![Hunted (The Iron Druid Chronicles, Book Six)]()
Hunted (The Iron Druid Chronicles, Book Six)
tales?>
“No, Oberon, I said we might have a faery tail, as in a faery who is tailing us.”
My hound whined.
“Look up once in a while. It’s clearly not only the goddesses hunting us. We still have vampires and dark elves to worry about, and I think they’re getting help from someone in Tír na nÓg.”
“Does
anyone
like us?” Granuaile asked, an edge of bitterness to her voice. “Because I’m thinking maybe we should go hang out with them if we survive this.”
“Yeah. We should probably get out of Europe for a while if we can.”
Grauaile exhaled quickly, banishing wishful thinking and returning to practical matters. “But first things first, right? We have to get out of this fix. Would it be ridiculous to booby-trap our trail?”
“No, I don’t think so. In fact, I think it’s strategically necessary.”
“Agreed. Even a failed trap will cause them to slow down and be wary for more. We should make a pit trap with spikes in the bottom. You make the pit and I’ll make the spikes.”
I grinned at her. “A cold suggestion of mayhem? That’s hot.”
Granuaile dropped her staff, stepped forward, and placed her hands flat against my chest. Her face darted toward mine for a quick kiss but then pulled back at the last instant, leaving me with the heat of her breath and the scent of strawberry lip gloss. I don’t think she was wearing any—beauty products tend not to survive the rigors of shape-shifting—but I always smelled it now, regardless; the memory of it was indelibly linked with the sight of her lips. She pushed me away, hard, and shape-shifted to a horse. She picked up her staff in her mouth and galloped north at full speed, leaving me bewilderedand more than a little wistful. Oberon’s mental groan came a few seconds later.
I broke into a wide smile before dropping Fragarach’s scabbard on the ground and shape-shifting to a stag. I said to him, picking the sword up in my mouth.
The race, I eventually discerned, was in earnest. I spent half of it like a cockfident waffle dolphin, thinking she would slow down and let me win. But then I tried to close the gap and found that she hadn’t been going full speed after all; she had a sixth and seventh gear.
Oberon asked.
The horse in front of me whinnied in amusement—Granuaile could of course hear Oberon too—but I wasn’t gaining on her, so I didn’t think it was funny. We were running either in or near the trees on the east side of Highway E371 to keep from drawing the attention of drivers crossing the border between Slovakia and Poland. This was Dukla Pass, site of one of the bloodiest battles of the eastern front during World War II. Farmhouses and memorials for the dead sat like squat chess pieces on squares of pasture framed by stands of timber.
Once past the border and safely on the other side of the pass, Granuaile paused to gloat at the edge of an alfalfa field. “Guess you’ll have to rechannel all your sexual energy into making a death trap for immortals,” she said.
A nap sounded like a great idea to me, but we couldn’tafford the time. If we slept now we might never wake up, so we concentrated on our task.
Normally a pit trap would take many hours and a handy tool like a shovel or a backhoe—or at least a spade—with which to move the earth. But it doesn’t take that long and requires no tools at all when the earth is willing to do all the work for you. The trick is to be smart about it when you have two expert huntresses on your tail.
“We can’t have you cutting down branches here and sharpening stakes,” I said. “If they have night vision or they come through here after dawn, there’s too much chance that they’ll see it and be wary. Let’s cross the pasture on the hoof and leave a clear trail. Once we get to the other side, we pull a wascally wabbit and tunnel back, you see?”
“I surely do.” She shifted to a horse, took up her staff, and galloped across.
“Not here, anyway. Across the field of joy. Here. Take Fragarach with you too. Tell Granuaile to get started and
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