“You’ve provided me with some lovely gifts today,” he finally murmurs. “You know, I feel a tad guilty at taking such advantage. I didn’t intend to give you anything, but perhaps I should let my kinder nature prevail just this once.” He rips his disturbing scarred eyes from his prizes and turns them on me, a broad, wicked smile stretching from ear to ear. “Would you like a gift, Miss MacTiernan?”

I shudder to think what it might be. “No thanks. I’ll pass.”

“Nonsense. You don’t even know what it is.” He gently places the quiver and blade on the ground at his feet, then fumbles at a pouch attached to his belt until he withdraws a stone cylinder, etched on the bottom like a chop but with runes instead of kanji. His fingers blossom with flames, and the stone heats up in his grip, turning red around the edges of the runes so that they glow. “I think you’ll like this very much.”

“No, I can tell that I won’t. Thanks for the thought, but please keep it.”

“You still don’t know what I’m offering.” He crouches down next to me, right fist on fire and left waggling around like a lonesome jazz hand. “Concealment,” he coos. “A cloak of sorts! The perfect gift for any young Druid.” And before I can reply, his hand shoots out and presses the etched bottom of the stone into the flesh of my left biceps, searing heat wrenching a scream from my throat. He lifts it away after a second, but the deed is done and Orlaith doesn’t react at all.

“There!” he says, his hand returning to normal and leaching away the remaining heat from the stone. “Now you have my mark on you. You will find that cannot be healed—not that you would want it to. It’s so very attractive. And it will conceal you from divination henceforth, so that Odin can’t spy on you anymore, nor can the Tuatha Dé Danann or anyone else. Except me. I’ll always know where you are. But never mind that! Think of how safe you will be from the meddling of gods and witches and Ouija boards!”

“Fff—”

“Now, now, no need to thank me,” he says. “It’s the least I can do.” He stands again, returns his damn branding chop to his pouch, and gathers up the arrows and knife.

“Farewell, Miss MacTiernan. I trust we will meet again and you will find a new way to serve me in spite of your own desire.”

I know I should respond with some sort of parting shot, but I feel so beaten that I cannot even aim a halfhearted “Your mom!” at his back as he climbs the steps to the surface. I hope he tests the tip of Fuilteach with his finger.

Chapter 22

When Samhain—Halloween to everyone else—rolled around on Monday, I realized I hadn’t heard from Granuaile for a couple of days. I figured she was doing as she wished and would call when she wanted to hear from me, but I hoped she wouldn’t find a call to wish her a happy Samhain clingy or stifling. When I made that call, however, it went directly to voice mail. Either Granuaile’s phone was dead or she was out of range of a cell tower. I left a brief message wishing her harmony and asking her to call me when she got a chance.

Owen surprised me by making French toast for breakfast. There was a plate waiting for me on the table when I entered the kitchen, and Oberon was sitting there, giving the food what I call the Dog Eyes of Yearning but making no move to snarf any of it. When I thanked Owen for his consideration and asked him where he learned how to cook, he told me to shut up and eat. Oberon sensed that this annoyed me and tried to provide some comfort.

"If you told me to shut up and eat, I would be totally fine with that," he said. "You could tell me that right now if you wanted. I wouldn’t be even a little bit mad."

I gave him a smile and scratched him behind the ears, then pulled a package of maple sausages out of the freezer and dumped them into a frying pan next to Owen’s French toast operation, letting my plate grow cold. He looked as if he wanted to challenge me for the burner, but it was my house and my stove, and he could have a scrap if he asked for it.

Perhaps he was having trouble letting go of our old relationship, where he told me what to do and I jumped to obey. We watched our food fry, side by side, and said nothing. The sizzling was occasionally accented by the sound of Oberon licking his chops, and somewhere along the way I found the lack of conversation more amusing than awkward. When I was younger, my archdruid’s silences scared me more than his reprimands, but now they afforded me a measure of peace and a small victory. This was a silence he’d demanded, anyway. I put on a pot of coffee to brew while waiting for a side of the sausages to brown. When it was finished, I poured a cup for us both and gave him his without a word. He grumbled a thanks, he rather liked this coffee potion, and I nodded back with a smirk. We sat and noticed all the knife and fork noises one normally ignores when eating, but which become abnormally loud when no one speaks.

