Staked (The Iron Druid Chronicles, #8)(102)
But the property, at least, was worth the wait: an isolated spot in the Willamette National Forest, a legacy homestead with a wraparound porch and one of those steep green roofs. There was even a greenhouse for growing herbs in the winter, a new addition to the property that was Granuaile’s idea. She had paid for it out of her own funds and said I should consider it a housewarming present. And an investment.
“I think you should get back into the tea business,” she said upon revealing it to me, draping her arms around my shoulders and kissing my cheek. “But do it online this time. Sell your Mobili-Tea and so on and we’ll ship it.” It made me happy that she was thinking about the long term. The first-person plural made me happier.
Maybe my worries about us as a couple were unfounded, but … well. Doubt is a pernicious, invasive weed in the mind that is nigh impossible to destroy once it germinates. You can pull it out and think it’s gone, only to find it growing again after weeks or even days. Not that Granuaile had given me doubts about her fidelity; I’m not particularly jealous in that regard anyway—we are made to enjoy the bodies of other people, and I’ve long thought it silly to condemn another for acting according to their nature. Passion, though: That’s entirely separate from lust. Granuaile is still in her thirties and hasn’t lived long enough to know what a slow burn is. So when we first made love after Rome and it was different than before, damn if doubt didn’t sprout in my mind with the speed of a time-lapse video and wave hello like an improbably cheerful hostess at a steak house. The last thing I wanted was Friar Laurence from Romeo and Juliet in my head, reminding me that These violent delights have violent ends and in their triumph die, like fire and powder, which, as they kiss, consume, but there the bastard was, schooling me as if I were a horny young Montague instead of someone far older than he was. And he kept at it too, into the next day, until I said aloud, “Hey, f*ck you, Friar Laurence, okay?” and Oberon heard me through our mental link.
<Who are you talking to, Atticus? Do you need me to chew on him?>
No, I was just worried because it was different and I’ve had more than my fair share of relationships. I can read the signs, and I’m not ready for it to end. But I also know from a surfeit of experience that people outgrow each other, and she still has plenty of growing to do. I can’t teach her Polish, so she’s been spending lots of time in Poland with the Sisters of the Three Auroras. She already scored a bartending job in Warsaw to get the immersion she needs, and she also spent time monitoring the activities of Thatcher Oil and Gas. I only see her now when she comes home to sleep and on her weekends, which are Mondays and Tuesdays.
But it was entirely possible—even probable—that my worries were unfounded and magnified out of proportion by the infamously fragile male ego. Apart from my imagination, she had given me no cause to fear. What I should be doing was the same thing everyone should be doing: enjoying the blessings I have while I have them, instead of worrying that one day they will be gone. I fought to keep that thought foremost in mind rather than the poisonous words of that f*cker Friar Laurence.
The pine and Douglas fir lent a crisp scent to the air on a January Monday, and down by the McKenzie River the air was especially fresh. We took a walk down there with the hounds for what we assured them would be a memorable occasion.
“Granuaile and I would like to try something,” I said to the hounds. My tongue, jaw, and lips had healed to the point where I could speak without impediment. “A new kind of binding. But we need you to be still for a few minutes while we do it.”
<No tail wags?> Orlaith asked. <Hard to stop when I am happy, and I am happy now.>
Granuaile answered her, “Wagging your tail will not be a problem. But if you could keep the rest still, that would be great.”
<Hey, wait a minute,> Oberon said. <Is this some kind of trick? Are you guys going to drop some sausage in front of us and tell us not to move?>
“No, Oberon,” I said. “There is no food involved here at all. But we’re pretty sure you’re going to like this. Just be patient and enjoy the sun while it lasts, okay?” It was a rare clear day for an Oregon early winter, but in a few hours a storm system would roll in from the Pacific and it would get even colder.
Oberon and Orlaith sat down side by side in the grass, tongues lolling out and tails wagging like the happy hounds they were. Granuaile and I sat down facing them, legs crossed beneath us. I nodded at her and we both flipped our vision to the magical spectrum, where we could see the hounds’ auras and the bindings that linked their minds to ours. We had long promised the hounds that we would bind them together eventually so that they could hear each other, but since we had never actually done it before, we didn’t tell them what we were planning, in case it didn’t succeed.
We began to work on the new binding in tandem, Old Irish streaming out of our mouths in almost identical patterns. The only difference was in our targets: I was starting with Oberon and binding his thoughts to Orlaith, and Granuaile was binding Orlaith to Oberon in turn. For now they were also connected to us: We’d be able to hear both sides of their conversation, but out of necessity we would soon give them the equivalent of their own private line, or else we’d constantly hear them chattering when we were trying to sleep or concentrate on something else. When the bindings were complete, no chimes or sirens went off in their heads. They would have to be told the link was there and then discover that they could use it. We had agreed to tell Oberon first and let him be the uncertain one.