Staked (The Iron Druid Chronicles, #8)(103)

“Okay, Oberon,” I said aloud. “You should be able to talk to Orlaith now. Go ahead and try it. Think something at her rather than at me.”

<What? Like, now? I mean … do I just say hello? Hello?>

Granuaile’s hound replied and got to her feet, her entire rear end shaking back and forth in her excitement. <Hey! It’s Oberon! I can hear your words! Can you hear me? Hi, Oberon!>

Oberon got to his feet too, every bit as excited. <Oh, yeah! Wow! Hi, Orlaith!>

<Hi! This is great!>

<Yeah, finally! I’ve been wanting to tell you that I think you’re an amazing hound. I knew from the moment I first sniffed your ass that we would get along!>

<Aw, that’s so nice of you to say! I thought the same thing about you!>

Oberon reared up on his hind legs and pawed at the air in Orlaith’s direction, and she mirrored his action, as if they were boxers instead of wolfhounds. Then they jumped around in tight little circles. <Oh, wow, three kinds of cat shit, Orlaith!> my hound said. <I know I should be saying very impressive things right now, but I’m too happy to think! I just want to run in circles!>

<Me too! Let’s do it!>

<Really? Okay! You’re so perfect!>

And then the two of them tore off through the forest, carried away by their joy, leaving Granuaile and me behind, facing the river. We exchanged a glance and laughed at our hounds for a few seconds, and then Granuaile leaned over and kissed me. She pulled away an inch and murmured in a low voice, “I knew we’d get along too, you know.”

“Wait, what? Like Oberon knew?”

“Ha! No. But the first time you walked in to Rúla Búla, I just knew. I was attracted on first sight, not first sniff.”

“Because Laksha was in your head and told you I was a Druid?”

“No, no. I saw you first. Laksha didn’t tell me about what you were until later.”

“Ah, that’s a fine salve for my ego.” Her lips remained close to mine and I could smell her strawberry lip gloss. It felt the way it used to again. “You still drive me crazy, you know.”

“Yeah,” she said, smiling. “I know.” And then we broke our eavesdropping link to our hounds so that they could enjoy their privacy, and we enjoyed some privacy of our own right there on the riverbank, not caring in the least how chilly it was outside.

There was bliss for a few days. They were the kind of carefree days you dream of having someday, the kind of days you spend most of your life working and suffering for. And then Orlaith came into heat and the hounds disappeared into the woods for long periods, until one night they sat us down by the fireplace for a Very Serious Talk.

<Atticus and Clever Girl, we have been discussing this for a while, and we think you should know something,> Oberon said.

<Yes,> Orlaith added. <This is a very important thing. Are you paying attention?>

Granuaile and I assured them that they had our full attention.

<I’m pregnant!> Orlaith gushed.

<That means you’re going to need to buy a lot more sausage,> Oberon explained.

We both clapped and squeed and gave them hugs. “This is fabulous news!” Granuaile said.

“Yes, indeed! I think we should celebrate,” I said. “Oberon, I never did goulash you when we were in Prague. Let’s all go get goulashed!” Granuaile and Orlaith didn’t know what that was all about, but they got on board with the idea quickly enough.

I’ve decided that, apart from the herb greenhouse, I’m going to plant a flower garden around the cabin and keep some bees. The puppies should be here in time to play around in the spring blossoms. They’ll be simply adorable, and harmony will have found us.





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if you enjoyed


STAKED


look out for





THE OVERSIGHT


by





Charlie Fletcher





CHAPTER 1


THE HOUSE ON WELLCLOSE SQUARE


If only she wouldn’t struggle so, the damned girl.

If only she wouldn’t scream then he wouldn’t have had to bind her mouth.

If only she would be quiet and calm and biddable, he would never have had to put her in a sack.

And if only he had not had to put her in a sack, she could have walked and he would not have had to put her over his shoulder and carry her to the Jew.

Bill Ketch was not a brute. Life may have knocked out a few teeth and broken his nose more than once, but it had not yet turned him into an animal: he was man enough to feel bad about what he was doing, and he did not like the way that the girl moaned so loud and wriggled on his shoulder, drawing attention to herself.

Hitting her didn’t stop anything. She may have screamed a lot, but she had flint in her eye, something hard and unbreakable, and it was that tough core that had unnerved him and decided him on selling her to the Jew.

That’s what the voice in his head told him, the quiet, sly voice that nevertheless was conveniently able to drown out whatever his conscience might try to say.

The street was empty and the fog from the Thames damped the gas lamps into blurs of dull light as he walked past the Seaman’s Hostel and turned into Wellclose Square. The flare of a match caught his eye as a big man with a red beard lit a pipe amongst a group standing around a cart stacked with candle-boxes outside the Danish Church. Thankfully they didn’t seem to notice him as he slunk speedily along the opposite side of the road, heading for the dark house at the bottom of the square beyond the looming bulk of the sugar refinery, outside which another horse and carriage stood unattended.