Hunted (The Iron Druid Chronicles, Book Six)

would have snuffed me. It would be better to avoid future conflict—or even have them fight on our side. “I’d rather get to whoever’s sending them after my ass than meet any more of them.”
    “I hear that. But let me speak a word into your ear: clothes.”
    “Yeah. We should get some. No one takes you seriously when you’re naked.”
    “That’s wisdom right there. Hold on, I’m going to get my knives.” The first Svartálf she’d hit had bled to death, and his hands were still cupped around his groin. I turned my head away so I didn’t have to watch her yank out the knife, but the sound it made caused me to cross my legs. His body turned to a sticky puddle as Granuaile stepped away and wiped her blade clean on the grass.
    I was capable of free movement after another few minutes, and we jogged through the Long Wood toward a road called Hosey Hill. I took note of the birds in the wood and paused to watch them.
    “What’s up?” Granuaile asked, seeing my gaze directed at the treetops.
    “Augury, if we’re lucky. We’re due for some luck, don’t you think? I’m not a proponent of augury as a rule, but since I have no other methods of divination available to me, I’ll take what I can get.”
    Granuaile flicked her eyes upward, tracking the finches flitting around in the branches. “What are you aiming to get out of all that noise?”
    I sat on a thin carpet of leaves and kept my eyes on the birds. “A guess about our pursuit. How long before the huntresses catch up.”
    She sat next to me and rested her staff across her lap. “You never taught me how to do that.”
    “I rarely use it. I prefer casting wands, because it’s quicker and you can ask multiple questions. With augury you have to wait and observe for about fifteen minutes per question and hope you didn’t miss something.”
     Oberon asked.
    “Sure, buddy, just don’t bark at anything.”
    Oberon trotted off, and I spent the next fifteen minutestrying to guess the future according to the behavior of the ten or so birds I could see frolicking above us. The theory behind augury was akin to chaos theory in that actions in one place can have profound effects elsewhere, and birds were acutely sensitive to changes in their environment—they could anticipate storms and dry spells and figure when it was best to migrate. Thus, if one was properly schooled in how to interpret their behavior, one might be able to tap into their sense of the future. These birds would see not only me pass underneath them but the huntresses as well. The question was when?
    I wasn’t sure I caught everything that their fluttering and pecking order had to tell me, but my best guess was that, once we made it to Windsor Forest, we’d have a few hours to kill before dawn, and the huntresses would get there shortly after sunrise.
    In camouflage, we resumed our run, following Hosey Hill north to Westerham. I washed off the remains of the dark elf in a public fountain and then we entered an Orvis store—a kind of outdoorsy UK chain—just before close of business. I found a black Havana shirt and jeans and declared myself satisfied; there was no use finding any shoes. It was the next best thing to camouflage when running at night. Vowing to pay them back when we could, we exited, dropped our bindings, and allowed ourselves to be seen.
    Granuaile had found an all-black training outfit, a form-hugging kit that would let her move silently without restriction, as long as she didn’t wear the noisy Windbreaker that came with it. She stuck to the running tank, proudly displaying the full tattoos on her right arm.
    Granuaile’s eyes roved up and down. “Mmm. Druid is the new black,” she said.
    “Did you just make a yummy sound?”
    

Chapter 21
    We floated onto the grounds of Windsor Park like shades, unnoticed in the dark of night. On Snow Hill, two miles to the south of the castle, we paused by the statue of George III, which gave us a view of the Long Walk to the castle, tree-lined and coiffed according to royal wishes.
    “See this guy?” I said, my hand slapping against the stone of the pedestal. “Not only did he lose the American colonies and usher in the twilight of the British Empire, but he pulled down Herne’s oak back in the eighteenth century. It was already dead, so I guess that was some excuse, but