Trapped

under my arm while Granuaile carried the discs out in her handbasket. The police screeched to a halt in the street and leapt out of their vehicles, square bodies emphasized by swaths of body armor and contrasted with cylindrical weapons of one kind or another. They utterly failed to see us as they surrounded the store; we slipped between them and jogged to Enikkea Park. There I called to Oberon, who found me easily by following the smell of blood. He’d been all alone for some time, since the dog walkers had all gone home once the sun went down. He’d entertained himself by sniffing around and chasing wee critters. I dissolved all camouflage and tossed the console into a square pond with a fountain in the middle of it. Granuaile snapped all the discs in half and threw them in as well.
    » Did I miss something there? « Granuaile said. » You asked him about a vampire named Theophilus and he attacked? «
    » Yep, you heard it all. «
    » Who’s Theophilus? «
    » Leif told me about him before we raided Asgard. He’s supposedly the oldest vampire living. Unliving. Whatever. «
    » Do you think that was him? «
    » No, not a chance. Theophilus would have been able to overpower me. «
    » Then why are you looking for him? «
    » I want to ask him if he knows anything about the old Roman pogrom against Druids. If he didn’t have anything to do with it directly, he surely knew who did. Leif thought that Theophilus spent part of every year in Greece; naturally every other vampire in Greece would be well aware of his territory. «
    » So you never intended to kill that vampire? «
    » Oh, no, I intended to kill him. Just not so publicly, and only after I’d gotten something useful out of him. «
    » I’d say you got something useful. He wouldn’t have attacked unless he had something to protect. Theophilus is alive and around here somewhere. «
    I nodded. » Good thinking. But it’s an unfortunate development all around; he’s going to know there’s a Druid nearby, because only Druids can do that to vampires. Are you sure you didn’t get tagged by any of the blood? «
    » I’m not sure about my back, but I didn’t feel anything, « she said. She turned around and looked over her shoulder at me. » Can you see any? «
    She appeared clean. » Nope. That’s excellent, because we still need a carrier for the tattoo ink. I have the ink itself ready to go, but I need you to sally forth and get a couple bottles of ethyl alcohol. Failing that, some strong vodka. « I gave her a wad of euros. » Oberon and I will wait here. Perhaps I’ll take a quick dunk to get the worst of the blood off. «
    » Be back as soon as I can, sensei, « she said, and then jogged toward town.
    I waded into the pool and began to splash my face and arms. There was no one around to object to a quick bath, so I didn’t try to be subtle about it.
    › This is weird. I feel like I should be telling you a story right now, ‹ Oberon said. Usually I told him stories while he bathed.
    Well, why don’t you? It’s about time you told me a story .
    › Where am I supposed to get my stories? I’m the only hound who knows language well enough to tell them. ‹
    I think you just answered your own question. You have to make them up .
    › Fine. There once was a Doberman named JeanClaude Van Hamme— ‹
    Wait, nobody would name their dog that!
    › Whose story is this? ‹
    Yours , I conceded.
    › Thank you. Because of your rude interruption, I will never tell you about the exciting adventures of JeanClaude Van Hamme, but I will tell you a different story, one that I have been working on for a while, if you promise not to interrupt. Do you promise?
    I promise. I’m sorry for interrupting .
    › Very well. Brace yourself for a tragedy. It has lost bones, lost balls, a profound waste of sausage, and everything. ‹
    I can’t wait! And I wasn’t kidding. If I had a tail to wag, I would have wagged it.
    › Here it is, then … ‹
    Oberon’s story, a mystery after the style of Sherlock Holmes, was called » The Purloined Poodle. « It featured a canine sleuth named Ishmael (a Weimaraner) and his trusty assistant, Starbuck (a Boston terrier), who foiled a nefarious plot set in motion by Abe Froman, the Sausage King of Chicago.
    Oh, Oberon, that was a wonderful mystery! I said when he finished. Bravo!
    › I think it should be Sir Oberon. Arthur Conan Doyle got a knighthood for stories like that, so I think I should get one too. ‹
    I doubt the queen