“Looks like they’re ready for a fight, Siodhachan. She must know that we’ve figured things out.”

“Owen, our power’s gone.”

“What?” My archdruid looked down at his foot, slow to realize that I spoke the truth. No juice was coming up through our tattoos. “Now, how in the name of seven sets of ox nuts did that happen?”

Four Fir Bolgs—giant ugly blokes that weren’t strictly Fae but eked out an existence here now as hired thugs—stepped out from behind large oak trees. They wielded net launchers, tubular weapons with gigantic muzzles, and they shot them at us without so much as a battle cry. I tried to shout a warning, but it was only in time to make Owen and Meara look up and see what was coming. The nets blanketed us, and when they touched my skin I knew that we were in trouble. They practically punched us to the ground, for the links between the intersecting knots were coated with bands of iron. It was far too much iron through which to cast anything, especially considering the iron already dangling around my neck. Cut off from the earth and unable to cast from stored magic, we were essentially powerless humans now.

We struggled to get out from under the nets, of course, and while we did that, the Fir Bolgs dropped their net launchers and grabbed spears, which they had leaned out of sight against the oak trunks. They advanced on us with ugly smiles, and I knew we wouldn’t get free in time.

Chapter 25

As soon as Loki is out of sight I speak to my hound, mind to mind. I can hear her breathing, but she’s sitting out of my line of sight. Orlaith? Answer me, please.

"Huh? Granuaile! Hi! Where am I?"

The knot of worry in my chest loosens and I tell her, You’re in that hole in the ground with me.

"Oh! How am I here? There was tall man and—hey! Granuaile hurt?" She walks into my view, towering over me, and I manage a tiny smile.

Yes, but I will heal.

Most of me will, anyway. Unlike the pain of my broken bones and pulverized muscles, the burn of Loki’s brand on my arm cannot be quelled. It feels as if it’s still sizzling, and I imagine that I can hear and smell the burning flesh. Tears leak out the sides of my eyes, the product of one part pain, one part embarrassment, and two parts relief that we are both still alive, but I don’t make any noise. If Loki is lurking upstairs, listening, I don’t want him to derive any satisfaction from my distress.

I wonder if cold iron will dissipate the magic of his mark enough to let me heal it. I am quite some time away from being able to test that, since it would involve some arm movements I don’t think I can pull off. I can’t put any weight on my bones yet, lest they fracture further, and I resign myself to a long wait, exchanging comforting words with Orlaith and suggesting that she take a nap by my side. I myself can’t fall asleep so easily.

The light from the trench gets intense at noon, then fades as the entire day slides by in a fugue of physical discomfort and mental self-flagellation. The burn mutes itself to a dull throb over time, but the internal bashing intensifies. My own stupidity led me to walk this path instead of others, and I doubt I’ll ever be able to forgive myself.

As twilight begins to creep toward darkness, however, the last dregs of my patience burn away, and that, along with an urgent call of nature, urges me to get moving. Aware that the nerve block I’m using is actually denying me feedback on what works and what doesn’t, I release it—and cry out at the sudden return of agony from all my muscles. Orlaith starts awake from her snooze.

"What? Why yell?"

I unblocked the pain and it surprised me. Want to try moving.

"Okay."

It hurts everywhere, and my body squirms to get away from the discomfort, but there’s no way to escape, since each contraction sets off a new complaint. Gritting my teeth, I slide my left hand to my jeans pocket—a slow operation and one that requires me to breathe in and out quickly, but at least my limb functions well enough. I wiggle my fingers in there and succeed in pulling out my cell phone, only to discover that its touch screen is completely crazed, shattered by the pressure and therefore useless. I think of trying voice commands, but it won’t turn on. So much for calling Atticus.

Testing my abs, I try to sit up, and they surprise me, letting me raise myself with only a mild complaint. Searching for the remains of the dabāva, I see nothing but a curled pile of black ribbon, like a discarded streamer or a massive accident with a cassette tape, resting on the ground near my ankle. Could that have been it? Was that the thing that had shrouded the light and tried to pop me like a wine grape?

I gasp when I look down at myself. My arms are swollen and purple, and I’m sure the rest of me, including my face and neck, is one massive bruise as well.

