Fireshaper's Doom (49 page)

He took a sip of wine. Ah well, there was one good thing at least; the mortal boy was shaping up nicely. He was brave, and resourceful, and lucky. Just the sort of person Lugh very much feared he would need, especially now that war loomed nearer. David Sullivan had passed his latest round of tests very nicely—not precisely as Lugh would have planned them, but they had nevertheless worked out well.

And Morwyn’s son was coming along, too. Now
that
was a piece of luck. Had Lugh not become one with the land, he would never have sensed the ghost of Power that lay within a certain lizard, never would have been able to awaken it. That was another reason he had allowed David Sullivan to escape—that, and the weaponwork the mortal boy had engaged in as he fled Tir-Nan-Og, which had been contrived to keep Fionchadd’s will awake and active. No, without his merger with the land, he would never have been able to orchestrate the one set of circumstances that would bring the boy back. And Lugh had plans for that one, too.

But would it be in time? he wondered.

He looked up at the sky again
. Gods, mortals called us once,
he thought
. Gods no longer. I play mortal against immortal like chessmen, but sometimes I feel someone else moving me. Perhaps I should summon Oisin—or Katie. Perhaps there is something to mortality.

Chapter L: Coffee and ’Shine and Syrup

(Sullivan Cove, Georgia)

“Next?” David said, as he slipped out of the bathroom at Uncle Dale’s house.

“Me, me!” Alec cried from where he lay sprawled across the bed in the old man’s bedroom.

“Go easy on the hot water, huh?” Gary sighed. “I still need a go.”

David flipped him with the towel he’d been using to dry his hair. “There’s plenty.”

“Better be,” Alec muttered. “We’ve got the dust of half a dozen worlds to wash off.” He glanced at his fingernails, frowning at the crescents of dried blood there.

“Would I lie to you?” David laughed, as he pushed through the door that led into the kitchen.

Liz was waiting at the breakfast table, hair wrapped turban-style in a snowy towel, wearing one of dead Aunt Hattie’s bathrobes the old man had never had the heart to discard. Her face brightened when she saw him, and he felt his own grin spread across his face so quick and wide that it practically hurt.

“You look real silly,” Little Billy giggled from behind a pile of pancakes as tall as he was.

“Not as silly as he did,” JoAnne muttered beside him. “Leastwise he’s got on normal clothes now.”

Uncle Dale turned from where he was browning sausage in an iron skillet. “Don’t give the boy a hard time, JoAnne, he’s been through a right smart bit.”

David blushed as he glanced down at the oversized khaki pants and shirt he’d borrowed from Uncle Dale, rolled up at both wrists and ankles.

“
I
think he looks just great,” Liz said, as David snagged a cup of coffee from the huge pot and sat down beside her. Katie set a plate in front of him, and twin pans of bacon and sausage, and pancakes in front of that. David loaded his plate, applied a generous portion of maple syrup (the real kind), and cut a handsome wedge from the edge of the pile. It smelled heavenly. He took a sip of coffee—and raised his eyebrows in surprise. A second odor hid in the steam, an odor that warmed him and made him feel giddy at the same time. He glanced over his shoulder. “Is this…?”

Uncle Dale nodded. “Shore is. I thought a little of the old squeezins’d help mellow us out some.”

JoAnne set her cup down with a thud. “Dale, you didn’t!”

“Don’t worry ’bout it, girl. You ain’t likely to go to hell over a taste of ’shine.”

“Yeah, Ma,” Little Billy squealed. “He even gave me some.”

“Good for what ails you,” Uncle Dale said, and returned to the stove. David watched him, saw the looks he was giving Katie, who was busy scrubbing dishes at the sink, wished he could hear the phrases the old man kept mumbling in her ear.

Liz bent close and whispered, “Hey, you know I bet this stuff’d taste even better outside.”

David nodded and picked up his plate. “See y’all,” he mumbled through a mouthful of food.

He followed Liz to the front porch, joined her on the steps, looking across the yard at the road and the rumpled mountains beyond. Sunlight was playing there, dancing a sparkling dance across the trees, sliding along the fence posts closer by, prodding the world awake with beams of light. A yellow cat crawled out from under the steps and rubbed against David’s bare feet.

Neither of them spoke.

“We’ll have to be more careful when we go swimming,” Liz said after a moment. Her voice sounded so serious that David looked up from his plate, but when their eyes met, and he saw them sparkle like green gems out of Faerie, he knew she had been teasing.

David laughed, and shook his head. “I’ll have to be more careful about where I leave my clothes, that’s for certain.”

Liz plucked at one of the baggy sleeves. “Well, it’s not quite
Esquire,
is it?”

David grinned. “Looks like there’s something you need to be careful about, too.”

“Oh? What’s that?”

“Well, Liz, I don’t know how to tell you this, but you’ve got syrup all over your face.”

Liz raised questing fingers automatically, but David’s were there before her. “I’ll get it,” he said. “There’s some on your cheek”—he bent over and very gently kissed her there—“and on your nose”—another kiss—“and a great big gob of it right here!”

It took him a very long time to find all of the syrup.

About the Author

Tom Deitz grew up in Young Harris, Georgia, a small town not far from the fictitious Enotah County of the David Sullivan series. When he was a teen he discovered J.R.R. Tolkien, a writer who awakened his interest in fantasy and myth. He pursued his fascination by earning two degrees, a Bachelor of Arts and a Master of Arts, from the University of Georgia. His major in medieval English literature led Mr. Deitz to the Society for Creative Anachronism, which in turn generated a particular interest in heraldry, historic costuming, castle architecture, British folk music, and all things Celtic. Readers will also quickly realized that Tom was—as he said—a car nut who loved automotive details.

In
Windmaster’s Bane
, his first published novel, Tom Deitz used his interests and background as he began the story of David Sullivan and his friends, a tale continued in
Fireshaper’s Doom
and more books in the series. He won a Georgia Author of the Year award and a Lifetime Phoenix Award from Southern fans for his work. In addition to his writing, Tom was also a popular professor of English at Gainesville State College (today the Gainesville campus of the University of North Georgia), where he was awarded the Faculty Member of the Year award for 2008.

On the day after his birthday in 2009, Tom suffered a massive heart attack from which he never fully recovered, and in April of that year he passed away at the age of 57. Though he was never able to realize his dream of owning a small castle in Ireland, Tom had visited that country, which he loved, and at the time when he was stricken with the heart attack he was in the planning stages for a Study Abroad trip to Ireland that he would have led. The trip took place, and to a dirge played by an Irish musician on the uilleann pipes, some of Tom’s teaching colleagues scattered his ashes in a faery circle.