Hunted (The Iron Druid Chronicles, Book Six)

wardrobe of loose, shapeless sweats, and she kept buying herself tight, formfitting outfits to wear in the summer months. I had trained my Irish wolfhound, Oberon, to help me through it and be my Lancelot whenever Granuaile made my jaw drop, which was more often than I would care to admit. She’d go through her kicks and lunges and various stances and build up a sweat, then I’d start thinking about other ways to get sweaty, and shortly thereafter I’d need to be rescued.
    Can’t I have just a little bit of peril?
I would ask Oberon through our mental link.
     he’d say, and then I’d have to give him a snack, which would force me to tear my eyes away from Granuaile and redirect my thoughts into less prurient channels. It might sound silly, but it was self-preservation.
    Granuaile picked up on the pattern after a while, unfortunately.
    “Sensei?” she asked.
    “Yes?”
    “Why are you always leaving about halfway through a workout to give Oberon a snack?”
    
    “What? Well, he’s a good dog.”
    
    “Granted, but he’s a good dog all the time, and theonly times you interrupt what you’re doing to give him a snack are during workouts.”
    
    “I reward him sometimes for using big words. And sometimes I reward him for shutting up.”
    
    Now would be a good time to shut up
.
    
    Deal
.
    “So what did he say just now?” Granuaile asked.
    “I’m sorry, but that’s classified information.”
    Oberon chuffed, and Granuaile’s eyes narrowed. She knew the dog was laughing, blast him, and now she’d be determined to find out what he thought was so funny.
    I was saved by the arrival of an extremely large crow. It spat out “Caw!” at Klaxon-level volume, landing on top of our trailer. It startled us all, including Oberon, who barked at it a couple of times. The bird’s eyes glowed red and he stopped, tucking his head down and retracting his tail between his legs.
    “Morrigan?” I said.
    The red glow faded from the crow’s eyes as she tilted her head and spoke in a throaty rasp, “Surprise, Siodhachan.” The Celtic Chooser of the Slain would never call me Atticus. The head bobbed once at my apprentice. “Granuaile.”
    “What’s wrong?” I asked, because the Morrigan did not make social calls. I belatedly realized that I should have offered her refreshment or adhered to some standard of hospitality, but thankfully the Morrigan was too focused on her mission to notice my awful manners.
    The crow rustled her wings and announced, “We have business to attend to. You will be gone for at least a week but perhaps two. You won’t need to bring anything,not even a weapon. Shift to your bird form and let us be gone.”
    “Wait, wait. I’m going to need more of an explanation than that. Can’t my apprentice come, or my hound?”
    “No. Definitely not. Our business does not concern them.”
     Oberon said.
    I glanced uncertainly at Granuaile, and she shrugged.
    “You say we’ll be gone two weeks?”
    “At the most. But we must begin immediately. Make haste.”
    Arguing with the Morrigan would be unwise. Spending at least a week with her—maybe two—would not be any wiser.
    I’m doomed, aren’t I?
    
    “You’re not doomed,” the Morrigan said, and I belatedly remembered that she could read my mind now—or at least hear thoughts that I projected. “But you will be if you don’t hurry up.”
    I turned to Granuaile. “Take a few days off if you wish. You’ve earned it. But continue to practice your languages and work out every day.”
    “Okay, sensei. Maybe Oberon and I will head up to Durango.” Our place in Many Farms was just over a hundred miles southwest of there. She fingered her hair, dyed a brown so dark it might as well be black. “I can get this mess fixed up. It’s time.”
    Her roots were beginning to show again, which meant mine were too. Our ridiculous fake identities had served us well in this remote location; we kept to ourselves and no one really gave a damn about us. Aside from the embarrassment of our assumed names—the trickster, Coyote, had fixed it so we had to call ourselves Sterling Silver and Betty Baker in public—we liked living