Sitting up turns out to be the only halfway easy thing I can do. Everything hurts so much and I feel so brittle that each movement is slow and triggers a wince. It takes me most of the remaining daylight to zombie crawl twenty feet away and relieve myself, then return to lie down again. It taxes me more than I would have thought possible.

Utterly exhausted, I reestablish the pain block and we sleep through the night, and upon waking we are vastly thirsty. I ask Kaveri to create a small basin for us in the floor and allow water to seep through. It is cool and clear and delicious. I scoop out a few cold mouthfuls before Orlaith comes over to lap up her fill, which produces considerable noise that I might normally find annoying but in this situation is strangely welcome.

"Food?" Orlaith asks once she finishes.

We could use some, couldn’t we? I don’t think I’m up to it, though. I still need a long while to heal. My bones aren’t strong yet. Would you like to hunt? I don’t know if this is an ideal area for it.

"I can try."

Stay away from people. Don’t let them see you if you can help it. Run back here if they chase you.

"You won’t come?"

I can’t, Orlaith. But I should be safe here. You go see if you can find something and don’t worry about me.

With reluctance, Orlaith leaves and stays out for a couple hours. She returns with a bit of blood on her muzzle and lies down next to me, and we while away the time with language lessons for her. Thus I spend Sunday allowing my body to mend and my stomach to growl, trying to keep my Zen even though I am impatient to get out.

When the sun slices down through the trench once more it’s Samhain, and Atticus is probably wondering where I am. Or he will, when he wakes; I have to remind myself of the twelve-hour difference between India and Colorado. While I think I might be able to join him, I don’t think I want to just yet. He’d hug me and snap my collarbone again. And he would see that I’ve had my ass properly kicked—I’m still purple all over—and I’d have to explain. And there’s the very real problem of Loki’s mark to consider. Concealment from divination is, I have to admit, a great gift; I wouldn’t have been able to achieve it myself without binding my amulet to my aura, and Atticus says there’s no shortcut to that. It took him years to do it. But this gift of Loki’s wasn’t freely given—I’d firmly believe that even if he hadn’t said as much. The price is that Loki can track me wherever I go. So if I go back to Colorado now, I’ll potentially lead him directly to Atticus on a day when his guard is down, and Loki made no secret of the fact that he’d like to kill Atticus. It occurs to me that I might not be able to go home at all. If I want to keep Atticus safe, I might have to avoid him altogether. Or get rid of the mark.

Feeling more confident in my movements than I did before, I remove the cold iron amulet from my neck and press it against the set of runes branded into my flesh. They’re red and puckered, but I can’t feel them burning anymore. I reach out to the elemental for help.

//Kaveri / Query: Heal burn?//

//Query: What burn?//

I try to direct the elemental’s attention to Loki’s brand or mark or whatever it is, but Kaveri doesn’t recognize that there is anything wrong with me now except deep-tissue damage. Examining it in the magical spectrum, I spy a soft white glow of magic within the circle but nothing I can tease at or unbind. The repeated application of cold iron to the mark has no discernible effect. What the hell had he done?

My frustration wants to have a good scream, but I bite it back. I haven’t tried everything yet. Perhaps a cup of Immortali-Tea would restore me to a state where the mark couldn’t cling to me. Or maybe Atticus would be able to think of something when I finally saw him.

I give some thought to the realities of travel. Loki would no doubt like to have a shot at destroying Tír na nÓg, but shifting there through tethered trees would be impossible for him since he is not bound to Gaia. I could still use them all I wished. But I could never use an Old Way again, or it would give him a path to follow. I don’t imagine he can track me in Tír na nÓg, it being a plane entirely outside his purview, but he’d probably assume I was there if I wasn’t to be found on earth.

"Hungry, Granuaile."

My stomach growls in agreement. “Yeah, I think we can get out of here now. We’ll have to stick to the bare earth at all times, though, because I need to keep healing.”

I pick up Scáthmhaide, moving slowly. Even though I have the pain locked down, I can feel the tightness in my muscles. Now that my bones are in shape to carry my weight for a while, it’s time to get everything loosened up. Ready to get out of here?

