Hunted (The Iron Druid Chronicles, Book Six)

andtraining in Many Farms. Taken all around, Coyote had done us a solid, and he in turn was mighty pleased about the way his renewable-energy projects were coming along, thanks to my help. Six years had done him and the tribe a world of good; the coal mine was shut down forever now that Coyote’s ventures were creating lots of jobs.
    “All right. You know the drill, right? If I don’t come back—”
    “I’m supposed to call Hal Hauk, I know,” Granuaile said. “He’s got your will. But you won’t make me do that.”
    “I sure hope not. See you later.” I ducked into the trailer to undress before I shifted, and the Morrigan squawked impatiently.
    
    Where do you think I’m going?
I said as I threw my shirt into the hamper.
    We’re going to have a feast. A feast! On some wonderfully succulent wildebeest.
>
    If you wanted to go hunting for wildebeest, you should have said so. Listen, watch Granuaile for me, will you?
    
    Divested of my clothes, I triggered the charm on my necklace that bound my form to a great horned owl and hopped over to the door.
    Thanks, buddy. I’ll have to owe you that snack. Though I’m sure Granuaile will completely spoil you while I’m gone
.
    
    I hopped down from the trailer doorway and hooteda good-bye to Granuaile. The Morrigan flapped her wings noisily and launched herself to the southeast.
    Come, Siodhachan
, her voice said in my mind. I shuddered and took wing after her. I didn’t like having her in my head, though at the moment I had to admit it was convenient. Unlike the Morrigan, I couldn’t speak like a human while in bird form.
     I asked her. We were flying toward Canyon de Chelly, where we could find a tree bound to Tír na nÓg and shift out of the state.
    You need to repair your tattoo
, the Morrigan replied.
     Ever since I’d been chewed on by a giant locust—courtesy of Coyote’s attempt to save the world—my ability to heal myself had been damaged. Colorado (the elemental, not the state) had taken care of what few needs I’d had since then, because I’d known all along that at some point the Morrigan would have to be the one who doctored my tats. The problem with that was that, unlike most doctors, the Morrigan didn’t agree with the credo of “First, do no harm.” The rest of the Tuatha Dé Danann thought I was dead—at least, I hoped they did—so I was stuck with the Morrigan as my ink slinger.
    You have procrastinated long enough
.
    I stopped flapping my wings out of shock and dropped like a stone for a second before I recovered. The Morrigan was not a type A personality who worried about procrastination—hers or anyone else’s.
    
    One thing at a time, Siodhachan
.
    
    She didn’t answer. She kept flying as if I hadn’t said anything and allowed me time to realize that she wasn’tgoing to answer any more questions, whether I asked them one at a time or not. This was highly unusual behavior for the Morrigan. Usually she couldn’t wait to tell me about all the dire shit that was about to befall me. Pronouncing my imminent doom held a certain relish for her. I couldn’t understand why she was being so closemouthed now, but my curiosity was piqued.
    We shifted from Canyon de Chelly to a deserted patch of Tír na nÓg, where no Fae would see us, and then from there to a damp gray fen in Ireland, surrounded by yew trees, that the Morrigan called her own. She led me to a barrow that I suppose I should call her
home
or
estate
or perhaps a simple
dwelling
, but those words don’t really fit the feel of the place so much as the word
lair
. The Morrigan was a bit too savage to live in a
home;
she could rock a
lair
like nobody else, though. Bones, I noticed, were a strong decorative motif. Skulls too. Perhaps that subconsciously tilted me toward the word
lair
instead of
home;
few homes are so abundantly adorned with bones—especially ones that the owner has quite probably gnawed on.
    We flew straight through an open