That’s when I called for help and got it. “He shot me,” I said weakly, and that’s all I had to do. Drasche would go to prison after some cursory medical treatment, unless one of his vampire friends came to bust him out in the night. Regardless, he was simply human now, and I knew that would be a fate worse than death for him after centuries of preying on people.

Saying “he shot me” was all I could do, anyway—I was fading fast. I had been able to take care of single bullets on a couple of other occasions, but I’d also been able to access the earth’s power when I did so. Five rounds and no juice meant I was completely dependent on modern medicine. Paramedics probed me and asked me questions that I tried to answer but succeeded only in spewing out an unintelligible verbal slurry. They gave me plasma as I was trundled into the ambulance and whisked away to a hospital somewhere.

The ride was almost absurdly short—a block away, it seemed—but during the ride it occurred to me that I’d certainly be staying the night in the hospital, most likely sedated, and if Drasche knew where I was and managed to make a call, he could summon his vampire buddies not only to spring him but to take me out. Even if the police posted a guard on my room for some reason, a vampire would simply charm him or her and walk on past, ripping out my throat while I slept.

As I slipped into unconsciousness before reaching a surgeon, I mouthed a prayer to the Morrigan that I’d get to wake up.

CHAPTER 6

With Loki’s mark dissolved, I feel simultaneously free but hunted—like prey, in other words. I can go wherever I want, with the proviso that someone could be (and probably is) watching. Surveillance-state London, in other words, but instead of the government tracking my movements, it’s anyone with a talent for divination.

Loki is not particularly adept at that himself, but he knows people who are. He could still find me and set me aflame anywhere outside my warded cabin. That’s the trouble with earth-based wards: They don’t travel well. It’s what caused Atticus to bind cold iron to his aura—he couldn’t think of any other effective way to ward against magic on his person.

It’s going to be a long process, doing that to myself, but after seeing how much the Fae hate it, I’m wondering if I should. Still, I think hiding from divination is a necessary safety measure and something I should pursue now, considering my current enemy: Loki can’t kill me if he can’t find me. I don’t want to ask Odin or any of his pantheon for help, though. The price they’d want me to pay would probably have something to do with their apocalypse, and the exchange of services would not be in my favor.

The same would hold true of the Tuatha Dé Danann. Scáthmhaide was a gift, but any further favors would come at a price, and they would be sure to ask for a heavy one. Atticus might have a decent suggestion for me, but I doubt he’d encourage anything beyond cold iron. I don’t relish rehashing that conversation and I don’t know where he is right now anyway. That’s the way I’d like to keep it for a while: I have things I want to do besides hide myself from the gods. I have old business to conclude with my stepfather.

Orlaith and I are somewhere in Sweden now, deposited here by request via the Bifrost Bridge after saying our farewells to Odin and Frigg. We’re on a lakeshore near some bound trees and we can go wherever we want, but we pause to appreciate the view. There’s some kind of hawk or perhaps an eagle hunting for fish—distance makes identification impossible. It’s chilly and the sky is overcast; it looks like it will snow soon. Orlaith’s tail wags when I point out the raptor hunting for its lunch. It dives down abruptly and comes up with a squirming pike in its talons.

“Food looks good,” my hound observes, her tongue lolling out to one side.

“Very subtle, Orlaith,” I reply. “Let’s go find some in India. I have someone I need to see there.”

I shift us to a familiar banana grove outside of Thanjavur, India, where it’s much warmer than Sweden and the sun is shining. They often enjoy highs in the eighties during December.

“Remember this place,” Orlaith says. “Mostly vegetables here. But Oberon brought me a ham bone. Oberon coming soon?”

“No, we won’t see Oberon and Atticus for a while. But the market in town should be hopping, and I bet we’ll find some chicken, at least.”

We do indeed find some, and with basic needs met I pull out my phone and launch a browser, spending a few futile minutes trying to find a current address for one Mhathini Palanichamy, whose body Laksha currently inhabits. Time to act like the lost tourist I really am. I ask people who look friendly and willing to speak English how I might find a friend in town, feeling underdressed in my dull jeans and T-shirt in the midst of so many colorful saris.

A Tamil University student sets me straight by telling me that the local search engines work fine but are mostly in the Hindi or Tamil languages, neither of which I speak. I offer her my phone, and in moments she has found the most likely address and sets me up with a walking navigation map.

I feel the eyes on me from men and women alike as I make my way to the Palanichamy residence, and it’s just as well that I don’t speak the languages or else I would probably have to open a can of whup-ass on some men who catcall me. None of them approach, though, either owing to the presence of Orlaith at my side or the tomahawk at my belt.

When I reach the address, my patience is tested further by the man who answers the door. He doesn’t speak English and dismisses me rudely, slamming the door in my face without making any serious effort to understand why I’m there. I pound on the door with one end of Scáthmhaide until he yanks it back open and shouts at me.

“Mhathini,” I say, and repeat her name until it penetrates and he gives up his intimidation game. He shouts for her in the house and eventually she appears at the door, both wary and weary.

Her sari is blue and green and her ruby necklace shines brightly against it, but her face is wan, even though the pallor of the hospital has improved to a healthier color. At least she brightens perceptibly when she sees me and says my name. A rapid argument with her brother or cousin or whoever the male is ensues, until he finally storms off, leaving us alone.

“Sorry about that,” she says, stepping outside and closing the door behind her. “Mhathini’s family is quite conservative.”

“Hey, you sound good!” I say, giving her a hug. When I last saw Laksha she had a severe speech impediment due to her host body’s brain injuries, but she had assured me she could work around it and she had.

“Thanks. It took a few days, but I have her rewired now. Had to work fast if I wanted to have any kind of say in my life.”

“Ugh. Who was that? Your brother? He had the distinct whiff of an asshole about him.”

“Yes, he’s the brother, but they all have that attitude, unfortunately. Let’s talk out of earshot. The father speaks English and is not above eavesdropping. The brother has gone to fetch him. He’ll be out shortly to berate me for going outside alone, no doubt.”

“Alone? I’m here.”

“Alone with a stranger is worse than being actually alone.”

“We’ll convince him that we’re friends somehow.”

Laksha smiles, a bit crooked but relieved. “I’m so glad you’ve come to visit.” She greets Orlaith and gives her a scratch behind the ears. Without waiting for anyone’s permission, we walk two blocks to a tea shop, and Laksha tells me on the way that Mhathini’s mother works in the silk industry, her father is an IT consultant who works from home serving clients in the UK, and her brother is a computer science major at the university.