"Remember when I asked you if the Cold War was fought in winter and you gave me that really long history lesson that had nothing to do with the weather?" Oberon asked. He had already gobbled up his sausage and watched us eat in silence for five minutes, tongue lolling out and head swiveling back and forth as we took turns shoving forkfuls into our mouths.

Yes.

"Well, this is like the Cold War but with French toast. Though I guess “Mr. Gorbachev, pass me the syrup” doesn’t have the same drama to it."

I squashed a laugh but couldn’t help cracking a smile, and Owen caught it. “What’s so funny, then?” he growled, assuming that I was laughing at him.

Damn it, Oberon, now I have to answer him.

"Diplomatic victory is mine!"

“Just something the hound said,” I told Owen.

My archdruid scowled at Oberon and took a sip of his coffee. “The hound, eh?” he said as he put down his mug.

“Have you ever had an animal companion, Owen? At all?”

“Nah, I never have.”

“Have you tried speaking to Oberon yet? You should bind with him and see what it’s like. I know I suggested a companion before and you said you had reasons to remain alone, but maybe it would be good for you to see what it’s like.”

He squinted at Oberon. “Would that be all right with you?” Oberon barked an affirmative. “All right, then.”

He concentrated and must have made contact, because I heard Oberon say, "Hi there. You have a square of butter on your forehead."

“What?” Owen slapped at his forehead, searching for butter, and then stared at his fingertips, finding nothing.

Oberon chuffed. "I was just kidding. Made you slap your head." And that made me laugh.

Owen glared at me. “I suppose you put him up to that?”

Grinning at him, I said, “No, he has his own well-developed sense of humor.”

“Define well for me, lad.”

I leaned forward, resting my forearms on the table. “It’s not important that you think it’s funny. It’s important that I do. If there’s anything I can warn you about when it comes to extending your life span, it’s that boredom is your enemy. If you get too bored with the routine of it—the endless eating and sleeping and shitting and working so that you can eat, sleep, and shit some more—you’ll do something stupid in an attempt to entertain yourself, and you’ll die. Or you’ll slip into depression, make the Last Shift, and live out your days as an animal. Or you’ll get bitter, thinking about the past and everything you’ve lost, and it will turn you against people. So my free advice is to always find something to love and to make you laugh—something that will keep you in the here and now. Hounds are good at it, and they work for me. They may or may not work for you.”

I was expecting a gruff denial that he needed any advice from me, its language landing somewhere between dismissive and vitriolic, but he surprised me and uttered a thoughtful grunt before asking, “Where did you learn this trick of teaching animals language?”

“It’s not a trick. It’s a process. But I learned it from Goibhniu. He used to have a horse named Apple Jack that he let me borrow once in the sixth century.”

“Was Apple Jack the joking sort?”

“No, he was scared out of his head most of the time. Had a profound fear of goblins; he was convinced they’d get him someday.”

“Did they?” Owen asked, and Oberon asked the same thing in my head.

“I don’t know what happened to him after we parted. All I know is I enjoyed the companionship. Are you finished?” I held my hand out for his plate. “I’ll wash up. Thanks for the breakfast.”

“Aye.” Owen changed the subject once I had the dishes in the sink and the water running. He spoke loudly over the noise of the faucet. “Before I fell asleep last night, ye mentioned ye wanted Manannan Mac Lir to join us for Samhain. Have ye invited him yet?”

“No, but I’ll be doing so momentarily.”

“How are ye going to get him here without Fand—or without her knowing?”

“I know a selkie who has his ear.”

“Oh, aye,” he said, and snorted. “Everybody knows a selkie, lad.”

“It’s true. I’ve used her to contact him on the sly before, when I was trying to keep my whereabouts secret from Aenghus Óg.”

