Hounded

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    The cloak was a spell far beyond my abilities: Those kinds of spells are not in the Druidic milieu. A friendly local witch named Radomila had cast it for me, and in return I had hopped a plane to San Francisco, driven up to Mendocino, and shape-shifted into a sea otter. This allowed me to retrieve an ornate golden necklace set with several large rubies, which were clutched in the hand of a buried skeleton she had stunningly accurate information on. She seemed mightily pleased to receive it, but even with two millennia of arcane knowledge in my head, I had no idea what it signified. That’s witches for you.
    What sealed the deal for me was that the cloak wouldn’t come off without a generous donation of my tears. Those used to be almost impossible for me to summon, I admit, until I watched Field of Dreams . When Kevin Costner asks his dad at the end if he’d like to have a catch, I just completely lose my shit. Any guy who doesn’t is either in mixed company when he sees it or was blessed with an unusually sensitive father. I blubber and sob like a jilted girl every time I watch that scene, or even when I think about it. My dad would never have played catch with me—never mind that he’s been dead for more than two thousand years and baseball hadn’t been invented then. My dad’s idea of bonding was throwing me in the tar pits to teach me a lesson, though I’m not sure what the lesson was, except to stay the hell away from Da. So if I ever think of a reason why the cloak should come off, all I will have to do is think of Kevin Costner and his chance to have a moment of peace with his dad, and the tears will flow like mountain springs.
    Bindings banished with a drop of blood pricked from my finger and a bit of spit, I unwrapped the oilskin carefully to reveal a finely tooled brown leather scabbard, above which rose a golden guard and a hilt wrapped in strips of ancient rawhide, the grain long worn away. The blade was not suffused with the watery swirls of cooled steel: It was merely straight and chiseled and deadly in its purpose.
    A long leather strap attached to iron rings on the scabbard allowed me to sling the sword across my back, and I did so to serve as both a lure and promise of punishment to those who would take it from me. I drew it thinking I needed to inspect the blade, but in truth it was more to admire it. I knew already that it was pristine: There had been no water damage to the scabbard. The blade sung and sparkled in the sunlight, and I marveled again at the strength of the cloak. Even though I knew it was Fragarach in my hand, its weight and balance and familiar knotwork etchings on the blade greeting me like old friends, the pulse of magic I usually felt was absent. The Fir Bolgs would not believe I had Fragarach in hand until it cut through their armor and bones as if they were rice paper.
    » Come to heel, Oberon, « I said aloud, as I sheathed Fragarach and rose. » Warn me of any approach, but do not attack unless I give you express permission. «
    › I’m coming to the shop with you? ‹ he asked, his ears raised in query.
    » Aye, you need to remain at my side until this business is finished. Do I need to remind you not to sniff my customers’ asses? «
    › You just did. And very subtly too, thank you very much. ‹
    I chuckled. » I apologize if I have offended Oberon Khan. It is the stress of a death sentence that makes me speak without thinking. «
    › I will overlook it this time, ‹ Oberon replied, his tail wagging in good humor.
    » I am also going to cast camouflage on you, « I said, » so that if you remain still—no tail wagging, no panting—no one will see you. Even when you move, you will be difficult to see, but you will be practically invisible when still. «
    › Why do I need to be invisible? ‹
    » Because after last night, people may come hunting you. And because if faeries come hunting me, I want you to take them by surprise. «
    › That’s not very sporting. ‹
    » It is fine to be sporting when we hunt. It is ridiculous to be sporting in war, and often fatal. «
    I cast the spell on him that binds one’s skin and hair pigments to the hues of the surroundings, and he shook as if he were wet.
    › Hey, that tickles, ‹ he said.
    » Good enough, « I replied. He trotted next to me as I pedaled to work, his nails clicking on the asphalt of the street. Following the noise, all one could see was a sort of heat mirage, just a wavy fluidity to the