Besieged: Stories from the Iron Druid Chronicles(45)
“We can stop it!” he replied. “Help me!”
“Perkins, we can’t!” I struggled to think of something he loved more than the business he’d built from scratch and gambled on a guess: “Think of Felicity, Perkins! You have to save Felicity! Get her out of here!”
He ceased his flailing and looked up from his immediate area, seeing that it was true. The building would burn down no matter what we did at that point. The volunteer firemen and bucket brigade would never get there in time. We were both already sweating, and it was a cool early morning.
“I hope you all go to hell!” he said, throwing down his bar towel and dashing back to the kitchen to fetch Felicity. I think that poodle saved him just by being there; if she hadn’t been, I believe he would have gladly burned with his saloon.
That, at least, was a silver lining to an otherwise legendary cock-up. As the flames popped and crackled and the heat and smoke grew, I realized what Mammon was trying to do: distract and delay until I had no choice but to leave myself. If I never opened that portal to hell, he never had to step through it.
The sheriff wasn’t distracted. He had something to kill and a fully functional firearm in his hand, and he’d just seen Mammon tear a man apart and toss his bits around the room. There was really no quibbling over the demon’s guilt. Hays stepped forward into the room to get a better angle and started firing. The bullets were on target but simply passed through. Mammon had taken a shape but was not really flesh occupying space. He just laughed as the sheriff poured bullets into him and the flames grew higher.
Focusing on the space where Blackmoore used to stand, I chanted the words to first bind that space to its equivalent space in hell, then to unbind the veil separating the planes. Mammon responded to this by plunging his clawed hand into Blackmoore’s headless, limbless torso, ripping out bloody ropes of intestine, and throwing them at me.
Such situations are a perfect example of why Druids must develop, at minimum, two different headspaces for battle. One must deal with the demands of the physical fight, while the other must remain undistracted to craft bindings.
I merely held up Fragarach with the flat of the blade presented to Mammon, so that nothing would hit me in the face, and continued. Stephen Blackmoore’s digestive system smacked wetly against either the blade or my body before dropping to the floor, and I was splattered with his blood and shit, but it could hardly be worse than the smell of Mammon himself.
When the binding was complete and hell yawned before Mammon’s feet, he roared and tossed Blackmoore’s torso at me. I took the trouble to duck under that one.
“Má ithis, nar chacair!” I told him in Gaeilge, a fantastic curse for one such as Mammon, who always wants more: It means, “May you eat but not defecate.”
He slid down through the portal as much as jumped into it, pulled by the strength of his own word, and I closed it up behind him. Sequoia would feel that and know that I’d done my duty.
//Harmony restored// I sent to her, and she replied in kind.
“I thought I’d seen everything,” Hays shouted past the roar of the inferno, “but I reckon I better rethink that. Come on, Percy, let’s go.”
“I’m headed out back to make sure Perkins really left,” I told him, pointing at the kitchen door, and he held my gaze for a moment, far too smart to accept that at face value, knowing he’d never see me again. Then a beam cracked above, and we nodded and parted ways. I escaped out the back door through the kitchen, making sure Perkins and Felicity were gone, and remembered to fetch Mustang Sally from where I had her stabled. I headed for the bound trees north of town, hoping I’d be able to shift out before my activity there drew a new batch of faeries from Aenghus óg.
That episode turned out to be the second Great Fire of San Francisco, quite literally started by greed, which eventually consumed three city blocks and cost four million dollars in damages. Thanks to Deputy Princell’s quick work, the alarm was spread in time to prevent any deaths other than Stephen Blackmoore’s. And I was able to enjoy a year of peace with Mustang Sally in Argentina before she passed away of truly natural causes.
<You didn’t give her Immortali-Tea?> Oberon asked.
No, Oberon, I told him via our mental link. You’re only the second companion I’ve done that with.
<Why?>
Some people—and some creatures—don’t handle long lives very well. It changes them for the worse. But you just keep getting better, buddy.
<Oh. Thanks. I would give you a snack for that if I had one. Hey, would you like some brisket? I still have some here.>
I briefly glanced at the slobbery hunk of beef underneath Oberon’s paw. No thanks; I’m full.
<Who was the first companion you gave Immortali-Tea to?>
I’ll tell you some other night, okay? It’s a story in itself.
“That was quite a tale, Atticus,” Granuaile said. “I’ll be thinking about a world without greed for a while now. I think you might be right: Letting Mammon go back to hell might have been one of your worst cock-ups ever. It’s greed that makes us destroy Gaia bit by bit.”
I sighed and shrugged. “You won’t get any argument from me. I could have done better, no doubt. But as the world’s only Druid for so long, I’ve been living a life besieged. It’s why Gaia could use more of us.”