Staked (The Iron Druid Chronicles, #8)(77)

So it’s work for me now, instead of worry.

I’ve started the kids on both Latin and English. Nouns for the earth and sky and sun and adjectives to describe them, things like that. Verbs for things you can do outside, and we do those things, like run and eat lunch and smell pine needles. And I start them using Latin to talk to Colorado—phrases that they repeat verbatim but backed by thoughts and images, to begin the process of separating headspaces. I’ll start them on Irish in a couple of years.

The house has an unfinished basement, and the pack has been working on it during the day and I’ve begun working on it for a couple hours after dinner each night, warding it every way I know how. The promised help from Tír na nóg hasn’t arrived yet, but I hope it will soon. It’s going to be a sanctuary for the kids during full moons and all other emergencies, like troops of trolls barging through your land, smelling like exactly the wrong cheese. We’ve already coached them in what the full-moon drill is, after that troll business.

Hal Hauk arrives around dinnertime with whiskey and the new identity that Siodhachan asked for. Ty and Sam are with him too, just being friendly and neighborly pack leaders but also because they’re hoping for a finger of the bottle Hal brought. They get one as Greta pulls out glasses for everyone and Hal pours. It’s Midleton, which I’m told is very fine, and we all raise our glasses as Hal proposes a toast.

“An impromptu wake for Sean Flanagan, a fine identity that got shot down in Toronto, and a welcome to the new Siodhachan, who will henceforth walk the world as Connor Molloy. As soon as he pays me for the trouble.” There are wry chuckles at this, and I join in. “But mostly this is a rare, fine drink with rarer, finer friends. It’s my privilege to call you such.”

I say, “Aye, lad,” but everyone else says, “Hear, hear,” or maybe “Here, here,” and I don’t understand why they would say either one. English has way too many fecking homophones, and when you combine something like that with what might be a slang term or polite jargon, it’s just not fair to lads like me trying to pick up the language. I’m getting much better with it already, but little things like that are probably going to keep me stepping on me own bollocks for years.

Midleton is as fine as reported, and then I offer everyone a spot of lamb stew and soda bread. It’s fortunate that I made a great big batch, thinking we’d have leftovers, but with extra guests it’s just as well I erred on the side of generosity. And it’s also a good thing, I decide, that Greta found a place much bigger than I thought we’d need. It has a huge dining room and extra seating in the kitchen area, so it’s already a place people like to visit.

We’re all there—the apprentices, their parents, the translators, the pack leaders—having a laugh and being happy, when all the wolves freeze or put down their spoons and cock their heads, listening. Some of them look toward the big bay window leading to the backyard.

“No—” Sam says, the instant before the glass shatters and bullets riddle the room. The parents instinctively place themselves in the line of fire, protecting the children, and they take a few rounds as a result. That’s going to trigger transformations for sure, and I’m not the only one to shout, “Full-moon drill! Go!”

It’s only me and a few parents who aren’t werewolves, so it’s our job to make sure the kids get safely down to the basement. The wee ones move fast and stay low to the ground; they already know they don’t want to be anywhere around when their parents’ bones start snapping and the teeth come out. We hear the snarls and cracks and howls of pain begin before we’re out of the room, though. They’re all turning, including Greta, and the gunfire continues and just accelerates the transformations, so they don’t have time to tear off their clothes first. They’re going to rip right through them as they transform, and that will increase the pain of it. The pack is going to be fecking irate, and I almost feel sorry for whoever’s doing this.

I leave the kids in the basement with Tuya’s mother, Meg, and she locks the silver-lined gate we installed at the bottom of the stairs. They have food and water down here and emergency buckets; they can last for days if need be, by which point the danger should be long over. Then I slip on me knuckles, cast camouflage, and exit out the front door while I’m hearing all kinds of ruckus going on in the back.

The camouflage turns out to be a good idea, since some fecking arse almost takes me head off with a bullet as soon as the door opens. I duck down and scramble to the side and search for who’s responsible. There’s a tall figure with a handgun maybe forty yards away, and his hearing must be stellar, because he fires two more rounds that come damn close—one grazes the back of me calf as I’m running. Balls to that: I need to change the rules on him. I tumble onto the front lawn and shuck off me shirt before shape-shifting to a kite, which lets me fall out of the pants. Another round hits the turf where me body was a second before the shift, and I hop away from there as quietly as I can. Me torn shoulder muscles won’t let me fly yet, but of all my forms this is also the quietest one on the ground. I make little bird-hops in his direction, and he hears even that. But since he has no idea what’s making the sound, he’s aiming too high. A dart to the left and then a leap up, extending me talons to latch on his right wrist, since he’s left his whole arm out there for me to perch on, but it’s not a gentle landing. I clutch as hard as I can and that hand shears clean off, dropping onto the ground along with the gun. I’m expecting a scream or some cursing as I drop with it, but instead the spooky lad hisses, and the blood pumping out of him is dark, like it would be when it’s starved for oxygen. I hop away—not caring about the noise I’m making now, because he can’t shoot me—and see him bend down to snatch up his right hand with his left. He doesn’t give a damn about the gun anymore: He just jams that hand back onto his stump like it will help, and then he turns and runs down the road leading to town—fast.