Staked (The Iron Druid Chronicles, #8)(61)
“Uh, Perun, what are those?” I say.
The Slavic thunder god turns and gasps. “They are nocnice!”
It’s an unfamiliar word and I’m not even sure what language it comes from, so I sputter, “Yeah, but what are they?”
He doesn’t get time to explain, but in short order I figure out that they’re unfriendly, because one of them floats right through my defensive swipe with Scáthmhaide and locks a cold collection of bones around my throat, bearing me to the ground with surprising strength for something so insubstantial. The same happens to Perun and Shango, and then we all try to fight back. The trouble is, my staff and fist just whiff through the thing, though it is undeniably exerting tangible force upon me. I pull out a knife and stab into it and watch my hand simply float through it. A hoarse, halting whisper that might be a laugh huffs out of its toothy mouth, and my windpipe closes as its hands constrict. I can’t breathe and I can’t bring any force to bear on this thing. I look to the gods for tips, but they’re having the same difficulty. They’re being choked to death and can’t lay a finger on the nocnice in return. One or both of them summons winds to try to blow them away—not a bad idea considering their ephemeral nature—but all that does is kick up leaves and toss my hair around. I see a fireball in the sky above and understand what’s happening: This is Loki’s doing. The fireball doesn’t descend; it just hovers, watching. He’s arranged a second ambush for me where he lets some other creature do his fighting for him. And, as before, it’s a carefully chosen creature against which I have little or no defense. I can’t even begin to figure out how I would bind this intangible thing if I had breath to speak the words.
<Granuaile!> Orlaith shouts in my head as I try to think of some way to affect this strange spirit. Its bony fingers are right on top of my cold iron amulet and it doesn’t care. <Let me help!>
No, wait—I project to her, but Orlaith has already pounced on top of the nocnica. I expect her to simply fall through it on top of me, but instead she lands palpably on its back, her teeth tear into its substance, and the whispery laugh becomes a hoarse cry of surprise and slides into a scream. Orlaith pulls it off me, teeth embedded deeply, and shakes her head back and forth like she would with a chew toy, the instinctive attempt to snap the neck. I don’t think the nocnica has a spine in the traditional sense, but Orlaith’s move shakes the creature apart into clumps of dirty vapor, and the scratchy wail fades and the bulbous eyes wink out.
Good hound! Thank you! Can you do that again, to the ones on Shango and Perun?
Orlaith hacks once and says, <Yes. But they taste horrible.>
As she bounds over to help the gods, I check the position of the fireball, which hasn’t moved, and then look around for Mi?osz. He’s perhaps forty yards distant, pacing and snorting in nervous agitation. I wonder again why Loki doesn’t use the special weapons he’s acquired from me—where are Vayu’s arrows or the whirling blade, Fuilteach? Perhaps neither would survive the journey in flame and he’s saving them for a special target—Odin would be my guess, and perhaps Freyja.
Orlaith dispatches the two other nocnice, thus becoming the first wolfhound to rescue a couple of thunder gods, and as they get to their feet I say, “Eyes to the sky, guys. It’s Loki.”
They look up, spy the fireball, and snarl. In tandem they raise their weapons to the sky, and the weather takes a decided turn for the worse. Loki can survive their lightning strikes, I think—he had no difficulty with Perun the first time we met him, in a field near Flagstaff. But the Asgardian decides against escalating and moves off to the north. The thunder gods don’t pursue, since they’re supposed to protect the horse instead of chase Loki down, but they mutter about him being a coward. I privately disagree: He’s bold enough when it suits him. He simply plays the odds. Were any of us alone, he’d probably dive right in, but facing two thunder gods plus a Druid who can wink out of sight and clock him upside the head is not an ideal scenario. Maybe it’s because he’s still healing from the tomahawk I put in his back: I sure hope so. After he’s out of sight I promise Orlaith a deer hunt soon and go to soothe Mi?osz, while Shango asks Perun what the hell those things were. I listen in because I want to know as well.
“Nocnice are nightmares,” he says in English. “Damned souls who choke peoples as they sleep, leave no trace. Not usual to attack like this.”
“Why couldn’t we touch them?” Shango asks.
Perun shrugs. “Is way of nightmares, yes? They get you in clutches and you cannot fight back. Only wake. Except we already awake, so no escape for us.”
“Then why could Orlaith take them out?” I say.
“Any dog, even small ones, can do this to nocnice. They guardian against many spirits. They bark at night sometimes and you think, what you barking for? Stop that. Sometimes dogs hearing and seeing things we do not, and they scare them away, protect us. Roosters do this too, but nobody like roosters except hens. Good thing you like dogs.”
Orlaith, is this true? Do you bark at spirits sometimes?
<Maybe. I never saw one before now. But sometimes I feel something bad coming, and I bark until the bad feeling goes away. Oberon does this too.>
Well, thank you.
“That was not the kind of fight I hoped for,” Shango says.
“Loki rarely gives you that,” I reply. “You have to find a way to surprise him.”