Hunted (The Iron Druid Chronicles, Book Six)

Court, the one in charge of the rangers. What did you call him?”
    “Lord Grundlebeard.”
    “That’s it.”
    “What’s his real name?”
    “I never knew it. The irony is that no one ever paid attention to him until you singled him out for ridicule. Everyone calls him Grundlebeard now.”
    “Bollocks. Now we don’t have any choice but to stay and fight.”
    “It is the best course, Druid—your pardon. At Court you are always Siodhachan, but I know you use other names outside it. Do you still go by Atticus, or do you have a new name?”
    “Atticus is fine.”
    
    Granuaile choked back a laugh and then coughed to mask her amusement, while Flidais’s lips pursed in an effort not to smile. She’d heard Oberon’s comment too.
    “All right, where do you recommend we fight?” I asked, pretending my hound hadn’t said anything. “Not near the castle, I hope. That’s going to be flooded with British security in short order. In fact, I bet we’re on a satellite camera right now and someone’s going to be reviewing this and wondering who the hell we are. We should stay underneath the canopy and maybe go invisible for a while.”
    Flidais scowled at the sky. “I have heard of these satellites. Perfidious creatures.” I didn’t question her word choice, and neither did Granuaile or Oberon. Now was not the time to explain orbital surveillance to a being who had yet to use a computer or a cell phone. Satellites, to her, were as magical as the Fae were to humans. “Yes. We will return to the forest and sort ourselves for a defense.”
    Helicopters and distant sirens sounded behind us as we turned our backs on Windsor Castle and jogged through the Home Park toward Windsor Forest again. Once underneath the canopy, we dropped our camouflage and returned to the small clearing in the middle of the forest. Three marijuana plants grew nervously on the western perimeter, seemingly aware that they didn’t belong there, dreading the day when they would be harvested and smoked by a bearded and half-baked local.
    
    Still working on it, actually
.
    Flidais left her chariot and stags plainly visible just underneath the trees, a clear signal that she was now involved and doing a bit of hunting of her own. We enteredthe forest together from the northwestern side of the clearing, creating one trail, but after about a hundred yards we decided to split up our forces.
    “Before we do, however,” Flidais said, “we might be able to take advantage of something.” She stared at Granuaile while she said this, and Granuaile understandably grew wary.
    “Uh … what did you have in mind?” she asked.
    “Have you taught her how to modify the camouflage binding, Atticus?” the huntress said. The correct answer would be “yes” if I wished to avoid looking clueless, but since I truly was clueless, there was no use pretending.
    “I didn’t know it could be modified. It’s one of the base spells tattooed into our skin.”
    “You can’t modify the base spell, of course, but you can add your own flourishes on top of it. I’m surprised you haven’t tried it.”
    “I’m full of surprises.” And I didn’t know why she was speaking of camouflage when Granuaile had the ability to turn fully invisible.
    “Yes.” The goddess smirked, her eyes taking in Granuaile’s clothes. “Well, I have noticed that Granuaile and I could be mistaken for twins if we made a little bit of an effort. That could give us an advantage, so allow me to make the effort.”
    I’d noticed the resemblance before, as had others. Ogma had mistaken Granuaile for Flidais once while we were visiting Tír na nÓg.
    Keeping her eyes on Granuaile, Flidais began to speak a binding in Old Irish. I recognized the words for camouflage at the beginning, but she kept speaking past the point where it should have ended, targeting Granuaile’s black outfit and reflecting it onto her own clothing before energizing the binding. Her hunting leathers all turned black.
    “Whoa,” Granuaile and I said in stereo.
    Oberon shuddered. The Dark Druids of Windsor
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    Flidais removed the bracer on her left arm, which protected her skin from the lash of her bowstring. That gave her the same sleeveless look as Granuaile.
    “All right. Hair next,” the huntress said, for that was a significant difference. The color was almost identical, but Flidais had