“How long will that take?”

“I don’t know for sure. While I’m gone, would you mind getting the bonfires prepared for the ceremony?”

“Fine.”

“Oberon will keep his eyes out for faeries and let you know if he sees or hears anything.”

"I will? I mean, I will!"

We might get some extra observers. Up in the trees, down low in the undergrowth, who knows. If you sense them, don’t bark, but let Owen or me know.

"Okay."

Bidding the two of them farewell, I stripped and shape-shifted to a sea otter before using an aspen to shift to Tír na nÓg. Once there, I took a deep breath and shifted back to earth, to an underwater location: a small kelp forest growing off the southwestern Irish coast that Manannan had bound long ago. Anybody capable of shifting planes could shift there, of course, but very few would want to. It appeared to have no purpose other than birdwatching and tourism, for you surfaced at the base of Goat Island with a spectacular view of the famous Cliffs of Moher—also known as the Cliffs of Insanity in The Princess Bride. Razorbills and puffins and all sorts of birds nested there, whirling in the sky and diving into the waves, and the ocean was protected from fishermen to make sure the birds had sufficient feeding area. I had no intention of swimming to the surface, however; I swam straight for the base of Goat Island, where another forest of kelp and a slab of Namurian shale concealed an entrance to a subterranean passage, which opened onto a grotto the size of a ballroom.

When I broke the surface, a small titter of surprise greeted my ears. A dark-haired woman with deep-black eyes sat at an easel set upon a beach of sea-smoothed glass and gravel. Her brush was poised above a canvas of stormy blues and grays and forbidding rocks frosted with crashing surf. She was unconsciously nude and regarded me with curiosity more than alarm. Behind her, carved steps led to a raised platform of rock, where stone furnishings were softened by furs and pillows and accented by golden candlesticks, all of them blazing and lighting her living area; large torches illuminated the beach. The combined effect was impressive—her candle and fuel budget must have been enormous.

“A sea otter?” she said, her light Irish lilt floating to my ears. “Who is that? It can’t be Siodhachan?”

I shifted back to human and waved at her from the frigid water. “Hello, Meara. It’s been a long time.”

She put her brush down and rose from the fur-covered stool upon which she had been sitting, throwing her arms wide. “It is you! Indeed it has been a long time, far too long! You’re probably freezing. Come out of there and I’ll get you a fur.”

I swam over and crawled onto the beach, teeth chattering, while she fetched me something with which to dry off. Her smile was bright as she brought it to me and insisted on throwing it over my shoulders, and once I was enveloped, she hugged me and gave me a peck on the cheek. One of the many nice things about selkies is that they can do that and not dissolve to ash: Unlike most other Fae, they’re perfectly fine around iron, since they’re born in the seas of earth, or on its shores, at least.

“What brings ye to me grotto?” she said, cupping a hand behind my head and swirling her fingers through my hair. “You’re not wantin’ me to be lovin’ ye again, are ye?”

“Much as that would delight me, I’m here on other business. And I’m hitched these days.” Meara and I had been lovers for a brief time in the nineteenth century. She had a thing for art, and when I told her that I had once met Rembrandt and a brilliant up-and-comer named Vincent van Gogh, our relationship turned into a monthlong celebration of color and beauty and the kiss of brush on canvas.

“Married?”

“There hasn’t been a ceremony, but it’s settled in my mind.”

Meara’s smile was brilliant. “Ah, congratulations, then! She’s human, not Fae?”

“Yes, but she’s a Druid.”

“Now, that’s good news, to be sure!” She let go of me, stepped back, and put her hands on her hips, cocking her head to one side. “So what’s this other business?”

“I need you to contact Manannan Mac Lir with utmost privacy and ask him to pay me a visit. He can’t be followed or accompanied by anyone except you. It’s urgent.”

Her pleasant expression darkened, but she didn’t ask for the specifics of the matter. She knew I wouldn’t bother her or Manannan if it weren’t important. “Where should he meet you?”