Hunted (The Iron Druid Chronicles, Book Six)

the New World, maybe even back in Arizona, I’d bind my amulet to my aura the way Atticus did, and then the playing field would be a bit more even.
    Except I’d never be able to live with the guilt. And I’d never have the stomach to fight again if I didn’t fight now.
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
     I had thought Oberon’s tail might wag at that, but it didn’t. He simply pricked up his ears.
    
    The ears drooped.
    I raised my right front hoof.
    
    
    
    We ran, and I consulted the elemental about a suitable place to defend ourselves. Images of the path ahead flashed through my mind until I saw a likely spot.
    //There / That place / Query: Where is that?// It was a small precipice—only fifteen or so feet high—but if we could get our backs to it, we would have a relatively unobscured line of sight and no one would be able to sneak up on us. There were trees on top of it, but at the base a small clear space before the trees broke up the view—and the approach was on a gentle slope as well, so we’d have the high ground.
    //Remain on current path// the elemental said. //Will guide//
    //Query: Distance to destination?//
    Elementals are not excellent at using human units of measurement, but I figured it was about eighty miles to the southwest, skirting cities and keeping to rural areas as much as possible. If we sped up, we could make it in a couple of hours.
     I told Oberon.
    
    

Chapter 12
    Our minds are all that defend us from the horror of the void. The majority of the time we simply think about something—anything—else, and that itself is an act of defiance against the vast nothing of the universe. But minds break down and stop thinking sometimes. They feel instead: A looping, gnawing monster eats away confidence and goals and even a sense of duty until we are in a dry bleak place of ennui, unable to focus on the minutiae that used to keep us moving. Tongues taste chalk and ashes, and eyes see only gray washes occasionally penetrated by bright stabs of panic.
    Depression is a prison to which you have the key except you never think to look for it.
    I do not know how long I stayed in the gray, afraid of the nothing and cycling through the long list of my trespasses. I cannot conceive of a judge who could grant me forgiveness. There are some shames I can never outlive. What good would it do to continue? Had I not brought enough ruin to the world—especially in the recent past? But it was the panic that saved me. Panic that Granuaile and Oberon would die. I could not bear to have their deaths added to the vast number that already weighed down the scale of my spirit.
    My eyes opened onto darkness, which was not precisely heartening but an improvement over the