.”

He slumped, not understanding everything I said but sifting it for the essentials. “All the Druids died but you, eh? If this isn’t all an elaborate joke—and if it is, I will ask Ogma to help me pound the living shite out of ye—how did ye manage to live on when all the others died?”

“I left Ireland a long time ago, at the Morrigan’s urging, and learned to keep my body youthful. I’ve seen the world, Owen. It’s much, much bigger than we ever thought back in our time. To the rest of the world today, Ireland is a tiny country, famous for its fighters and its alcohol.”

“How tiny?”

“If the world were nine hundred sheep and a billy goat, Ireland would be the goat.”

“Huh.” He paused for a moment, trying to grasp the scale of it and orient himself, but it didn’t add up for him. He looked at me through squinting eyes. “Still, lad, why so few? With two thousand years to work with, I’d imagine ye would train more than one apprentice.”

“I was being chased by Aenghus Óg for much of that time.”

“Oh, him. For a god of love, he’s sure quick to hate and be hated back. He’s a right bastard.”

“He’s a dead bastard. I killed him.”

He raised a finger and tilted his head. “Is it the truth you’re telling me now, Siodhachan?”

“Aye. And as soon as he was dead, I began to train an apprentice. I just finished binding her to the earth a little over a month ago.”

“Ah, ye did? What’s her name?”

“Granuaile.”

“When do I get to meet her?”

“Later,” I said. “We need to get you acclimated first. The world is so different that I’m worried you’ll withdraw and hate everything.”

“There’s little chance of that,” Owen said, a tiny grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I can’t wait to see it all, to be truthful. And I’m sure the basics are the same. People still eat and shite and sleep, right?”

“Well, yes.”

“Then it can’t be all that different, can it? We’ll just have to train some more Druids.”

“I suppose so. But I have to caution you that there will be plenty of adjustments to make. We can start adjusting over a pint or five.” It occurred to me that he might not know what a pint was, so I added, “Ready for that drink?”

“Aye. But I should probably put me clothes on again.”

We shifted planes to Ireland—to the Kilkenny Castle grounds, actually, where there were some bound trees along the canal. From there I led him through the streets to Kyteler’s Inn, a gray stone structure established in 1324. The interior would still be a jarring experience for him, but at least it wouldn’t have giant plasma screens shouting about the latest football match. I expected a flood of questions on the way, especially once he saw the castle, but he didn’t speak the whole way there; instead, he looked around with his mouth gaping open, staring at cars and streets paved in brick, stone, and asphalt, and at the concrete and steel of modern architecture mixed with the mortar and stone of older days. He stared at people too, whose clothing and shoes he found perplexing. The archdruid received more than a few stares of his own. No one made rags like the ones he was wearing anymore.

The bartender gave us an uncertain welcome. I must have looked like a university student buying a homeless man a drink. I pointed to an empty table where we would sit.

“Two Jamesons, neat, and two pints of Guinness, please?” I asked.

“Right away, sir.”

Owen slid cautiously onto the upholstered chair after watching me do the same, his expression a mask of wonder at the feeling of padding. But horror suffused his face shortly afterward as he remembered what he’d seen on the way in, and he whispered his first words to me in the modern world, hunched low over the table. “They’ve covered up the earth, Siodhachan!”

Chapter 2

Atticus is off to confer with some crabby old man from the past—according to him, an unwashed, potentially explosive type, sort of like the human equivalent of a propane tank—while I get to hang out in Colorado with the hounds. I think I have the far better deal.

Oberon is so happy to have Orlaith here that the surfeit of his joy buffets me like the tide, waves of exultation wafted about by the swishing of his tail. He has taken to asking every morning if he can talk to Orlaith yet and is only mildly disheartened when I tell him no—we have all been running together in the forest after I climb out of bed, and that is such fun that it sugars over many disappointments. I bind myself to the shape of a jaguar, dark and sleek and liquid next to the bounding exuberance of the hounds, and we dance through the trees and let the crunch of leaves beneath our paws announce our good cheer to the forest. We chase squirrels and the occasional deer and smell things that tell us stories of life and death in the woods.

I am becoming more used to the smells and am not afraid of the form anymore. As with magical sight, the trick is in the filtering.

Orlaith is gradually acquiring language. Right now she speaks to me in short bursts of words, the simplest of sentences. Fluency and syntax will come later, though she knows how to ask for new words, and her meaning is always clear to me through our bond, a sort of emotional and image spillover akin to the communication we share with elementals.

She’d been at the rescue ranch because the newborn child of the couple that owned her turned out to be allergic to dogs. She misses them still and remembers how sad they were to give her up, but she is happy to be with us now. Her mental voice is a bit lighter than Oberon’s, and she loves the trees here.

"Pine! Spruce!" she says as we run, excitement evident in her words and in the movement of her tail. "Town! Noises!"

