Hunted (The Iron Druid Chronicles, Book Six)

arrival of Flidais, who called to us from the small field and revealed herself when our eyes followed her voice.
    “Well met, Druids.” Her tone mocked us gently. “Is it safe to approach?” She stood in her chariot, nearly identical to that of the Olympians in that it was pulled by stags. It wasn’t a flashy design, more utilitarian than anything else. I’m not sure how she had muffled the noise of her movement; we should have heard her coming. Or perhaps I’d been simply too absorbed in Granuaile.
    I beckoned her over and we all rose from the ground to meet her, Oberon grumbling about naps he’d never get back. I cautioned him to keep his thoughts to himself, since Flidais could hear him if she wished. She was dressed for battle—that is, she had her standard hunting leathers and bow and quiver, but she also wore two longdaggers for close work. One I had seen before but had thought it was purely ceremonial, for appearances at the Fae Court. Its handle was made of malachite and mother-of-pearl. Her hair bounced on her head in curly red ringlets and she appeared to be in a good mood, which put me on my guard. Though I currently thought Midhir was behind all this, Flidais had shown herself in the past to be a willing pawn of Brighid’s. I doubted she was truly our adversary, but neither did I trust her.
    “How did you get here, if you don’t mind my asking?” I said as she approached. “The tethers are all shut down by pandemonium.”
    The huntress shrugged. “I used an Old Way.”
    I blinked. “It wasn’t guarded?”
    “No. Why would it be?”
    “Because they’re all guarded or destroyed. All across Europe.”
    “Not the one I used.”
    “Where is it?” I asked, because I couldn’t remember any in this vicinity.
    “Underneath Windsor Castle, down amongst the earth left over from the days of William the Conqueror. It emerges in the dungeon or basement or whatever they call it these days. Is it catacombs?”
    “It was probably the cellar,” I advised her. “How long ago did you use it?”
    “Only minutes ago. I traveled directly here, because I was informed by Odin’s messenger that you were in some dire need.”
    “Our dire need is to get off this plane. We have to escape the Olympians.”
    “Ah, yes. I’ve heard you provoked them somehow and the Morrigan is dead as a result. What did you do?”
    “I put Bacchus on one of the Time Islands.”
    Flidais rolled her eyes. “That would do it. And for that the Morrigan is slain.”
    Her comment stung, and I knew it would settle into a corner of my mind and leap out at me from time to time, stinging me anew, but I pretended that I felt nothing. “Can you take us to the Old Way?”
    The expression of amusement faded. “Oh. I suppose.”
    “What’s the matter?”
    “When I received your message from Odin, I was rather hoping you’d asked me here to help you fight the Olympians.”
    “If there wasn’t a way to avoid the fight altogether, that’s precisely what I would be asking, since you know this area better than anyone—with the possible exception of Herne. But I don’t relish standing toe-to-toe with a true immortal. I’d rather withdraw and try diplomacy.”
    Flidais snorted. “The Olympians are not diplomatic—or haven’t you noticed? They talk through their differences only when killing isn’t the best option. Unless you can give them a good reason to let you live, you’re alive just until they catch up. Or as long as I’m fighting on your side.”
    Ignoring her last comment, I said, “I might be able to think of something if we can get them to listen. Escaping the plane would take killing us off the table. They’d have to talk. Through intermediaries, of course.”
    “You’d rather run?” Scorn thickened Flidais’s voice as she flirted with calling me a coward. “They are on our turf—or as close to our turf as we’re likely to get. Let us show them what the Irish think of their arrogance. We have some time to prepare. My divination says the Olympians are on their way but won’t be here until after dawn. We can give them a fight and win.”
    It was gratifying to hear that her divination corroborated the evidence of my augury, but I said, “I prefer to live up to the fighting-Irish stereotype only when I’m cornered or when the odds are skewed in my favor.There’s no upside to taking them on, Flidais. They’re as fast as we are, if not faster. And, as you pointed out, they killed the Morrigan.”
    “But