Trapped

extraneous to the objective, just as I was doing now while tattooing her. It was denial, pure and simple.
    Once I removed my blinders and looked at the emotional ties between us, I knew precisely what I was looking at. I’d seen knots like this before. Some of them were lust. And some of them, the ones I hadn’t dared to confirm for fear that they wouldn’t be there, were love.
    Granuaile could see them now for herself, and she’d figured out what they meant without my coaching. She was right. I couldn’t pretend anymore.
    What I could do, however, was feel like a complete dumbass. Again.
    I’ve lost track of how often I’ve felt that way in relationships. Somehow, despite having more practice than anyone, I’ve never learned how not to feel like a dumbass. It’s like ordering a medium anything at the movie theatre and the teenage employee always, always, asks if you want a large for fifty cents more. Even if you ask them nicely ahead of time not to upsell you, they still do it, because the word medium triggers an automatic response in their brains. Falling in love is like that: You always feel like a dumbass at some point, even if you know it’s coming—it’s unavoidable.
    Before I could offer something beyond a helpless monosyllable, Oberon’s voice in my head demanded my attention.
    › Atticus, three women and a man in white are headed in your direction. They have those thirsty things you told me about. ‹
    You mean a thyrsus?
    › Right. They’re speaking some other language, and their teeth look really sharp. ‹
    A new panic filled me. Bacchants were on their way.

Chapter 14
    Listen, buddy. This is extreme danger. Thanks for the heads-up. Lie down right where you are and keep still. Don’t engage them, don’t follow, and don’t talk to me again until I renew communication. Okay?
    › Got it. I’ll take a nap. ‹
    Excellent plan. Atticus out .
    Granuaile could tell by my faraway expression that something was wrong. » What is it? « she asked.
    Before I answered, I sent an urgent plea to Olympia. //Hide Druids / Danger//
    //Already hidden//
    » Shut down your magical sight right now. Disconnect from Gaia and put on your shorts. We have to stop. «
    » Again? «
    » Yes. Don’t draw from the earth in any way. Drop Olympia’s marble if you have to. No magic whatsoever. «
    The marble made a soft scratching noise against the stone floor as she complied. » Okay. Tell me what’s happening. «
    » Oberon’s spotted Bacchants. They can smell magic, and they’re coming this way. «
    » How do you smell magic? «
    I lowered my voice. » I didn’t know it was possible until shortly after we met. Remember that time in Scottsdale, when Laksha was helping me against them? I was standing still at night with camouflage on. I should have been undetectable, right? But one of the Bacchants took a deep breath from across a parking lot and walked right toward me. We had a conversation. Her eyes were unfocused, but she knew I was there. My body odor wasn’t that bad, so what did she smell? My camouflage. «
    » So the smell of our binding ritual has led them here. «
    » Exactly. «
    We arranged ourselves so that we were lying on our bellies and able to see a severely screened view of the creek and woods below our wee cave. A flicker of bright white from the south caught my eye, and I jerked my head in that direction for Granuaile’s benefit, wordlessly directing her gaze.
    More white appeared, floating draperies weaving through the foliage, and animals fell silent before their advance. We heard nothing but the soft chuckle of the creek below.
    Skin gradually stood out from the searing white. Arms and heads. Dark tangles of hair, groomed by static or maybe playful kittens, provided stark chaotic frames for pale symmetrical faces. They might have been pretty by some standards, except that their eyes were glazed and polluted with madness.
    And it was little wonder. Behind the three women strolled Bacchus, the lord of madness himself. Unlike the last time I’d seen him, he appeared calm and in full control of his mental faculties. Indeed, he appeared freshly scrubbed and moisturized, as if he’d emerged from a salon rather than spent the last few hours trekking through the wilderness. His lips were not smiling or even turned up at the corners, but he still radiated a sense of being satiated, drowsy eyelids reveling in Epicurean luxury, an androgynous beauty who’d just gorged himself on full-bodied