Hunted (The Iron Druid Chronicles, Book Six)

again—or, at the very least, aggressively ignore one another.”
    Hermes turned his red-rimmed eyes to Flidais. “The Tuatha Dé Danann condone this behavior?”
    Flidais cleared her throat before answering in formal, diplomatic tones. “The violence is regrettable and we have no wish to give offense to Olympus, but it is our view that the Druids have acted solely in self-defense and they have the right to defend themselves.”
    Hermes snorted in disbelief. “They sundered five dryads from their oaks. You believe that was done in self-defense?”
    “It was necessary to contain Faunus if we were to escape Bacchus,” I said, unsure that Flidais knew all the details about that episode, “so, yes, it was self-defense, and the dryads were returned unharmed, as Olympus demanded.”
    Hermes ignored me and said to Flidais, “What say you?”
    “I say merely this: The Druids do the earth’s work onthis plane, while the Tuatha Dé Danann are bound by old oaths to remain in Tír na nÓg as much as possible. We therefore wish them to remain alive and free. Can I be clearer?”
    I almost blurted out, “No shit?” but schooled my expression to make it seem as if I had expected her unequivocal support all along. In truth, I’d been expecting an assertion of neutrality, even though she and Manannan—not to mention the Morrigan—had already intervened directly.
    The Greek god huffed and his eyes flicked once more to Mercury—or, rather, to where Mercury had been. The earth had swallowed him completely, and his cries could no longer be heard.
    “I just want to talk,” I reminded him.
    “You might not like how the conversation ends,” Hermes said, before rising higher into the sky and winging south toward Olympus.

Chapter 25
    While Hermes went to go tell his dad on me, I glanced at Flidais and said, “I was impressed by what you said. Is that truly what the Tuatha Dé Danann wish for us—to remain alive and free?”
    “Perhaps not all of them,” Flidais admitted, “but it is the position of those who matter. It is what Brighid wishes.”
    So Flidais remained the staunch ally of Brighid. “I’m relieved to hear it. Please give her my kindest regards.” That would serve as a thank-you without placing me in her debt.
    “I will. What’s next?”
    “Well, I sure wish Perun were here.”
    “You do? Why?”
    Once I explained, she offered to go get him. He’d been hiding out in Tír na nÓg with Brighid’s permission ever since Loki had destroyed his plane.
    “How are you going to get him?” I said. “The Old Way under the castle is rubble now.”
    “It’s not the only one around here.”
    “It’s not?”
    “Herne’s oak does double duty. It’s tethered to Tír na nÓg but it’s also an anchor to an Old Way. Why do you think we kept influencing England’s monarchs to plantnew trees in the same spot when the old ones were ripped out?”
    “What? You did?” The enormity of her omission hit home. “I mean, why didn’t you tell me earlier?”
    She grinned, unrepentant. “I wanted to fight. And it was right to do so. The Olympians needed a lesson. But we can leave now if you wish.”
    Earlier I would have jumped at the chance, but this was an opportunity to preserve our hides for more than a few hours or days. “No, I want to see this through. But if you could take Granuaile and Oberon with you—she needs help with the arrow—that would be great.”
    Granuaile was fine with the idea and gladly limped into Flidais’s chariot once we went to fetch her. She wobbled and looked a bit peaked, but, true to her word, she seemed to have it under control. I gave her a kiss and wished her a speedy recovery. Oberon, however, flatly refused to leave me, and I didn’t have the heart to fight him on it.
    After leaving Granuaile in the care of Goibhniu, who would saw off the arrowhead to allow the shaft to be withdrawn, Flidais came back before Zeus and Jupiter could arrive. She exited her chariot hand in hand with Perun, the Slavic god of thunder and her current snogging companion.
    He looked rejuvenated and spoiling for a fight. His adventures in tailoring were also getting a bit wild. The
V
in his tight belted tunic plunged precipitously and ended just above his belly button, allowing what appeared to be red shag pile carpeting to spill out. His pants were tucked into blue calf-high boots with a flared top. He looked like a superhero from the seventies. He smiled and gave me a manly hug, which felt like