Hounded

half his face and what looked like extremely uncomfortable skinny jeans. In reality he was blond and athletic and a bit taller. A large burlap sack was slung over his back, the size of those garbage bags used for lawn clippings. The drawstring had nearly closed the contents away from my sight, but inside I could tell there was a dark and roiling magic waiting to get out, magic of the deep earth that was better left buried.
    › Atticus, why is my hair standing up along the back of my neck? ‹
    Because something wicked this way comes .
    › Smells like motor oil mixed with ass. ‹
    The faery spied Goibhniu and moved to the entrance of San Felipe’s to join him. The gnomes saw the faery and went about their business, but it was clear they were all distracted now.
    The waitress returned to Goibhniu’s table and deposited a pint of beer and two empty shot glasses. He thanked her and she left. The faery slouched into view afterward and nodded once to Goibhniu, making no move to sit down or lay down his burden. Goibhniu nodded back solemnly. I wondered if they were related, and if he’d brought that steel thermos purposely to taunt the faery.
    All faeries—I mean the real Irish ones, not the cute winged horrors of Disney—are descendants of the Tuatha Dé Danann, born in Tír na nÓg. Unlike their sires, faeries are beings of pure magic, and as such cannot stand the touch of iron. Steel is very bad. Wrought iron is worse. And cold iron—or rather iron from meteorites, unbound from the world’s magic—is the worst. That’s why I wear a cold iron amulet in the center of my necklace: It’s Grade-A faery repellent.
    Without speaking, Goibhniu reached for the steel thermos and unscrewed the lid. He poured a measure of amber liquid into one of the shot glasses, then screwed the lid back on and set it down on the table. At this point my vision began to show me two different things.
    What the human eye could see remained the same: The dark-haired emo boy just stood there, looking at the shot glasses and the table, and the bag hung motionless across his back. But in the magical spectrum—a better reflection of reality that appeared like a green overlay in my sight—the blond faery picked up the empty shot glass and held it near the top of his right shoulder. A thin black arm, its skin like chiseled charcoal, snaked out of the burlap bag and reached for the glass with a three-fingered hand. The drawstring loosened, the bag rippled, and an ugly black head and shoulders emerged, a cruel grin of teeth like cooled lava rocks splitting the face. The gnomes saw this, too, their magical sight as good as mine, and they stiffened. This must be Kohleherz, the source of all that bad mojo, and though I’d never seen one of his kind before, he could be nothing else but a kobold of the darkest mines and subterranean caves.
    Kobolds are to gnomes as the Sith are to the Jedi—or even as yin is to yang. They are both wee species of bipeds who wield earth magic and whose faces cry out for rhinoplasty, but kobolds are bound to the deeper forces of violence and upheaval in the earth, whereas the gnomes serve the forces of growth and nurturing. If the legends about them are true, kobolds have fantastic resistance to heat and pressure. Show a kobold a lake of lava and he’ll wade into it like it’s a Jacuzzi, maybe even order a drink with an umbrella and a piece of fruit on the rim. Then he’ll calmly, cavalierly plot some really evil shit, like an encore for Krakatoa.
    The creature’s left hand produced a golden flask from the bag—not merely gold-plated but solid gold, stamped on the outside with gnomish script and encrusted with gleaming gems. He poured a smaller measure of a silvery liquid, thick and viscous, into the shot glass and put it back into the faery’s upraised hand. The faery put it down on the table and then picked up the shot glass full of Goibhniu’s brew. Goibhniu, in turn, picked up the glass full of Clan Rathskeller’s magnum opus. It was like a drug deal, with both sides sampling the product before the exchange.
    The kobold tossed back the amber shot and coughed, then nodded appreciatively. Goibhniu savored his wee sip of gnomish brew, clearly a rare moment of bliss in his long life. At last he nodded and set down the glass. I couldn’t really hear anything over the noise of the mall, but I imagined a hiss of pleasure coming from the kobold. He leaned out of the bag, proffering the flask. Goibhniu picked up