Staked (The Iron Druid Chronicles, #8)(30)
Brighid departed, and Oberon and I left soon afterward. For the record, Toronto is a wonderfully diverse city and people are used to seeing all types, but a limping man wearing nothing but a robe and a sword will draw attention. Oberon carried the stake in his mouth, because it looked innocent there. If I carried it, I might look like I planned to stab someone, and the sword was already giving that impression.
I was unclear on just how much time I had spent in the healing pools, but it was morning again in Toronto and we passed by the same Timmie’s we had before. Ed and his companion were there, sipping their coffee and watching the world go by, though I didn’t realize it was them until the first man spoke up as we passed. “Boy, ya never know what you’re gonna see in Trahno, Ed.”
“Yep.” Ed was the best color commentator in the business.
We took the elevator to the sixth floor, where I took the time to bypass the lock on my room. It turned out to be gloriously undisturbed. The binder was there and so was my backpack and a very welcome change of clothes. Open-ended stays with a reliable credit card on file can be wonderful.
If the police were monitoring the financial records of Sean Flanagan, checking out would let the police know that I was still alive. That was fine; they’d never hear from him again, because I’d be getting a new identity from Hal. The hospital could have my old ID.
Once outside and walking back to Queen’s Park, I had to break the news to Oberon that the poutinerie wasn’t open yet and I didn’t have any money anyway. We would have to snaffle something to eat elsewhere.
“Let’s head over to the UK. It’s midafternoon there, that dead time of the day in pubs when cooks are either cleaning the kitchen or taking breaks. They’re not hovering over the food, in other words. Should be able to lift a few bangers without any trouble.”
<Can we get a haggis in Scotland?>
“Ugh. We can try.”
We shifted across the Atlantic to a wee place north of Dumfries, where I found one of those small country hotels that doubles as a pub near the bound grove of trees we used. They did not have haggis—a small mercy—but they did have some lamb ready to go, and a camouflaged sneak into the kitchen gave us a much-needed repast. They had an herb garden in a greenhouse out back, and it was doing all right but could be better. I spent some time mending the soil there as payment for our food. They would never recognize that they’d been paid, but it was a salve for my conscience: I already had enough evils clinging to my back and didn’t need to carry around petty theft as well.
Bellies full, we shifted south to a grove near Windsor Castle, where I followed the instructions Hermes had given me to summon the West Wind if I wanted to get in touch with Olympus. The globetrotting was wearying, especially when I needed a few days more to heal, but I felt that neglecting this duty before traveling to Svartálfheim would be an egregious error.
Little Lord Ankle Wings himself streaked out of the southern sky after about an hour, coming to a halt some five feet off the ground.
“Hermes,” I said, nodding to him.
“Druid. What do you want?”
“I’d love to set Diana free if she will agree to terms,” I said. The Roman goddess of the hunt had been cut into sections and imprisoned in rock because she had vowed never to rest before she killed both Granuaile and me. Artemis had agreed to live and let live, but Diana held on to one hell of a grudge. “But I would like Jupiter to be present. We agreed we’d visit her monthly, and at this point I’m a bit late and don’t want to let it go any longer. I know Mercury usually delivers such messages to Jupiter, but would you mind relaying the request? I’m about to leave the plane tomorrow, and I would hate for Diana to miss her chance at freedom.”
“Wait here. I’ll deliver your message.” He flew away without any further pleasantries.
In another hour, as the sun was sinking red into the west, Jupiter struck the earth as a thunderbolt nearby and startled Oberon and me out of our skins.
<He didn’t have to make his entrance like that, right, Atticus?>
No.
<So he’s kind of like one of those cats that walks up and takes a swipe at your nose with his claws just because he can?>
Yes.
<I don’t like those cats.>
Jupiter was fully armored—or at least armored by Roman standards, which left the legs somewhat vulnerable, though he did have greaves. His dark oiled beard jutted out below his helmet like a column of basalt, and lightning sparked in his eyes and in his fists. I thought we might be in trouble.
“Don’t worry, this show isn’t for you,” he said. “It’s for Diana. I want her to see how very displeased I am.”
“An excellent idea.” In my Latin headspace I called to the elemental of England, Albion, and requested that he bring Diana’s various parts up out of the earth so that we may talk to her. I continued to speak to Jupiter in the other. “May I offer a suggestion that might also urge her to accept a truce?”
The Roman god of the sky nodded, and I continued: “I’ll remain out of sight and you talk to her. Please relay my offer that the Druids will speak to Gaia and take special care of the grove in which the dryads live—we will be sure the trees flourish, in other words, and their dryads along with them. I sincerely regret the unpleasantness and want to make it right, so long as I secure her pledge not to hunt me or have others seek my death.”