Trapped

lemurs are kind of funny; they throw fruit at the back of your head when you’re not looking and then point at one another when you turn around. But there are times when you don’t appreciate novelty, such as when you’re trying to run for your life, and this was one of those times: I couldn’t shift away from Bacchus, because the damn tree slapped my hand away every time I tried to touch it, thanks to the dryad inside. New experience, but not cool.
    » Should we go invisible? « Granuaile asked.
    » No, they’d smell the magic and chase us. «
    » The man is mine, « Bacchus said to his horde of maenads, » but you can entertain yourselves with the woman. « And then he charged me with all the confidence of the truly immortal.
    » Don’t grapple, « I advised Granuaile quickly. » Keep them at a distance. They’re stronger than you are but not as quick. «
    It might have been better to advise her to run, but she was already moving toward them. There were close to a hundred of them and only one of her, but since the Bacchants were half stupid with liquor and secure in their numbers, they had difficulty processing the fact that Granuaile was attacking them . Nor would they be immune to wood. I caught a flash of her lunging forward and flipping Scáthmhaide down hard on a skull just to set the proper tone. The Bacchant crumpled and Granuaile sprang away, content now to lead the drunken savages on a merry chase. I loved how she always struck first when threatened; she appreciated the value of surprise and wielded it with often deadly results.
    I didn’t get to watch her much after that; Bacchus was in my face. Like his followers, he was immune to iron, so Fragarach was useless and I left it in its sheath. We had never tangled personally, and I’d rather hoped we never would. But I’d seen him fight before against Leif, and he wasn’t terribly skilled, just terribly strong. I leapt about eight feet straight up, and he bull-rushed headfirst into the dryad’s tree, which cracked and groaned.
    » Ow, watch it! « the dryad said.
    I’d tucked my legs underneath me for the leap but kicked out with my right as I fell, to take advantage of Bacchus’s rebound. He took it on the chin and flopped backward after staggering a couple of paces. His skin was changing before my eyes: The baby-faced libertine was being replaced by the wine-mad monster. Where a soft blue tracery of veins might show beneath a pink blush of skin in his contentment, now they throbbed green and stood out like vines, and the whites of his eyes flooded with a deep burgundy. If he got hold of me, I’d be in trouble. Goading him would work in my favor though, since he would lose even more discipline the crazier he got. And since I knew exactly what kind of guy he was, I employed the advice I’d given to Granuaile and said, » Come on, bitch. Charge me again and see what happens. «
    He lost his mind completely after that. He purpled and drooled as he roared and gave not a single shit about it. He rose and quivered and just yelled inchoately in a roid rage, until his lungs gave out. I bore this display with patience and used the time to figure out how to beat him. Unlike the Norse or the Tuatha Dé Danann—or me—the bloody Olympians couldn’t be killed. They could be harmed, but they could heal from anything; even if they were disintegrated or blown to tiny bits, they simply regenerated on Olympus and put on a fresh toga. There had to be a solution to him, or else the Morrigan would be here fighting him for me, fulfilling her oath.
    The best solution would be to run and use some other tree to shift away. In fact, I hoped Granuaile would do exactly that. But the cries of pain I heard in the forest weren’t hers; in battle, as in charity, it is better to give than to receive.
    Bacchus finished emoting and charged me again. I crouched, ready to jump, and then it was a simple matter to fake the leap and watch Bacchus launch himself over my head. His face met the tree for the second time, and while he was in the air above me, I punched him in the groin as hard as I could. In my mind’s eye, he was supposed to curl up and cradle his crushed grapes, but that’s not what happened. It toppled him so that he fell headfirst down my back, and he grabbed clumsily at my legs as he hit the ground. It wasn’t a move or a punch or anything more than a desperate flail on his part, but it knocked me off my feet and sent me sprawling.
    Before I could scramble