Hounded

as she looked down at me gratefully, tousling my hair as she made her way to the door. » Yer a fine lad, Atticus, drinkin’ whiskey with a widow on a Monday. «
    » Not at all, Mrs. MacDonagh, not at all. « I really did enjoy her company. And I knew too well the loneliness that clamps around one’s heart when loved ones have passed on before. To have that companionship, the comfort of someone being at home for you for years, and then suddenly not to have it anymore—well, every day can seem darker after that, and the vise clutches tighter in your chest every night you spend in a lonely bed. Unless you find someone to spend some time with (and that time is sunlight, golden minutes when you forget you’re alone), that vise will eventually crush your heart. My deal with the Morrigan aside, it’s other people who have kept me alive so long—and I include Oberon in that. Other people in my life right now, who help me forget all the other people I have buried or lost: They are truly magic for me.
    The widow returned with two glasses of whiskey on the rocks, humming an old Irish tune as she jiggled the ice around. She was happy.
    » Now tell me, lad, « she said as she sank back into her chair, » what made yer Sunday so dreadful. «
    I took a sip of the whiskey and enjoyed the burn of the alcohol and the chill of the ice. » At this point, Mrs. MacDonagh, I’m thinking I should have taken you up on your offer and gone to get baptized. Was the service properly mellow yesterday? «
    The widow cackled and grinned at me. » So mellow I can’t even remember enough to tell ye what the father said. Right boring it was. But you, « she said, pronouncing the word carefully like an American and grinning, » had an exciting day? «
    » Oh, aye. Got myself shot. «
    » Shot? «
    » Just a flesh wound. «
    » Attaboy. Who shot ye? «
    » A Tempe police detective. «
    » Lord ha’ mercy, I saw something about that in the paper this mornin’! TEMPE DETECTIVE SHOT DEAD BY POLICE, it said, and a subhead said, Detective shot civilian without cause . But I didn’t read the whole thing. «
    » Yep, that was me. «
    » Well, I’ll be! Why did the daft fool shoot ye? It wasn’t because of y’killin’ that worthless Brit bastard, was it? «
    » No, not at all, « I said. And so I whiled away a pleasant hour telling the widow just enough of the truth to entertain her yet keep her safe. Eventually I made my farewells, promised to trim that grapefruit tree soon, and walked over to Mill Avenue and thence north to Rúla Búla. I got some odd looks, and people gave me a wide berth when they saw the sword hilt peeking over my shoulder, but otherwise it was uneventful.
    I got there a few minutes early and Hal wasn’t there yet, so I took a seat at the bar and grinned charmingly at Granuaile. Gods Below, but she was a vision! Her red hair was still curly and damp from a shower she must have taken right before coming to work. Her teeth flashed white at me for a moment, and then she sauntered over to me with a lopsided smirk on her face.
    » I knew I shouldn’t have worried, « she said. » When I saw that article in the newspaper, I was thinking I might not see you for weeks. And now here you are, a supposed shooting victim, looking downright thirsty. «
    » Oh, I’m a shooting victim all right, « I said. » I just heal fast. «
    Granuaile’s expression abruptly changed. Her eyes narrowed and she tilted her head to the side as she placed a bar napkin in front of me, and her voice became throatier as she spoke with a newfound accent: » Druids usually do. « With only three words to work with, all I could do was hazard a guess that the accent was from somewhere on the Indian subcontinent. Then, without much of a pause, the old Granuaile—the perky and beguiling barmaid—was back. » What’ll it be? A Smithwick’s? «
    » What? How can you change gears like that? What did you just say to me? «
    » I asked if you wanted a Smithwick’s, « she said, her face bemused.
    » No, what you said before that. «
    » I said you looked thirsty. «
    » No, what did you say after that and before the Smithwick’s? «
    » Um … « Granuaile’s eyes boggled at me uncertainly for a moment, and then comprehension dawned—at least, it did for her. » Oh, I know what happened. She must have talked to you. It’s about time. She’s been wanting to talk for weeks now. «
    » What? Who? You can’t throw around pronouns like that without their