Hunted (The Iron Druid Chronicles, Book Six)

I’d never have occasion to discover whether it worked or not.
    The charm executed a series of bindings, three of which were conditional: The first one bound my spirit to my corporeal form even if my heart stopped beating, a sort of soul cage using the framework I’d already established by binding my amulet to my aura; the second took a snapshot of my physical brain every five minutes, accounting for every synapse and neuron, and that had been ongoing since I triggered it in 1812; the third was a healing command, automatically drawing upon the earth (so long as my spirit remained) to heal my head in accordance with the last stored image of my brain, down to the last cell; and once those had been accomplished, the fourth slammed my spirit back into its mortal coil—my brain—and got everything working again. The theory was that my heart would start pumping, the lungs would start breathing, and I’d hopefully rise from the dead without fangs or a shambling gait and with my personality and memories intact.
    So much could have gone wrong. Getting decapitated, vaporized in a giant orange ball of flame, or losing so much blood that I couldn’t ever get the heart pumping again. Getting shot on the roof of a building with no hope of contacting the earth. Heck, falling in the field in such a way that none of my tattoos touched the ground would have been disastrous all by itself. The charm was by no means fail-safe insurance against death. But the effort I’d spent on it had clearly paid off.
    The gray wash abruptly returned to my vision, the black pitch of the earth fading. What would I do with a new lease on life? Find new and gruesome ways to doom everyone alive? Speak without thinking, make Faustian bargains with witches and frost giants? Save Granuaile and Oberon now, only to see them die at the hands of Loki later? That would be unkind. It would be more merciful to leave them to Artemis and Diana, who favored the quick kill.
    I would never have allowed myself to think that way in the company of others. But one is never so alone as in the grave. I could feel all this and no one would overhear or suspect. For all that we may sometimes despise our fellows and be driven to rages and petty revenges, I think we are even darker creatures when we are alone. We can learn to fear our own thoughts more than the lash of the whip or the slap in the face.
    At least that is how I imagine it is for people cursed with self-awareness.
    Two regrets pulled me out of the gray. If I did nothing, I would never see Granuaile’s freckles again. Or those green eyes. Or smell her strawberry lip gloss … Well, okay, it was more than two regrets. Three. Three regrets. And damn if Oberon didn’t deserve a poodle or some kind of companion besides me. All right, four regrets. Probably more, the longer I thought about it.
    A fair measure of pride had something to do with meclawing my way to the surface as well. I couldn’t stand the thought of Theophilus smiling a smug smile and drinking a goblet full of blood, toasting the final demise of Druids on the earth. He had a metric fuckton of bad karma due him, and I hoped I’d be the one to back up the truck and dump it on his undead ass.
    And, gods below, didn’t the Morrigan deserve a shred of effort on my part after what she’d done for me?
    I clutched Fragarach tightly as Saxony helped me rise to the surface. //Query: Where is Fierce Druid and Druidfriend?//
    //No longer in my realm//
    They must have already left Germany. If Granuaile had decided to follow the plan, they could be in the Netherlands or even Belgium by now.
    //Query: Plot straight line to them for me?/ Speak with neighboring elementals?//
    //Pleasure / Harmony//
    //Harmony / Tell Fierce Druid nothing// I didn’t want Granuaile and Oberon to slow down or decide to wait for me when the huntresses would be close behind. And since they were still probably being watched, I didn’t want to tip anyone off that I was walking the earth again.
    //Harmony// Saxony said once more.
    When I emerged into the air, it was deep night. If Saxony could trace Granuaile through a neighboring elemental, then it was probably the same night that I had been shot. It was entirely possible. Brain tissue is not so heavy or dense as muscle tissue, and I hadn’t needed to replace all of it—just the few ounces of a bullet’s path. Tracks led to the northwest—dogs and deer. The huntresses had been through here already, and their hounds were