Our mission today is to explore the small town of Ouray on foot. Surrounded on three sides by the San Juan Mountains and only a couple of square miles in area, it rests in a sort of natural bowl with egress to the north. Yesterday we dug a cache above the town and buried money and a set of clothes for me, along with collars and leashes for the hounds—for though Ouray is a very dog-friendly town, local ordinances require a leash at all times.

Burying things and digging them up again, of course, is half the fun.

Now dressed in jeans, sandals, and a black T-shirt announcing my affection for the legendary all-girl punk band the Laser Vaginas, I fold the paper bag that had protected my clothes and take it with me down the hill. The hounds gambol ahead, turning back frequently to check on my progress, since I am moving so much slower than before.

Ouray’s economy largely depends on tourism. The majority of income derives from hotels, restaurants, and shops selling gimcracks, souvenirs, and the occasional artsy doodad. A glass-blower and a blacksmith keep shops going in the summers, and one guy does some amazing sculptures with chain saws and tree trunks. Jeep touring companies make a killing as well, their income from the summer months supporting them for the rest of the year. Now that it’s October and the temperature is dropping, the town is largely quiet and safe for Orlaith to learn how to conduct herself in urban environments. The opportunity to teach her new words would be invaluable too.

Lacking a jacket and feeling the chill, I use the binding Atticus taught me to raise my core temperature, then call the hounds over as we approach the Uncompahgre River, which marks the western edge of Ouray. As I fix the collars onto their necks, I say aloud, “Let’s review the rules for behavior while we’re in town. Oberon, you go first.”

"We must not approach people but let them approach us."

“Very good.” I repeat Oberon’s words for Orlaith’s benefit and then ask her, “Do you remember any rules?”

"No poop! No pee!"

“Excellent. Make sure you take care of that before we cross the bridge. Anything else?”

Oberon says, "We mustn’t sniff anyone’s ass."

"No woofs!" Orlaith adds.

“Good, good. And?”

"No jumping, no humping, stay next to you, and let you know if we want to stop to smell something," Oberon finishes.

“Fabulous!” I repeat everything Oberon said for Orlaith but don’t bother with the other way around. Oberon is an old hand at this.

Leashes in my fist and filled with insouciance, I take the dirt road down from Box Canyon Falls, cross the bridge, and enter Ouray near the Victorian Inn. We turn left up Main Street and slowly make our way north, pausing frequently when the hounds want to investigate something or when passersby want to pet them and chat. Some people cross the street when they see us coming; wolfhounds can be intimidating if you’ve never seen them before, and no doubt they think that I won’t be able to hold on to one of them, much less two, if the dogs take it into their heads to run for it.

The pleasant morning is ruined as we pause outside a leather shop, though it’s no fault of the leather’s. The manager of the establishment, a grizzled man in his fifties with a brow furrowed in confusion, steps outside with a cordless phone and says, “Sorry, but would your name be Granny-Woo, by any chance, or something like that?” He completely bungles the pronunciation of my name, but I’m used to that.

Oberon and Orlaith swing around in concert to look at him, ears raised, and he flinches when he sees them. They hadn’t been in view from inside the shop, so they take him by surprise when he steps across the threshold. “Gah. Those are some damn big dogs,” he mutters.

"Woof?" Orlaith asks.

"If I barked at him right now, he would squeal," Oberon says, and it’s a struggle to keep my expression neutral when both dogs are thinking essentially the same thing. They are right: He’d probably stagger backward and hurt himself in his haste to get away, so I remind them to remain silent.

“Yes, I’m Granuaile,” I tell him.

“Well, there’s a phone call for you,” the manager replies, holding out the phone to me. “They say it’s an emergency. Life or death.” I take the phone from him, and he says he’ll be inside when I am finished. I’m not terribly surprised, since I’m aware that those of sufficient skill can divine my whereabouts if they wish, but I dread the bad news.

“Thanks,” I say to him, nodding, then hold the phone up to my ear. “Hello?”

“Granuaile. It is Laksha.”

“Laksha? Where are you?” I had not heard from Laksha Kulasekaran for more than a decade. The spirit of the Indian witch had shared space in my head once, and it was thanks to her that I learned of Atticus’s true nature and became his apprentice. But after she found a body she could fully possess, we had spoken only a few times, as I began my training in earnest and she moved away to build a new life.

“I am in Thanjavur, India.”

“Okay. I’m not sure where that is.”

“It’s near the southeastern coast, in the state of Tamil Nadu. I have been living in the region for several years. There is a problem here that might interest you, and I would appreciate your help even if it doesn’t interest you. You are a full Druid now, yes?”

“Yes.”

“Congratulations. Your skills could do wondrous good here, but especially if you are related to this man. Do you know of a gentleman named Donal MacTiernan?”