Hunted (The Iron Druid Chronicles, Book Six)

vulnerable to violent death. Oh, they had nectar and ambrosia to keep their skin wrinkle-free and their bodies in prime shape, changing their blood to ichor, and that was similar to the magical food and drink available to other pantheons, but that wasn’t the end of it. They could regenerate completely, which essentially gifted them with true immortality, so that even if you shredded them like machaca and ate them with guacamole and warm tortillas, they’d just re-spawn in a brand-new body on Olympus and keep coming after you—hence the reason why Prometheus never died, in spite of having his liver eaten every day by a vulture who oddly never sought variety in his diet.
    That didn’t mean a fella couldn’t beat them. Aside from the fact that they can be slain by other immortals, the Olympians have to exist in time like everyone else. I’d tossed Bacchus onto an island of slow time in Tír na nÓg, and the Olympians took it personally—so personally that they’d rather kill me than get Bacchus back.
    I didn’t think for a moment I could do the same to the huntresses. They were far more adept in combat, for one thing, and they’d be watching each other’s back while doing their best to shoot me in mine.
    “Where are we going?” Granuaile asked.
    “Roughly north for now. Situation’s fluid.”
     Oberon said. The Morrigan had taken both arrows in her shield and told us to run.
    “I almost did too, Oberon,” Granuaile said. She could hear his voice now that she was a full Druid. “I should have been ducking or tackling Atticus or almost anything else, but instead I was just trying my damnedest not to pee.”
    “We’ll have to take a potty break later,” I said. “Distance is key right now.”
    “And I’m guessing stealth isn’t? This is going to be an easy trail to follow the way we’re moving through the forest.”
    “We’ll get crafty when we have the space to do so.”
    The Morrigan’s raspy voice entered my head. It wasn’t my favorite habit of hers, but it was convenient at the moment. Her tone was exultant.
    Here is a battle worthy of remembrance! How I wish there were witnesses and a bard like Amergin to put it down in song!
    Morrigan—
    Listen, Siodhachan. I can keep them from pursuing you for some while. But they will hunt again soon enough
.
    They will? What about you?
    I am better than they. But not immortal. My end is near; I have seen it. But what an end it will be!
    I slowed down and looked back. Granuaile and Oberon paused too.
You’re going to die?
    Don’t stop running, you fool! Run and listen and do not sleep. You know how to stave off the need to sleep, don’t you?
    Yes. Prevent the buildup of adenosine in the brain and—
    Enough with the modern words. You know. Now you must either find one of the Old Ways to Tír na nÓg—one that isn’t guarded—or make your way to the forest of Herne the Hunter.
    The forest of Herne? You mean Windsor Forest?
That’s a hell of a run across Europe
.
    You can always die instead
, the Morrigan pointed out.
    No thanks. But Windsor is not much of a wilderness anymore. It’s more like a groomed park. People drink tea there. They might even play croquet. That’s not a forest
.
    It will suffice. Herne is there. He will defend it. And he will bring friends. And, Siodhachan, remember that Gaia loves us more than she loves the Olympians. They have given her nothing in all their long lives. Even now they traumatize her with pandemonium. I am unbinding their chariots; they will be afoot for some while until their smith gods can make them anew. Take advantage and give yourself as much of a lead as possible
.
    Something didn’t compute.
Morrigan, if you saw this coming, why didn’t you warn me?
    You were with your woman
.
    My
woman?
If I tried to call Granuaile that, I would promptly lose some teeth. She’s not mine. You can’t possess anyone
.
    I have learned that lesson very well
.
    Fine, then what does that have to do with this ridiculous fight with the Olympians? We could have avoided it all
.
    No. It was always going to come. Delaying would do no good
.
    Are you kidding? That’s what living
is.
Delaying death. Let’s get you some Prozac
.
    Hush. I have for you what modern people call a lovely parting gift
.
    I shuddered to think what the Morrigan considered lovely, so I simply said,
A parting gift?
    In Tír na nÓg there is a Time Island with the following