“I imagine they’ll obey the First among the Fae and abide by her decision.”

Manannan favored me with the mixed look of scorn and disbelief—wrinkles in the forehead from a querulous brow, lips pulled back from the teeth in a grimace. “That’s a fine imagination ye have there.” He sliced the air with a hand, figuratively eviscerating my idea. “No, Siodhachan, they’ll rebel. And Fand has more Fae on her side than Brighid does. More than anyone.”

“Do you have a suggestion, then, on how to proceed? Because we can’t simply ignore this. Brighid will find out eventually.”

“She already has,” Owen said, and Manannan whirled on him. “Not about Fand,” he clarified, “but she knows Midhir is dead. She’s looking into it.”

“That complicates things.”

A new voice said, “What complicates what, exactly?” We turned to find Flidais, Perun, and Meara walking toward us from the trees, newly shifted in from Tír na nÓg. Flidais wore her hunting leathers and bow, and Perun had his axe strapped to his back. He also had a leaf stuck in his hair, but since I caught Flidais winking at Owen, I assumed it was some kind of practical joke and we were supposed to keep quiet about it. We all had weightier matters to worry about, anyway.

Owen recruited Perun to collect more firewood with him—“That axe will come in handy, lad”—while I invited Flidais, Meara, and Manannan inside to go over everything again. Flidais was considerably more surprised than Manannan by the theory that Fand had been pursuing some kind of vengeance against me on behalf of the Fae, and news of Midhir’s death shook her visibly—she hadn’t heard.

“He and I … well, we had some fun in the past. If Fand killed him …”

“Then what?” Manannan asked when she trailed off, earning a sharp glare from Flidais. “This is the question we must ask ourselves. What if this proves to be true? Keeping in mind that Brighid is currently conducting her own investigation.”

“We don’t know enough,” Flidais replied. “That’s a chasm to jump when we get there. How do we find out if this is true?”

Manannan told her of my suggestion to bring back Midhir, and she agreed that would be best, so we stepped outside to get the fires lit and to proceed. It was only dusk, but it would be full dark by the time we got to the business of summoning Midhir, and while it wasn’t midnight here, it was midnight somewhere else—close enough for Manannan to do what he needed to do.

“Where is Granuaile?” Flidais asked, suddenly realizing that she wasn’t here.

“I don’t know. I’ve tried calling her and I left her a message, but she hasn’t responded.”

“Have you tried divining her?”

“No. I felt that would be a little creepy.”

“If you truly believe Fand is trying to kill you both, then I think it would be wise more than anything.”

“She’s not dead,” Manannan said, trying to provide some reassurance, “or I would know.”

“I’ll do it just to make sure she’s okay,” I said, because in truth I was beginning to get worried. I became only more so a quarter hour later, when I completely failed to locate her through divination. “Maybe I’m doing it wrong—it’s never been my strong suit,” I said to Flidais.

“Nor mine,” she said. “But I’ll try too.” Unfortunately, she failed to find Granuaile as well using her own methods, as did Manannan after her.

“She does have a cold iron talisman around her neck,” I offered, trying to think of an explanation that didn’t signify that she was in any kind of trouble.

“Aye, but she had that when you were running around Europe,” Owen pointed out, “and Fand—sorry, Manannan—or someone was able to divine her location just fine.”

We paused to consider, and the vision of Midhir wrapped in iron chains came back to me. Something like that would put a damper on divination. What if Fand already had Granuaile stashed away somewhere?

“There’s no way to solve that problem now,” Flidais said, “so we should proceed with calling Midhir and solve what problems we can.”

“Is that all right with you, Siodhachan?” Manannan asked, to which I nodded. It was the pragmatic thing to do. It occurred to me that Granuaile had never said where she was or what she was doing the last time we traded texts, only that she’d join me when she could. Without a clue of where to begin searching, I couldn’t hope to find her; she could quite literally be anywhere, on earth or on a different plane.

