Hunted (The Iron Druid Chronicles, Book Six)

gesturing to my scarred right hand. “You were nearby at the time. You could have stepped in and prevented it, yet you didn’t. I could have died, and you would have broken your word.”
    The Morrigan blew air through her nose in a sort of halfhearted snort, and a corner of her mouth turned up. “Why are you paying attention to what might have happened? Tell me what
did
happen.”
    “I suffered unnecessarily.”
    The mention of suffering caused the Morrigan to close her eyes in pleasure and make a yummy noise. “The necessity can be debated. But you lived. I never broke my word.”
    “But it was an awfully close thing, Morrigan. A skin-walker tore out my throat—”
    “And you healed,” she finished. “I have been faithful in my promise to you. I never promised that you would remain free from injury or suffering. For one thing, that would have interfered with my sex life.”
    I flinched and took a step back. The Morrigan noticed and laughed. “Speaking of which, Siodhachan, how is yours of late? Do you even have one?”
    “Yes, I have one,” I replied. I did my best to keep my tone matter-of-fact rather than sullen. It was more difficult than I thought it would be.
    Her disbelief was clear. “You keep a mistress in that tiny town?”
    “No. We head into Farmington or Durango on the weekends, or Gallup and Flagstaff on occasion. We both have various partners in these places willing to, uh, spend time with us.”
    “Your gift for euphemism continues to thrive. But Ithink I have heard of such modern relationships. There is a colloquialism for them, yes? They are boogie calls.”
    “Boogie? Oh! Nice try. You were very close. They’re known as booty calls.”
    “That’s what I said. Booty calls.”
    “You said boogie—” The Morrigan’s eyes flashed red for the briefest moment, and I cleared my throat. “Pardon me. I must have misheard you. Quite right.”
    “So your apprentice has these booty calls as well?”
    I shrugged. “As far as I know. It’s not really my business. She’s had a steady boyfriend or five over the years. She got a marriage proposal, too, which she rejected.”
    “And you were not jealous?”
    “It’s not my place to be jealous, because I have made it very clear to her that we cannot have a relationship beyond that of master and apprentice.”
    “I didn’t ask about your place or anything regarding propriety. I want to know how you
feel
about her dalliances. Are you jealous?”
    I considered. To claim I was completely indifferent would be dishonest. And there were times, perhaps, when Granuaile was a bit too eager to share her conquests with me. After she first met her boyfriend in Durango, she reported that “he was so hot that he damn near made my ovaries explode.” But that was as it should be; there was no reason for Granuaile to settle for anything less than hotness. Neither should she settle for anything less than joy. I hoped she would find someone to provide that for her since I couldn’t. For my part, I had not been trying very hard lately, and despite the general truth of what I’d told the Morrigan, I hadn’t made a booty call in quite some time. There were many beautiful, delightful, intelligent women in the area, especially in the college towns, but somehow they all fell short of Granuaile in my eyes, and I had been choosing to dowithout rather than settle for a sort of surrogate. It wasn’t celibacy, I told myself. It was high standards.
    “No,” I finally said. “She is my apprentice but isn’t mine in any other sense. I am a tad envious of her partners, perhaps, but nothing more. I am happy for her happiness.”
    The Morrigan scoffed openly. “Happiness? Neither of you is happy. Your auras scream of repression.”
    “That’s okay,” I said.
    “It is not. Sexual repression is conduct unbecoming a Celt.”
    I shrugged. “Better that than having to deal with guilt ferrets.”
    “What are guilt ferrets?”
    “They’re bastards. They cling to your neck and tickle and bite and generally make you miserable, which is a pretty good trick for a metaphor.” They were also impervious to logic—perhaps their most diabolical power. There was no cause for me to feel guilty about any liaisons with other women, since Granuaile and I were not in a relationship and monogamy was not required, but the guilt ferrets attacked me anyway every time.
    “I dislike guilt,” the Morrigan said. “It is regret and recrimination and despair over that which