“The future is a many-forked path,” she said, “and only you can choose which one to follow.”

“I know that. What I don’t know is what waits at the end of those paths.”

“Victory or death. Choose well.”

"Does anybody really need to think that one over?"

She means I should choose my path well, Oberon, and the paths won’t be clearly labeled VICTORY or DEATH.

"Never go in against a Druid when DEATH is on the line! A-ha-ha-ha-ha!"

You do remember that the Sicilian who uttered the original version of that sentence died?

"Oh, yeah. I withdraw my ill-chosen pop-culture allusion."

“Thank you for inviting me to speak with you, honored Inari,” I said, pressing my palms together and bowing. “It has been most enlightening. I will retrieve my sword and take my leave.” She didn’t reply but nodded her head at me, serene and still, as if posing for a portrait next to her kitsune.

Turning the oni over onto his back nearly tore a muscle in mine, and Fragarach, when I pulled it out of his guts, was fouled with juicy juices and in dire need of a de-goring. The Uncompahgre River near our cabin would get that started.

“Farewell,” I said, bowing again and receiving no reply. Oberon and I stepped through the ruined doors where Tsukino Hideki stood watch. The bodies of two more oni and four more swordsmen lay in pools of blood in a very public street. I cast an uncertain glance at Tsukino-san, and he bowed to me.

“Do not worry. Inari will not allow this to be seen. All will be hidden and the damage repaired before anyone walks this street.”

Thus reassured, Oberon and I trotted back to the top of Mount Inari, where we shifted to our cabin in Colorado.

I found a note from Granuaile dated October 25 waiting for me on the kitchen table. It was a couple of days old, but she didn’t mention her father and didn’t ask for help, and it sounded as if everything had gone well with the yeti, so I didn’t need to worry about her.

"Atticus, I kind of feel icky. Can I have a bath?"

“Absolutely. Let’s go.”

"But you can’t ever tell Orlaith I asked for a bath. It would be unhoundly."

“I’m not sure that’s a word, Oberon.”

"It is now. And you also have to promise never to tell her about my poodle addiction."

“Your poodle addiction? Really?”

Oberon drooped both his head and his tail. "Yes. I am a poodler, Atticus."

“That’s not even a thing!”

"Is too. And the first step to recovery is admitting you have a problem, and I have a problem. With poodles."

“Oberon, where are you getting this? You don’t have a problem.”

"Oh, see? Right there! You’re enabling me, Atticus! We both have to stop. We should go to meetings."

“I can’t believe what I’m hearing. Tell me where this is coming from.”

"People in crime dramas are always being ordered by judges to go to meetings about their addictions. So there has to be a Poodlers Anonymous meeting somewhere."

“All right, look, I promise never to tell Orlaith about your addiction. You’re over it now, right? No more poodles for you?”

"That’s right!"

“Okay, then, you are no longer a poodler, we don’t need to go to meetings, and you may consider your secret safe.” I turned the bathtub faucet on and placed the plug in the drain. “I won’t tell her you asked for this bath either.” Oberon hopped in and I searched for the liquid soap. He would need a good scrubbing to get all the blood out of his fur.

"Will you tell me a story about ninjas this time, since we almost saw one?"

“I would love to, Oberon, but I never knew any ninjas, and they tend to keep their personal histories a secret.”

"But you know lots of secrets."

“True, but not those.” At one time I had been prepared to tell Oberon the story of a samurai I had met personally in the sixteenth century, before Tokugawa solidified his power, but decided against it because that fellow had met a bad end and Oberon tended to take these stories to heart. I could, however, tell him about another warrior who had lived and died with honor. “What would you say to a story about a real samurai sword master, perhaps the greatest who ever lived?”

"That sounds good! What was his name?"

“Miyamoto Musashi. Or, if you want the Western order for names, Musashi Miyamoto. In Japan they usually give the family name first.”

"They do? What’s my family name, Atticus?"

“Well, you can have mine, if you want.”

"I don’t know if that would be right. We are not related. Didn’t I ever have a family name?"

“No, I don’t think you did.”

"Does that mean I can make one up?"

“Sure.”

"I want my family name to be Sirius!"

“So when I introduce you to people, you want me to say you’re Oberon Sirius?”

"No, I want you to do it the way they do it in Japan. I am Sirius Oberon. But they can just call me Oberon."

I stifled a snort of amusement. “Got it.”

I turned off the water and dug into Oberon’s fur with soapy hands. I had to keep him occupied until I was finished or he would shake himself and soak me.

“Miyamoto wrote The Book of Five Rings,” I began, “and before you ask, no, one ring did not rule them all. It was a collection of instructions on swordsmanship and musings on strategy, spirituality, and life, which people still study today. And he’s considered an authority because he defeated at least sixty men in personal duels and even more in war. He began his violent life at age thirteen and died an old man at peace.”

"How was he at peace?"

“It was common for samurai to try to balance their violent lives with art and meditation. Miyamoto enjoyed painting and calligraphy and even architecture. He urged people not to study the sword only, because there is so much more to life than learning how to end it. There was a certain fatalism to the samurai way of life and an emphasis on dying well.”

"Dying well? I don’t get it. If you are already dead, how do you know you did a good job getting that way?"

“Dying well actually meant that you had lived well, because few samurai believed they had rewards waiting for them in the next life. Regardless of whether they were Shinto or Buddhist, they knew they would pay a price for killing others. So it was necessary in their eyes to make their lives as beautiful as possible to balance the ugliness. They wished to die with honor. They lived according to a code called bushid?.”

"What was that like?"

“They valued courage, of course, but also loyalty and honesty and benevolence, among other noble values.”