We began our rites of Samhain when darkness fell, old rituals that modern folk never got quite right, because they didn’t know the words anymore and we’d never written them down, and they were a bit fuzzy on the reasons for the fires as well. I have heard people say that walking between them is a rite of purification, or that it signifies leaving the old year behind and beginning the new one, and those are harmless interpretations to which I cannot object. The fires represented any number of dualities, but amongst them were the lives of the flesh and of the spirit, the light of two worlds; between them, on Samhain, we can speak with those who dwell in the other world. We meet each other halfway and speak through the shroud that separates us.

Perun and Oberon had decided to play while we did our thing. They had squared off in front of the cabin and were circling each other. Oberon’s tail was wagging madly, and if Perun had a tail I’m sure his would have been wagging too. He grinned through his beard and said, “You like to have fun, da?”

"He’s almost as hairy as me, Atticus. Except curlier. If I wrestle with him, will we stick like Velcro?"

I think you should experiment and find out.

"YES! I WRESTLE FOR SCIENCE!" He barked once and launched himself at Perun. The thunder god laughed as they tumbled in the leaves, and I was glad they would be entertained while we performed our ceremony.

We remembered the Morrigan first, wishing her peace beyond the veil. We all got a little emotional about it—including my archdruid. It belied the Morrigan’s belief that no one loved her. It might not have been love conventionally expressed, and it might not have been the sort she sought, but she was undeniably missed. And in truth, despite the death of her human flesh, she could still manifest on our plane whenever she wished; there was more than enough magic in the prayers of those who still worshipped her, ours included. I hoped she would avail herself of that opportunity and visit me again.

Midhir was a different matter. He had never been especially worshipped, and we needed him to come speak to us whether he wished to or not. Manannan took the lead on that, chanting words that were both encouraging and binding. We followed him between the fires, echoing his words and strengthening the binding, until a form coalesced out of the smoke of the second fire and resolved into a sort of negative image of Midhir, a pale hologram of swirling vapor rather than light. He looked less than pleased, and his voice was an annoyed, breathy puff of wind.

“Great. The fecking Iron Druid and Manannan Mac Lir, Lord of Denial.” His eyes found Flidais, Owen, and Meara, and slid away from them, uninterested. “What do ye want?”

Manannan replied, “When I took you to Mag Mell, you claimed that Fand killed you.”

“Aye, an’ ye brushed me off, dinnit ye, ye salty twat.”

“Never mind that. Tell me what you would have said then. Why did she kill you?”

“Because I dinnit kill him,” Midhir replied, pointing at me. “Or at least arrange to have it done properly.”

It took little coaxing after that for Midhir to list the full extent of his involvement in Fand’s schemes—all he wanted was a guarantee that we’d never bother him again. Manannan was agreeable to that. “Just don’t give us any reason to follow up. Tell us everything.”

Midhir had been in charge of liaising with the vampires and dark elves, and it had been he who suggested to the vampires that snipers with infrared vision would counter our camouflage and Granuaile’s invisibility spells. Lord Grundlebeard had been in charge of the rangers, as we suspected, and used them to cut off the Old Ways as an escape route. But Grundlebeard had missed a few here and there in England—probably because he never thought we’d make it that far—most notably the cellar entrance to Windsor Castle that Flidais had used to come to our aid. Midhir hastily had it blown up from the earth side so that no one could return to Tír na nÓg, but Grundlebeard had also left one open that was tied to Herne’s oak, and both were unpardonable oversights in Fand’s eyes. To her way of thinking, Artemis and Diana would have killed us easily in Windsor Forest if Flidais had not been there to tilt the odds in our favor. Piecing together his timeline with mine, I conjectured that Fand had taken action against Midhir and Grundlebeard while I was being snacked upon in the dungeon by little tooth faeries. If she had bothered to take a look downstairs, she would have found me there, helpless.

