Staked (The Iron Druid Chronicles, #8)(32)
I agreed and decided my best move would be to impose on Sam and Ty’s hospitality until it was time to meet up with Brighid. Besides, I needed to leave Oberon somewhere safe. There was no way I’d risk taking him with me to Svartálfheim.
Ty’s jaw dropped open when he answered the door and saw us standing there in slimy, golden glory.
“May we use your bathroom, sir?” I asked.
“My God, Atticus, you look like you had an orgy with egg yolks and orange juice.”
“We might need a loofah,” I admitted.
“Dare I ask what happened?”
“An Olympian exploded on us and it was yucky.”
“Damn. Why can’t you get your kicks by BASE jumping or parasailing, like regular folks?”
<See, Atticus? I keep telling you we should go parasailing.>
Ty opened the door wider and stepped aside to let us pass. “Well, you know where the bathroom is.”
“Thanks.”
Get in the tub, I told Oberon privately, but don’t you dare wreck the shower curtain this time. I don’t care how ugly it is.
<What story are you going to tell me, Atticus?>
I’m going to tell you about someone who burned down a convent for love.
<Yay! A love story! But I guess not for the love of God.>
That would be an excellent guess.
CHAPTER 9
Contrary to my expectations, I have absolutely no trouble finding the Sisters of the Three Auroras when I get to Warsaw. When I shift into the city with Orlaith, using a tethered black poplar tree in an expansive park called Pole Mokotowskie, they are waiting for me, having a picnic. All around the tree, in fact, doing it properly with blankets on the grass and baskets full of bread and cheese and pierogies. A few of them have glasses of wine in their hands, which is the sort of thing that is widely practiced but truly only permissible until the police arrive to issue citations.
<Hey! Food!> Orlaith says, just as Malina Soko?owska raises a half-eaten baguette to hail me around a mouthful of sandwich.
“Ah, Granuaile! Welcome!”
Thirteen pairs of eyes fix on Orlaith and me and it’s pretty uncomfortable, because I’m acutely aware of being targeted. I don’t really know them that well, except by reputation and a brief meeting. When we were first introduced—I mean the ones that never messed with Atticus and the Tempe Pack at Tony Cabin and died for it—Atticus and I had been naked in an onion field near Jas?o, running from Artemis and Diana. The coven had been waiting for us there because they’d seen something big coming in advance, which turned out to be Loki rocketing out of the sky to confront us. Pulling the same I-knew-you’d-be-here trick again, except specifically applied to me, only emphasizes why I need shielding from divination.
The new coven members had never been introduced to us. And now that I’m possibly at the receiving end of whatever they want to throw my way, I realize I don’t know what to expect. Do they use wands to direct their spells? Flailing jazz hands and eyes rolled back in their heads? I remember Atticus saying they’re quite fast and skilled in physical combat but recall very little information in the way of offensive magical attacks. Atticus claims that Malina can summon a hellwhip out of the air, but surely I don’t need to worry about that in such a public place. Especially since I’m not actually from hell, just Kansas.
“You’re in no danger, I assure you,” Malina continues in her mild Polish accent when I do not reply. “We saw that you wished to talk and so here we are, enjoying the day. No one will bother us. Please, sit.”
Orlaith, I say privately, I know these people but do not trust them yet. Do not accept any food from them.
<Aww. Okay, but I hope you trust them soon.>
Out loud, I say, “Thank you,” and then mutter a binding in Old Irish to keep all my hairs on my head, a precaution that Atticus recommends when dealing with them. I move to take a spot on a blanket to the coven leader’s left but with a basket between us. The nearby witches make minute adjustments so that they can see me better, while the ones on the opposite side of the trunk move so that they have a clear view. They’re not dressed alike, to suggest that they’re anything but friends, or in any fashion that might suggest they’re into the occult. They’re wearing clothing appropriate for a sunny but chilly late autumn day. Some wear jeans, others leggings under skirts with their feet shoved into boots and purple scarves around their necks. Light jackets of varying materials and colors, and a couple of cute knit hats on their heads. Besides Malina, whose long straight blond hair instantly identifies her, I think I recognize four other original members by Atticus’s shorthand descriptions: Owl-Eyed Roksana, Bedhead Klaudia, Kazimiera Who’s Damn Tall, and Cherubic Berta.
“Would you like a cucumber sandwich or something to drink?” Berta asks. She has rosy cheeks and I suspect she might be a bit sloshed, judging by the besotted grin on her face and the nearly empty glass of wine in her hand with an even emptier bottle nearby.
“No, thank you,” I say. “I ate recently and I’m not hungry.”
“I’d introduce you to everyone, but I expect you’re here for business rather than pleasure,” Malina says. When I nod and grimace by way of apology, she smiles in understanding. “We appreciate you being direct and forthright with us. What did you wish to talk about, then?”