"Were they vegetarians like those people in India?"

“No.”

"Okay, then, that’s noble."

“But Miyamoto Musashi was not the typical samurai. For many years he was ronin—masterless—and remained outside service for much of his life, pursuing excellence in strategy and the art of the sword. He even invented his own style of fighting, called Niten Ichi Ryu—fighting with two swords. He became so good at what he did that he changed martial arts forever.”

"So he’s kind of like you!"

“What?” I have been called many things but never an influence on martial arts. The idea was so novel that I stopped scrubbing in surprise.

"I mean he invented new stuff and nobody could beat him. You made up that amulet and no one can beat you."

“Oh. I … Well, I’m not unbeatable, really.”

"Man, this tickles!"

“No, Oberon, wait—”

Too late. He shook himself and sprayed the entire bathroom with nasty, bloody, hound-flavored water and soap. I took the brunt of it.

“Auuggh!”

"Sorry. I thought you were done."

Chapter 12

A car engine wakes me—someone next door going to work at sunrise. Next door, I should say, to Greta’s house, which is located on the north side of Camelback Mountain in a town called Paradise Valley. The noise rouses her, too, and she shifts against my side and drapes a thigh across mine, regarding me with sleepy eyes and a lazy smile. We don’t say anything, because I think we’re both wondering why we’re there and what to do next. Or maybe it’s just me wondering that.

I mean, I know how I got there: Greta invited me to her bed. But I don’t know why she did it. I’m not a pretty man like Siodhachan. And considering how she feels about him, I’m surprised she wanted anything to do with me, his archdruid.

Before I take another step down the emotional path—it’s a rough walk, always choked on either side with thorny bushes of self-doubt and feelings I’d rather not feel—I decide to accept the night for the gift it was and be grateful. She would explain or not, as she wished.

I stretch and yawn and then she takes a turn at it, demonstrating that she’s a fecking expert at stretching.

“Have ye got one of those fancy toilet things in this place?” I ask. When we came in last night, I didn’t see much of her house. We were paying attention to each other and little else.

“I wouldn’t call it fancy,” she says, “but, yes, I have one in the bathroom.”

“It’s all fancy to me,” I says. “Ye don’t know how good ye have it.”

“Oh, yes, I do,” she replies. “I was around before the toilet, you know.”

“Ye were?” Me jaw drops and she grins, pleased to have surprised me. “How long do werewolves live?”

“If someone doesn’t end us through violent means, somewhere between four and five hundred years. We don’t start showing our age until the last fifty or so.” She tilts her head, looking smug. She expects me to ask her how old she is now, but I’m not going to fall into that trap. For once in me life I see a chance to be nice, and I take it.

“I like what you’re showing, regardless of your age,” I says, and she hums with pleasure as I leave the bed to search for the bathroom. I think the term for her home might be something like swank or maybe opulent. It is decorated in earth tones, and the furnishings are all of natural wood, aside from the occasional cushion. The floors are hardwood too. There are many more rooms than she needs. When I return to the bedroom she is gone, but she comes in behind me.

“I used the other bathroom,” she says.

“How many are there?”

“Four.”

“And you live here all by yourself?”

“Yes. But the pack visits often and I’m able to put them up, and my house is also used to board visitors from out of town.”

“What is it that you do, exactly?”

She shrugs. “I do lots of things. Whatever the pack needs.”

“I hear everyone has to have a job these days. What’s your job title?”

Her mouth quirks up at one end. “I don’t have a title. Enforcer, perhaps?”

“Is that what you tell humans when they ask you?”

“No. I tell them I’m a government courier. Often out of town, you see, and lots of secrets; can’t tell them much because they don’t have security clearance.”

“They believe that?”

“If they don’t, they won’t be seeing me again. Among people who have dealings with wolves I’m sometimes called the gamma. I am number three in the pack, behind Hal and Esteban.”

“Oh. Does that mean you could be alpha somewhere else if you wanted?”

“Maybe, but I don’t want that. I’m content where I am. Lots of benefits and none of the responsibility.”

“I see. What is it that you enforce?”

“I’m the primary enforcer of the territory’s boundaries. And if someone is messing up our territory—vampire, witch, whatever—I’m the one who lets them know they need to calm their shit down.”

“Sounds dangerous.”

“It can be. More often it’s drudgery. I do the criminal stuff for the pack, like getting your fake IDs. I have to do all the shit jobs too, which mostly involve your apprentice.”

“Ah, he’s like a sick baby, isn’t he? Spewing his mess everywhere.”

“That’s a good analogy,” she says, and flashes a grin at me. “But let’s not talk about him. Are you hungry?”

“Aye. Can ye maybe teach me how to cook in these kitchens? I saw some of what Farid did last night, but I couldn’t follow. All I had in my day was an open fire.”

“Sure. That’ll be fun.”

She teaches me how to make coffee and then demonstrates the arcane procedure for making something called French toast. After she sprinkles powdered sugar and pours syrup on it and I take my first bite, I have to admit it’s the most delicious breakfast I’ve ever had. I couldn’t imagine any of the Gauls of my day ever making something like this, but I suppose the modern French must be a very different tribe, and I keep all such thoughts private.

“What’s next for you?” she says around a mouthful of toast.

“I have to go to the Fae Court and tell the Tuatha Dé Danann that I’m walking the earth again. It’s the kind of courtesy that only matters if you don’t pay it.”

“Oh, so you’ll be back tonight?”

“It might take longer than that,” I admit. “I expect I’m going to be invited to dine a lot. They need to find out where I stand and what I know so that they can decide what role I’ll play in their power games.”