The two greatest bits of news I gleaned from Midhir’s confession were the names of his contacts: Among the vampires, he spoke to Theophilus—which I had already suspected, but it was gratifying to have confirmed—and his dark elf contact was a Svartálf named Krókr Hrafnson, who was the leader of what I suppose must be called an assassins’ guild. Most frustrating was the fact that Fand had spoken directly to the Olympians herself—an assertion that we’d never be able to prove. The Olympians were not actively trying to kill me anymore, but they weren’t my friends either. They’d never confirm anything.

When Midhir finally said he’d told us all he knew and answered a couple of questions from Flidais, Manannan released him, with a promise to leave him alone going forward. The smoky outlines of his form unbound and rose in restless wisps into the night sky. Whoever said that dead men tell no tales never spent Samhain with Druids.

Meara, Owen, and Flidais were the first to leave the space between the fires, and Manannan followed after a sigh. I was about to trail after him when the Morrigan, dark and beautiful, appeared suddenly in the flames and froze me in mid-step. Unlike Midhir, she looked almost solid; she had chosen to manifest herself and hadn’t been bound in any way. Her scratchy voice entered my head, and a ghostly finger reached out, chilling me as it trailed along my jaw with very solid pressure.

“Protect the dark elves, Siodhachan,” she said, and then she dissolved from view, as ephemeral as mist, before I could muster a reply. I was left shouting at the fire of the next world.

“Morrigan! Wait! Come back!” I had so many things I wanted to say to her, and she hadn’t given me the time. She probably already knew all of it, but that didn’t ease my need to say them. I did not, however, wish to say them in front of the others, and since they had all turned and were watching me now, I subsided with a muttered promise that we would speak later.

“You saw the Morrigan?” Manannan said.

“Very briefly,” I admitted. “She just did a peekaboo thing in the fire.”

“What did she say?” Flidais asked.

“Forgive me, but I think it was for my ears only.”

My answer didn’t please any of them, but they knew they couldn’t force me to share a confidence.

“Fine.” Flidais affected indifference. “Tell me what you intend to do now that you’ve heard what Midhir had to say.”

“He intends nothing,” Manannan said. “We still have no proof. That’s all hearsay.”

Flidais shook her head. “Manannan.”

“What?”

“You don’t have to be a huntress to see where the trail leads. Much as I wish it weren’t my own daughter or your wife who killed Midhir and plotted to kill the last two Druids on earth—I mean, the last two until recently,” she amended, looking at Owen, “I don’t see who else could have done it. Unless you have a theory as to who could pressure Midhir to frame Fand from beyond the veil?”

“He could simply be out to ruin my life, yours, and Fand’s with a fabrication,” Manannan said. “We are no true kin of his, and he has never liked any of us.”

Flidais scoffed. “He’d do that and let his true killer go free?”

“He doesn’t know who his true killer is,” Manannan insisted, “so he’s taking what petty revenge he can.”

Silence fell while we all waited for Flidais to respond. It lengthened uncomfortably—perhaps on purpose, to let Manannan hear how ridiculous he sounded.

“I know how much you love her,” Flidais finally said, “and that you both have taken great joy in deceiving the other in a harmless pursuit of other bed partners. I understand it is a game and you have been merry adversaries for centuries. But this deception is no game. It’s murder and conspiracy and all very contrary to the wishes of Brighid. And in keeping this information from the First among the Fae, you risk making yourself an accomplice, Manannan. We cannot blink it more.”

That made me blink. Flidais had just quoted Arthur Miller—and in a context that fit well here. Reverend Hale in The Crucible had been telling the court that the people of Salem feared to speak the truth. I would have to ask her later if she had memorized Miller’s work as an English headspace. If so, it was interesting that a huntress chose a work about witch hunting.

The god of the sea clenched his fists and shut his eyes tightly, perhaps in a final vain attempt to see no evil.

“If I may interrupt,” I said, “I think we do need to go to Brighid soon. But we can wait long enough to see if I can mend a broken relationship. I can forgive Fand—I’ve already done so—but if she can forgive me as well, perhaps we can go to Brighid and say punishment isn’t necessary.”