Hunted (The Iron Druid Chronicles, Book Six)

If they perform miracles here and there, they’re always small things that no one outside the local area will notice. But, more than anything else, they don’t show themselves because humanity doesn’t truly believe they ever will. We imagine them chilling out in their heavens or nirvanas or planes of punishment, and they’re generally expected to stay there. And if they’re going to work their divine magic on earth or pull a deus ex machina, then they act through surrogates or from afar. In a sense, deities are incapable of showing themselves because most people don’t believe they’ll meet their gods before they die. I am a notable exception to the rule. The ancient Greeks and Romans believed they could run into the Olympians, though, so that allowed Zeus and company to start all kinds of shit in the old days.
    The silence lengthened. I couldn’t believe Frigg’s entire repertoire had been exhausted on goat teats and mead, but for the nonce, at least, her speech was on hiatus. Taking a deep breath, I employed the architectural-history gambit: “Why is this called the Cleopatra Room?” I asked.
    The Morrigan pointed up. “The ceiling,” she said. Craning my head back, I saw an elaborate stucco on the ceiling. Back in Arizona, they just sprayed stucco on theoutside of houses and called it an exterior. But long ago, back when this building was originally constructed, artists used it as a medium to create permanent bas-relief sculptures. This one—undoubtedly one of the finest I’d ever seen—depicted the suicide of Cleopatra, who’d famously decided to leave this world by snakebite. Seeing it made me immediately miss Oberon, because I knew he would find the opportunity for parody irresistible, and I knew what he would say if he could see it now, complete with the voice of Samuel L. Jackson: enough
! I have
had
it with these motherfucking snakes on this motherfucking ceiling!>
    “Beautiful,” I said, and hoped my smile would be interpreted as art appreciation rather than amusement at my hound’s fondness for movies.
    “Yes,” the Morrigan agreed.
    Our scintillating conversation was blessedly interrupted by the sommelier, who returned with the bottle of Shiraz. He poured a little out for our suspiciously missing homie, then left us to fill the silence once again. We had nothing, so we drank a bit and speculated about all the different flavors we could taste in the fermented grapes. The Morrigan opined that it had a layered flavor, stony but finishing with a lush
réglisse
. Frigg tasted spice, whatever that meant; I doubt it was an allusion to the planet Arrakis. I am not proficient in the language of wine, so I was just about to suggest there was a faint top note of mango chutney when Frigg’s eyes shifted over my shoulder and her expression softened. She rose from her chair, and the Morrigan and I followed suit. Turning to follow Frigg’s gaze, I saw a tall man in a tuxedo approaching our table. Gray hair flowed about his head and down to his shoulders, but it wasn’t thin and receding; it was somehow virile and imbued with badassery. The simple black eye patch over his left eye didn’t make him look like a pirate but instead communicated wisdom—precisely the prize for which he gave up his eye. It spoke of his suffering and his willingness to sacrifice—to stop at nothing—to remain the wisest of the wise. His epic beard was a bit surprising and somewhat intimidating: I’d expected an unruly carpet flowing down his chest, but it was a densely packed and trimmed affair, almost like topiary, which gave his features the weight of a carefully constructed edifice that few men could pull off. Most guys grow beards that do nothing for them other than communicate to the world that “this is what happens when you don’t shave.” The beard of Odin told you that he wasn’t a hippie or a barbarian or a fantasy author but a god who could bring order to chaos.
    He took his wife’s hand and planted a kiss on it. Then he turned to the Morrigan and nodded to her once. “Morrigan.” She nodded back. Then his eye swiveled to face me, and I could
feel
the frost of his hatred; I had to suppress a shudder. “So you are the one,” he said. “Slayer of the Norns and Freyr and so many others.” His voice reminded me of whiskey—and I don’t say that just because I’m Irish. His words were rich and smoky and quite possibly had been aged in oak barrels for years before he spoke them.