Staked (The Iron Druid Chronicles, #8)(14)
I pluck them out of the felt and slip them on over me fingers. They are cool against the skin and fit perfectly. I note that they are thin but wide, covering the space between first and second knuckles. I don’t feel any different while wearing them, but I expect that will change once I get outside and charge them up.
“Very nice. Let’s go outside and give a boulder a bad day.”
Flagstaff’s at seven thousand feet, and it lets you know it in December. It hadn’t snowed yet but it is certainly cold enough for it. That doesn’t matter; I strip to me skin as soon as I get outside and feel the rush of energy flow up from the tattoo on the sole of me foot. I don’t draw too much—it isn’t necessary. I’m just taking the knuckles out for a test punch. An innocent chunk of rust-colored stone that had never done anything to me is my first target, sticking up out of the pine needles about thirty yards away from Sam and Ty’s house.
“Will I scratch these or damage them by hitting rocks and walls and things?”
“They should be fine,” Creidhne says.
“And me hands?”
“Should also be fine.”
Normally I wouldn’t bother punching a stone. Your fingers would break long before the stone would, and rock doesn’t make any noises to let you know it’s hurt. But if you’re going to test a weapon you have to do it right.
I cock me right fist, half expecting to shatter me hand, and let one fly at the rock. It doesn’t split and turn to dust, but neither does me hand. Instead, the blow turns the top layer underneath the knuckles into a fine webwork of crazed lines. And I feel nothing but fine and powerful.
Encouraged, I follow up with a combo, more muscle behind the punches this time, and chips fly from the stone.
“Holy shit, Owen,” Greta says. “Are your hands okay?”
I show them to her. No blood. No redness signaling an oncoming bruise. “Perfectly fine.”
I shift to a bear with the knuckles on to see what happens. The brass flows, stretching and shaping itself to me claws. I have brass bear claws! I swipe at the ground with one of them, expecting resistance from the half-frozen, dried-up clay soil, but it scoops away like cottage cheese. Incredible. I shift to a walrus next, just to see the brass on me tusks. I can feel the brass move and flow up my hands to me face as I shift, and then there they are, gleaming brass-coated tusks. I bellow at Creidhne and the wolves to make them laugh, and then I skip the ram form and shift to a red kite. The metal moves from face to feet, and me talons are still very sharp and covered in the brass. Curious as to how the extra weight will affect me flight, I take wing and note that lifting off the ground requires just a bit more effort, but once airborne I don’t perceive a difference; additional strength flows from the brass into me wing muscles and there is no strain. To test the talons, I light on a ponderosa tree branch and nearly snap it off. They will require a light touch, then, when I’m wearing them, or else I’ll damage trees unintentionally.
It’s a fine gift, far beyond anything I deserve, and I glide to another branch and land gently on it to get control of meself. Kites’ tear ducts aren’t easily triggered by emotions, so it’s a good form for me to have some feelings without leaking them everywhere. It’s been a fine day, what with the possibility of having shiny new apprentices and some knuckles to beat the shite out of a deserving man in a bog somewhere, plus the promise of a run with Greta later. It’s more bounty than I could reasonably expect—more than I ever enjoyed in me old life. I really owe Siodhachan for days like this, damn his eyes.
When I fly down and shift to me human form again, I take off the knuckles and bury Creidhne in praise.
“You are the finest craftsman alive! They’re wonderful! Perfect!”
The son of Brighid bows in thanks. “I trust you’ll do something properly legendary with them. If ye don’t make yourself famous with those, the effort’s entirely wasted.”
“I’m sure something will come along,” I says, grinning at him.
“When ye name them, you’ll let me know, won’t ye?”
“Of course, of course.”
“I have one more thing for you, and then I’ll take me leave.”
“Oh, right, there’s another box!”
We pile inside and I put me clothes back on to warm up. The larger box from Luchta holds three wooden stakes, hardwood beauties carved with bindings.
“Luchta heard that Siodhachan has yewmen going after vampires and is trying to make the world safe for Druids. So he made these for the three of you.”
“Hold on a moment now,” I says. “Siodhachan’s doing what?”
“My understanding is that the vampires have declared open season on Druids again—all three of you. They were the ones who spurred the Romans to wipe ye out, ye know, back in the old days that I guess you missed, and only Siodhachan survived. And you, o’ course, by skipping past it all.”
“I didn’t know that. He never told me that.”
Greta breaks in and says, “I thought he told you everything while you were touching up his tattoo.”
“No, no, he must have left out that part. Mostly he talked about cocking up with the gods, and there was only one vampire he talked about—no, two. One almost killed him because the first one betrayed him.”
“Right, that was Leif Helgarson who betrayed him,” Hal says. “He betrayed us as well.”