Hounded

long-lived. She clinked her glass against mine, and we drank contentedly and shared silence for a while, until she asked when we could begin the hunt.
    » Not until a few hours after nightfall, « I said. » We must wait for the park to close and the mortals to retire for the night. «
    Flidais arched an eyebrow at me. » And how shall we spend the intervening hours, Atticus? «
    » You are my guest. We may spend it however you wish. «
    Her eyes appraised me and I pretended not to notice, keeping my gaze locked on my bicycle still lying in the street. » You appear to be in the summertime of youth, « she said.
    » My thanks. You look well as always. «
    » I am curious to discover if you still have the endurance of the Fianna or if you are hiding a decrepitude and softness most unbecoming a Celt. «
    I stood up and offered her my right hand. » My left arm was injured earlier this afternoon and is still not fully healed. However, if you will follow me and assist in mending it, I will do my best to satisfy your curiosity. «
    The corner of her mouth quirked up at the edge, and her eyes smoldered as she placed her hand in mine and rose. I locked my eyes on hers and didn’t let go of her hand as we returned inside and went to the bedroom.
    I figured, to hell with the bike. I’d probably feel like jogging to work in the morning anyway.

Chapter 5
    Pillow talk in the modern era often involves the sharing of childhood stories or perhaps an exchange of dream vacations. One of my recent partners, a lovely lass named Jesse with a tattoo of a Tinker Bell on her right shoulder blade (about as far from a real faery as one can get), had wanted to discuss a science-fiction television program, Battlestar Galactica , as a political allegory for the Bush years. When I confessed I had no knowledge of the show nor any interest in getting to know it or anything about American politics, she called me a » frakkin’ Cylon « and stormed out of the house, leaving me confused yet somewhat relieved. Flidais, on the other hand, wanted to talk about the ancient sword of Manannan Mac Lir, called Fragarach, the Answerer. It kind of killed the afterglow for me, and I felt myself growing irritated.
    » Do you still have it? « she asked. And as soon as she did, I suspected that the entire visit—even the conjugal part—had been planned just so she could discover the answer. I had flat out lied to the lesser Fae who’d attacked me earlier, but I didn’t feel safe doing the same to Flidais.
    » Aenghus Óg certainly thinks so, « I hedged.
    » That is no answer. «
    » That is because I have reason to be cautious, or even paranoid, where that subject is concerned. I mean you no disrespect. «
    She eyed me steadily for a full five minutes, trying to get me to talk by merely remaining silent. It works well on most humans, but the Druids taught that technique to the Tuatha Dé Danann before I was born, so I kept my smile on the inside and waited for her next move. I busied myself in the interim by trying to find patterns in the popcorn ceiling and idly stroking her right arm, which was tattooed like mine, ready to draw the earth’s power with an effort of will. I found a woodpecker, a snow leopard, and what might have been the snarling face of Randy Johnson throwing a slider before she spoke again.
    » Tell me the story of how you came to possess it in the first place, then, « she finally said. » The legendary Fragarach, the sword that can pierce any armor. I have heard several versions of it in Tír na nÓg, and I would like to hear you tell it. «
    It was an appeal to my vanity. She wanted me to lapse into braggadocio and get so carried away with my tale that I’d wind up blurting out, » It’s in my garage! « or » I sold it on eBay! « or something similar.
    » All right. I stole it in the Battle of Magh Lena, when Conn of the Hundred Battles was so bent on slaying Mogh Nuadhat during the night that he hardly cared what weapon he was holding in his hand. « I raised my fist as if it grasped a sword. » Conn was outnumbered and knew he’d have little chance of winning in a straight-up fight, so he decided to attack in the night to skew the odds in his favor. Goll Mac Morna and the rest of the Fianna refused to fight until the morning, citing something about honor, but I have never had much of that in the middle of a war. Being honorable is an excellent way to get yourself killed. Witness the British getting their hair lifted by this