Eventually I get Siodhachan to Queen’s Park and stop the chair right next to the bound tree I used to shift in. Looking around to make sure no one’s watching, I drop his camouflage, then I squat down and pull his right foot off the little metal shelf so that his heel can touch the earth again. Oberon thinks he should wake up immediately on contact.

“Why isn’t he talking now?” he asks. “If he can touch the earth he should be able to heal, right?”

“Well, yes, but there’s no telling how bad he is or what they did to him in there. Greta was telling me about modern medicine. Lots of drugs involved, and lots of it is synthetic shite they cook up somewhere. They may have knocked him out on purpose.”

“Oh, yeah, they do that. I’ve seen it on TV loads of times.”

“What he needs is a good long soak in the healing pools of Mag Mell. But I don’t think I can shift ye there meself.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know either of ye well enough to carry you along. I used to know Siodhachan, but he’s got two thousand years on me. I’d worry about containing him. And, besides, I don’t have the headspaces for it. I only have one extra, and Siodhachan has, what, three?”

“Five extra, I think.”

“See, that’s one fecking impressive brain there. We get him awake, and he can shift both of us.”

The corner of Siodhachan’s mouth tugs upward and his eyelids twitch a wee bit. “Aw, Owen,” he says, though his voice is slow and slurred. “You’re sho shweet.”

“You’re awake?”

“Just in time to hear you shay shumthing nice about me.”

“Well, don’t let it go to your head! The truth is, your smarts are better hidden than a pair of snake nuts.”

“Atticus! I’m so glad you’re okay! I have to tell you about this new thing I ate! It’s called poutine, and it’s mostly gravy!”

“I’m deffy … definitely not okay, Oberon. Sho tired. Groggy.”

“They have you pumped full of drugs, lad,” I says.

“Oh! Oh! There’s a better word for drugs, and it’s pharmaceuticals. That’s five syllables, so I deserve some more poutine.”

“We need to get you to Mag Mell,” I says. “When do you think you’ll be clear enough to shift?”

“Need to break down kam … chemical. Sss. Chemicals first.”

It’s a long couple of hours of the hound talking about food and his favorite entertainments after that. People passing by give us curious stares every so often, but they mind their own business and I admire them for it. I shift away quickly to get the fancy stake Luchta made for Siodhachan, and he doesn’t even notice. When the sun goes down, it starts to get cold quickly, and that, along with the cleansing he’s been doing, finally allows Siodhachan to announce that he’s ready.

I have to help him up and he winces—his right leg is shredded—but he shifts us all to Tír na nÓg, leaving a mystery wheelchair behind, and then to the plane of Mag Mell, where I carry most of his weight over to the healing pools and he sinks into one with a happy sigh, tossing away that cloth he calls a hospital gown.

“What day is it?” he asks, all the slurring gone from his voice.

“Same day, lad. What happened?”

We trade stories, and it makes me cringe to think of what these modern weapons can do to a body. It’s a problem I’ll have to consider, because he’s right—his sword is no use against weapons like that, and neither are me shiny new knuckles.

“Those are impressive, though,” he says. “If you can shatter rock with them I wonder if they’d stop a bullet. Wouldn’t want to try catching one though. What are you going to name them?”

“I don’t know yet.”

I take off his sword and place it next to his hand by the side of the pool, then give him the stake from Luchta as well.

“Look, lad, keep that vampire war as far away from me and Flagstaff as possible. I’ll have a bunch of wee kids to look after soon.”

“Hal said as much. I’ll try, but you should be aware that they may come after you to get to me. Or to retaliate against something I do. Just ward and be wary.”

“I will.”

“And … Owen?” His face is all scrunched up as if he’s expecting a beating for what he’s going to say next.

“What is it?”

“Maybe go a bit easier on them than you did on me.”

It feels like ice water in me pants to hear him say that. I gasp and everything retracts. But then I say, “Aye, lad, I will.” There’s silence for a few beats and then I add, “Greta would tear me up if I said a rude word to those kids. And their parents would join in, no doubt. I’ll try not to repeat me cock-ups.”

His face relaxes and he smiles. “Fair enough. I’ll try to keep mine to a minimum as well.”

“Good, good. Speaking of Greta, I’d best be getting back to her. Going to visit Brighid for a moment and then head home. You’ll be all right now?”

“Yes. I appreciate you taking the trouble to bring me here.” He says farewell and the hound thanks me for the poutine. I can tell he won’t shut up about it for days, but it’s Siodhachan who will have to listen to it, so I figure that stopping for food was a win for me in every way.

The Fae Court in Tír na nÓg doesn’t operate on Canadian time, so it’s hopping like a rabbit warren during humping season when I get there. There are quite a few of the dodgy sorts of Fae around, far more than I had seen before, and I wonder why that is. I hang back and listen, ask a couple questions, and learn that Brighid has granted amnesty to a lot of Fae and other old creatures that had either been imprisoned or exiled for a long time.

“She’s being more accommodating,” a winged faery explains, “after Fand’s attempted coup. We may have lost our queen, but at least the First among the Fae is listening to us now. And Fand may return someday, just as these others have.”

She’s probably right about that. Fand won’t remain imprisoned forever. The Fae will start asking soon when she might be released, and eventually their questions will turn into demands. And the same goes for her husband, Manannan Mac Lir. Brighid can delay only so long before this temporary goodwill turns to ashes. But I’m not sure letting a bunch of prisoners free will do anything to keep the peace. Some of them are going to be grateful, sure, and be a grand addition to society. But some are going to be resentful and start throwing shite at things. She’d better be ready to duck.

But perhaps Brighid’s thinking that she can simply imprison them again and say, “Well, I gave them a chance, didn’t I? Not my fault if they’re stupid gits.”

I find a chamberlain figure near the front of the crush of beings, dressed all fancy and doused in perfume. I tell him I’d like a brief audience with Brighid, and his eyes stray down to me tattoos. They widen as he recognizes I’m bound to Gaia. “You’re a Druid?” he says.

“Aye. Eoghan Ó Cinnéide.”

“She’s left instructions to bring you before her immediately should you appear. Please come with me.”

That’s a pleasant surprise, and I ignore the scowls I get from a group of pixie widows as the chamberlain interrupts their audience to introduce me—not just to Brighid but to everyone, since he shouts my name. I notice Brighid’s wearing a new kit. It’s a set of lighter armor instead of the heavy stuff she wore during the coup attempt, painted a metallic blue. It leaves her arms and legs largely unprotected, but her vital organs are under wraps. And the area around her throne is warded tighter than a hedgehog’s rolled-up arse anyway; I can feel the bindings warning me away from it.