Staked (The Iron Druid Chronicles, #8)(13)
Hal’s face suddenly looks tired, but he nods. “Probably best, you’re right. I know he’s worried about vampires right now—I am too, I suppose. One that used to work with us claimed the entire state as his territory. I don’t think he would mess with us, but should he decide to turn nasty it could be quite disastrous.”
“Aye. So we’ll be cautious. I’ll check in with Tír na nóg. Brighid has already given me her blessing in general to start training Druids, but I would like to get her specific blessing on this. We may enjoy the protection of the Fae as well as that of the pack.”
Greta leaps up from her seat and pounces on me, pressing her mouth to mine and returning me to the clutches of the leather couch. “Thank you for considering it, Owen. It means a lot to us.”
She’s warm and her hair smells like berries and vanilla and her breath comes quicker as we kiss, and then she rears back and twists me nipple hard before backing away to the door, a wicked smile on her face. “Run with me, Teddy Bear,” she says, using that nickname she thinks is cute but still confuses me. I am nothing like a teddy bear.
“If I can ever get out of this thrice-damned couch, I will,” I says. But before Greta can bolt out the door, someone knocks on it. She opens it and a voice asks for me.
“Who would be asking for me here?” I wonder aloud, and struggle to get up. “Damn this fecking couch, Sam; take an axe to it and set it on fire already!”
Laughing, he extends an arm to me and says, “I can’t do that. It’s Ty’s favorite.”
Ty looks wounded, and I feel like an ox box for making it happen. “Sorry, Ty, never mind me. I’m an ornery shite. Take it out of me hide next time we spar. Defend the honor of your arse-munching couch.”
The man at the door is Creidhne, one of the Tuatha Dé Danann. He has a couple of flat wooden boxes under his arm, and he smiles when he sees me.
“Ah, Owen, I’m glad I caught you. Brighid said this would be a likely place to look.”
“She did? Well, I guess she’s been watching me more carefully than I thought. What can I do for ye?”
“Just accept these. I’ve finished your knuckles, and I have some gifts from Luchta as well.”
“Me knuckles?” I’d forgotten all about them. Creidhne had taken measurements of me fists and promised to fashion some kind of weapon for me, as a personal test of his skill. I hadn’t asked for them—he volunteered. I suppose that the Tuatha Dé Danann are longing for glory again now that there are Druids in the world once more—I mean, more Druids than Siodhachan, who was in hiding for two thousand years.
“Aye. Can’t wait to see you try them on. Have you a minute to spare or have I come at a terrible time?”
Greta catches my eye. “We can run later, Owen,” she says. “But expect a rough one.”
“I’m looking forward to it,” I reply, then I tell Creidhne he’s welcome and introduce him to all the wolves. Ty fetches him a beer and I raise my bottle. “To Goibhniu and his craft,” I says, remembering his brother, killed by a spriggan during Fand’s attempted coup on Brighid. “Not a day goes by I don’t miss him.” We drink to his memory and then, at Sam’s invitation, Creidhne sets down his boxes on their dining room table. One is larger than the other, but both are custom varnished maple. Creidhne opens the smaller of the two, and the interior is lined with red felt. A set of brass knuckles rests inside, etched with bindings that the god of craft cannot wait to explain.
“They haven’t been named yet, but these are weapons worthy of a name,” he says. “Unbreakable, amplifies your strength, and serves as a power reservoir for Gaia’s energy.”
“What do ye mean by that?”
“Well, Siodhachan and Granuaile both have something similar. Ye may find yourself cut off from the earth at times in this modern world and need some juice for a binding. Ye can store some in these knuckles and draw on it as needed. Siodhachan has his silver bear charm, and Granuaile stores hers in the silver end of Scáthmhaide. They chose silver in case they had reason to worry about werewolves.” His eyes dart to his hosts, suddenly aware that he might be giving offense. He hurries on, “Well, bronze can store that energy too. These knuckles can each store more than both of those combined.”
“Well, that makes me happier than a swim in a pool of porter. What happens when I shape-shift, though?”
“That’s the best part! They shift with you and adapt to your forms. When you’re a bear they encase your claws; when you’re a ram they cover your horns; when you’re a walrus they coat your tusks; and when you’re a kite they move to your talons.”
“Aw, you’re just showin’ off for your brother now, aren’t ye?”
“Perhaps a little,” he says, proud and pleased. “The great drawback to Scáthmhaide is that Granuaile has to find a way to carry it no matter what her form is. Tremendously powerful weapon otherwise—the invisibility binding is incredible—but she can’t shape-shift efficiently with it. In practical terms she’s tied to her human form. I didn’t want you to have to worry about that. These will morph with you and always be useful.”
“May I try them?”
“Please do! I would love to see them in action.”