Besieged: Stories from the Iron Druid Chronicles(81)

I must give huge fecking thanks to Janet Ní Shuilleabhían for Irish cursing help in “Gold Dust Druid,” as well as publicly note she is an outstanding human who champions women’s rights in Ireland. Má ithis, nar chacair is pronounced like “Mah ITHS, nar KA hair,” where “KA” is pronounced like cat without the t on the end. Thought you might like to know how to pronounce the curse in case you come across someone who deserves it (though I hope you don’t).

I’m deeply grateful to Simone Alexander for advising me on the customs and ethos of BDSM culture in preparing to write “Cuddle Dungeon.” Consent is the underlying foundation to the whole thing, yet many narratives tend to focus on what might be kinky rather than how such kinks can be safe. Any errors or stretches of the truth in the story are of course mine and not hers. I also wish to thank author Jaye Wells for uttering the very phrase “cuddle dungeon” in a car on Camelback Road in Phoenix a few years ago. Clearly I found it inspiring. I titled the story thus with her permission.

Thanks to Adrian Tomczyk in Poznań, Poland, for his help with the Polish bits, and to those spiffy readers I met at Pyrkon who gave me a copy of Wis?awa Szymborska’s poetry in translation.

And thank you, of course, for being a spiffy reader!





extras





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about the author


Kevin Hearne lives with his wife, son, and doggies in Colorado. He hugs trees, rocks out to heavy metal, and will happily geek out over comics with you. He also thinks tacos are a pretty nifty idea.

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@KevinHearne

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if you enjoyed

BESIEGED

look out for

CHASING EMBERS

by

James Bennett

Behind every myth there is a spark of truth …

There’s nothing special about Ben Garston. He’s just a guy with an attitude in a beaten-up leather jacket, drowning his sorrows about his ex in a local bar.

Or so he’d have you believe.

What Ben Garston can’t let you know is that he’s also known as Red Ben. He can’t let you know that the world of myth and legend isn’t as make-believe as you think, and it’s his job to keep that a secret. And there’s no way he can let you know what’s really hiding beneath his skin …

But not even Ben knows what kind of hell is about to break loose. Because the delicate balance between his world and ours is about to be shattered.

Something’s been hiding in the heart of the city – and it’s about to be unleashed.





East Village, New York

Once upon a time, there was a happy-ever-after. Or at least a shot at one.

Red Ben Garston sat at the bar, cradling his JD and Coke and trying to ignore the whispers of the past. The whiskey, however, was fanning the flames. Rain wept against the window, pouring down the large square of dirty glass that looked out on the blurred and hurrying pedestrians, the tall grey buildings and sleek yellow taxicabs. The TV in the corner, balanced on a shelf over the bar’s few damp customers, was only a muffled drone. Ben watched the evening news to a background of murmured chatter and soft rock music. Economic slump to the Eagles. War in Iran to the Boss. The jukebox wasn’t nearly loud enough, and that was part of the problem. Ben could still hear himself think.

Once upon a time, once upon a time …

He took a swig and placed the tumbler on the bar before him, calling out for another. The bartender arrived, a young man in apron and glasses. The man arched an evaluating eyebrow, then sighed, poured and left the whole bottle. Ben could drink his weight in gold, but Legends had yet to see him fall down drunk, so the staff were generally tolerant. 7 East 7th Street was neither as well appointed nor as popular as some of the bars in the neighbourhood, verging on the dive side of affairs, but it was quiet on weekdays around dusk, and Red Ben drank here for that very reason. He didn’t like strangers. Didn’t like attention. He just wanted somewhere to sit, drink and forget about the past.

Still Rose was on his mind, just as she always was.

The TV over the bar droned on. The drought in Africa limped across the screen, some report about worsening conditions and hijacked aid trucks. Strange storms that spat lightning but never any rain. What was up with the weather these days, anyway? Then the usual tableau of sand, flies and starving children, their bellies bloated by hunger, their eyes dulled by need. Technicolor pixelated death.

Immunised by the ceaseless barrage of doom-laden media, Ben looked away, scanning the customers who shared the place with him: a man slouched further along the bar, three sat in a gloomy booth, one umming and ahhing over the jukebox at the back of the room, all of them nondescript in damp raincoats and washed-out faces. Ghosts of New York, drowning their sorrows. Ben wanted to belong among them, but he knew he would always stand out, a broad-shouldered beast of a man, the tumbler almost a thimble in his hand. His leather jacket was beaten and frayed. Red stubble covered his jaw, rising via scruffy sideburns to an unkempt pyre on his head. He liked to think there was a pinch of Josh Homme about him – Josh Homme on steroids – maybe a dash of Cagney. Who was he kidding? These days, he suspected he looked more like the other customers than he’d care to admit, let alone a rock star. Drink and despair had diluted his looks. No wonder Rose didn’t want to see him. And in the end his general appearance, a man in his early thirties, was only a clever lie. His true age travelled in his eyes, caves that glimmered green in their depths and held a thousand secrets …