Staked (The Iron Druid Chronicles, #8)(93)
“We should feed them first, but, yes, that sounds good.”
When we asked the hounds what they wanted to eat, Oberon had an immediate answer: <Poutine!>
We got them both to Toronto, where it was just past midnight, but Poutini’s House of Poutine on Queen Street West was open late and we scored some huge containers of the good stuff. Then we took them to the spot in Ecuador that Granuaile knew about. Even though they’d slept all night in Angola, they assured us that they would have no trouble sleeping some more after the glories of a full belly.
The bitter cold of Rome contrasted starkly with the warmth of the Southern Hemisphere, and Owen noted aloud he was thankful for his coat.
“Me tits would be all in an uproar if I didn’t have it,” he said.
We all filled up our reservoirs of energy before we left the Villa Borghese. Rome was one of the oldest and most continuously paved cities in the world. Even beneath the pavement there is more pavement, a city built on centuries of older cities. We wouldn’t have endless energy to spend against the vampires should it come to a fight. Our best hope was to break through their wards and take them out before nightfall.
“’Tis a dead, frigid hellscape for a Druid, an’ that’s no lie,” Owen commented as soon as he hit the city proper and the touch of Gaia was lost.
“It’s really unusual, though, for it to be this cold here,” I said. It was midmorning, and the city was covered by the sort of low dark clouds one would expect to boil out of Mordor. “Looks like it might snow, and that happens maybe once every twenty years. I bet you the Romans will freak out and stay at home.”
“Good,” Granuaile said. “The fewer people we have to worry about, the better.”
Tourist traffic in the Piazza di Spagna was almost nil. Even the vendors selling selfie sticks and other nonsense had written the day off and stayed home. We’d told the rabbi to meet us in Babington’s, a decision that at least kept us cozy while we waited.
He in turn spread the word to the other Hammers, and we saw them begin to trickle in after noon. We didn’t hail them and invite them to pull up a table but rather let them find each other and wait for Rabbi Yosef. I was worried that some of them might possess the extremist views that Yosef had in his youth, and I’d rather wait for him to arrive before introducing ourselves to devout monotheists as pagans adept in the practice of magic.
Rabbi Yosef arrived last, in the midafternoon, since he had the farthest to travel. He first greeted his comrades with hugs and a wide smile, then he spied us in the far corner and waved us over. He introduced us as the fine individuals who allowed the Hammers to do such wonderful work in the Western Hemisphere recently, and now, Lord willing, we would help strike another mighty blow against the oldest of evil’s minions on earth.
We got polite nods but no names from the rest of the Hammers. They were not anxious to make our acquaintance. We were to be useful creatures rather than friends.
“Shall we look at our target, then?” I asked. We settled our bills and bundled up against the chill outside. A few hardy tourists determined to get their money’s worth for their air tickets to Rome tried to look cheerful in the gloom. The surface of Bernini’s fountain, I noticed, had a thin coating of ice at the edges.
Once in front of the buildings in question, Rabbi Yosef Bialik squinted at the wards and muttered in Hebrew to his companions. They nodded and exchanged some words, and then he addressed us. “You are right. These are interlocking trees of the Hermetic Qabalah. But they are collapsible triggers.”
“What do you mean?”
“Upon any tree being dispelled with cold iron—or anything else—the rest are able to isolate themselves and remain intact. You cannot dispel the entire ward, in other words, only the portion of it you walk through with your cold iron. The remaining trees are supposed to note the absence of any around them and trigger a response.”
“What response?” Granuaile asked.
“That I do not know. It could be an attack. Or it could merely be an alarm, letting the casters know that the ward has been broken.”
“Normal folks pass in and out without consequence, then,” I said. “Clever.”
“I’m normal folks,” Owen said. “No cold iron on me.”
“They will, however, like us, be able to detect the use of magic nearby,” Yosef said. “If you were to use any magic at all, they would know it.”
“Fair enough. I should be able to take a look inside, though, to scout. Or any of you lot could do it.”
“You go,” I said. “But keep your right hand in your pocket so no one spots your tattoos.”
Owen scanned the three buildings and chose the yellow cream one on the right, with Dolce & Gabbana on the bottom floors.
“I like that it has a green door,” he said, explaining his choice.
He walked through the ward without trouble, disappeared into the building, and returned not five minutes later.
“There’s a hallway that goes back a ways. No place to hide. Elevator and stairs at the back with a man there asking if I was a resident. Both the elevator and the stairs are fecking narrow and I wouldn’t want to go up either one. Anyone at the top would have one hell of an advantage.”
“What was the man like?” Granuaile asked.
“Big bastard. Had one of those modern suits and a curly thing coming out of his ear. Clearly security. But there was someone else too. Not a guard exactly, and he said nothing, but he looked at me closely. He was sitting on the stairs, had these loose white clothes on him and an orange sash with symbols sewn on it in gold. And the weirdest hair I’ve ever fecking seen.”