"Yes!"

Taking one last look around, I see nothing but the blackened spool of thick ribbon that must be the remains of the dabāva. I see no head. No limbs. No tail. No true way to associate its physical form with the thing that nearly crushed me to death. It is simply the darkness that lives in the closet or under the bed, amplified and malevolent and much better off dead.

It takes me some time and effort to climb the stairs; I have to lean forward and half-crawl, a ladder-climbing motion, to manage it. I’m sweating and Orlaith is panting by the time we emerge into the sunlight. Kaveri obliges me by filling in the room and closing up the trench behind us, and when it’s nothing more than an undistinguished patch of a paddy, I say, “Good riddance.”

But, in truth, I’m well aware that I won’t ever be rid of that dark hole in the ground. It will be the Colossal Bungle I replay in my mind for centuries hence, should I be fortunate to live so long. And if I should ever be proud enough to think someone else stupid, this will be a flagon of humility ready to be poured on my head.

Of course, I didn’t choose to fail. Failure is rarely a conscious decision and it’s often out of our control, determined by things like physics and circumstance and other people. What we can always control, however, is our reaction to failure.

I shamble in jerky movements on semi-rural roads back to the hotel, where I need to retrieve my laptop and things and check out. We disturb the hell out of everyone who sees us. Most of them give me a wide berth and try not to make eye contact. One man in particular, however, takes issue with me walking around in such a condition all by myself. Or something. I honestly don’t know why he’s upset, because I don’t understand a word he says. Maybe he doesn’t like the fact that Orlaith is not on a leash. Maybe he recognizes me from somewhere. It’s conceivable that he saw me with Laksha at one point during the night we were freeing people from rakshasas, and now I’m a witch in his eyes.

His tone grows more aggressive when I don’t respond to him, and he blocks my path and gets in my face a little bit, earning a growl from Orlaith. I think he interprets that as a threat I instigated, or perhaps an insult, instead of realizing that maybe he’s the one being a dick. When I try to walk around him, he reaches out to grab me.

I don’t even think about it: Scáthmhaide whips around and clocks him on the side of the head. There’s no strength behind it and he’s not seriously hurt, but now I’ve picked a fight, and he’s the type who thinks he has to put me in my place. I’m in no shape to deal with him gracefully, so I poke him in the gut with the staff when he lunges at me, forcing him to step back, then employ a trick of Atticus’s and bind the fabric covering his knees to the earth. He’s forced to a kneeling position and stuck there, and now I won’t have to injure him. His rage face is pretty funny, though, and I laugh and flip him the bird before turning invisible and camouflaging Orlaith. We leave him shouting in the dust as people begin to draw closer out of curiosity. All he’s doing is ensuring that there will be an audience when he eventually has to surrender his pants. If I wasn’t a witch to him before, I definitely am now. The one who got away. Whatever he was trying to accomplish, he failed. I can tell already that his reaction will not result in any personal growth.

We sneak past the doorman at the hotel because I imagine he might try to refuse me entrance looking as I do. Once I make it to the room and drop my invisibility, I spy myself in the mirror and catch my breath in shock. Heck, I would have tried to refuse me entrance. An interesting fact, however, is that my neck is fairly free of bruises in the front. The cold iron amulet in the hollow of my throat protected that part of me. Had it been bound to my aura like Atticus, I might have been immune to the dabāva. I’m still bruised around the side of my neck and the dabāva had restricted my breathing, but the amulet had saved my windpipe from being crushed even as my bones were breaking.

I gather up my things and call down to the front desk, telling them that I’m checking out and to charge me. Lacking the juice to turn invisible again and camouflage Orlaith too, we walk out in plain sight. The hotel staff is horrified by our appearance in the lobby but only too happy to let us leave. I rest my left hand on Orlaith’s back as we walk past a gauntlet of na**d stares or consciously averted eyes, and my movements are noticeably smoother if not quicker once we leave the tiled lobby and my toes find the spongy kept lawn outside, a welcome balm to my discomfort. Energy renewed by the earth, I camouflage us to avoid attention, since my experience thus far has shown that extensively bruised women are either shunned or accosted instead of helped.