Staked (Iron Druid Chronicles) (26 page)

“That’s very kind. Thank you.”

Next, a blond witch who’s spent a lot of time in the sun introduces herself as Dominika. She’s shaven the right side of her head down to her ear but let the top and left side grow straight and long, in a sort of homage to New Wave styles of the 1980s. Her exposed, perfectly shaped right ear has eight different piercings with beautiful rings and studs, and when I begin to stare at it I realize that it’s what she uses to charm people. Wow, an ear witch. I blink furiously and look at her eyes, which are shining with excitement.

“I love horses,” she says. “Will you tell Miłosz I’m so glad he’s come to stay with us? He is magnificent!”

I relay these sentiments to Miłosz, and he nickers in response to the flattery. Dominika pulls an apple out of her coat pocket and asks, “May I give this to him?”

“Of course.” She moves it under his nose, presenting it on top of her palm, and he nabs it with his lips and then crunches down with evident satisfaction.

Magdalena has a giant mane of dark hair that frames her head and hides her neck so that her very pale face appears to float in black waters. Her complexion combined with that hair remind me uncomfortably of the Morrigan. But it’s not her hair that she’s using to charm people: She uses her eyebrows, shaped into graceful arches, and an uncanny ability to raise either of them independently or waggle them around.

Casting eyes sideways at Berta and Martyna, she says to me, “You should not be eating cakes or cookies. Scones are best.”

“Oh. You’ve made scones, then?”

Her right eyebrow lifts heavenward. “No. I can’t bake for shit, as you Americans say. I just have strong opinions about breakfast. We should not be feeding you cake and cookies as the sun is rising. You need meat and cheese, and if there must be bread, then a scone.”

Orlaith says.

Zofia is the definition of petite: I’m not sure she’s fully five feet tall. Her hood is up, fringed in white fur, and a thick braid of auburn hair spills out of it and falls down to her chest. She nods and says only, “Pleased to meet you,” in a thick accent. I think, like Ewelina, she is reserved because of language rather than because she has nothing more to say.

Patrycja is either the daughter of immigrants to Poland or one parent is not ethnically Polish. Her complexion is russet brown and I’m sure she’s asked constantly about her heritage, so I don’t ask—it doesn’t matter anyway. She’s dressed in winter running clothes and wearing a pair of those abnormally bright running shoes, so I’m guessing she likes her exercise.

“Did you really run all the way here from Germany?” she asks.

“I did. I had help, though. Gaia provided most of the speed and energy.”

The last witch, with deep-set eyes, a narrow nose, and brown hair chopped evenly at her shoulders, approaches with a gift-wrapped rectangle in her hand. “I’m Anna,” she says. “This is for you.”

“Oh! Thanks, Anna,” I say, taking it from her and unwrapping the package. It’s a collection of poems by Wisława Szymborska, both in Polish and English, side by side. “This is perfect! Thank you!”

“We thought it would be a nudge in the right direction,” she says. “We will help you all you want with the language, you know.”

“I’m genuinely looking forward to it.”

With introductions complete and a few more apples offered to Miłosz, we lead him around the side of the house, which is a strip of property wide enough to drive a car through—and that’s by design, I see, since there’s a garage tucked in the back, out of sight from the street. There’s also plenty of room for Miłosz in the rear of the property, easily a full acre if you subtract the house, though I notice that the fences are further screened with cedars and evergreens.

Malina returns with a shirt and jacket for me, sees where I’m looking, and says, “Yes, we have privacy around the perimeter, and a little farther on you’ll see that the canopy of that oak and willow provide an aerial screen as well. That’s where we do all the outdoor rituals.”

I spy a fire pit, a bona fide cauldron hanging above it, and a makeshift altar underneath the trees. “What kind of rituals would those be?”

“Like your divination cloak. We’ll get started as soon as you’re ready. You’ve certainly held up your end.”

“Oh, I’m ready. Let’s do it. But let me ask Miłosz first if he needs anything.”

Sending images along with my words, I ask him,

I get the sense that he wouldn’t mind some of both, and I turn to Dominika. “He’d like something to eat and drink.”

“Great! If he’ll follow me I’ll show him where we’ll be keeping him.”

I tell him, pointing to her. He obligingly clops after her and she giggles a bit.

“It’s so cool that you can talk to him. Druids are awesome.”

“Thanks. So are witches.”

“Save me a spot in the circle, Sisters,” Dominika says. “I’ll be there as soon as I finish with our handsome guest.”

Agnieszka guides me over to the fire pit, where there are some glowing coals from earlier. She instructs me to sit in a very specific spot between the fire and the altar, facing north. After checking my position, she coaches me to scoot over a minute amount, then tells me not to move once the ritual begins. “The more still you are, the better the cloak will adhere.”

Patrycja throws some kindling on top of the coals and coaxes the fire to life again. Berta and Martyna stand next to the altar and begin chopping up bundles of herbs they had already laid out for the purpose.

Ewelina hauls over a bucket of water and pours it carefully into the cauldron. When she finishes, she looks up and catches me watching her. Her teeth flash at me and she throws up the horns. “Rock on.”

The rest of the witches stand around me in a circle, with gaps for the others to take their places later. Malina kneels down next to me to explain what will happen.

“The true nature of our divination cloak is really a blessing bestowed upon you by the Zoryas. With their help, we are going to hide you from the second sight, the third eye, the fourth horseman, the fifth element, the sixth sense, the seventh son, and all other seers, deities, and methods of extrasensory perception.”

I have so many questions after hearing that list, but the one thing I really want to ask about is the fifth element. I keep my mouth shut, though, because I don’t want to lose any Druid Wisdom Points and it already sounds like they are giving me the equivalent of a Multipass.

“Once this blessing is bestowed,” Malina continues, “it
can
be removed, as your Indian friend removed the cloak from Mr. O’Sullivan’s sword. But it will require a skilled practitioner of the magical arts and ritual. It’s not something you can cancel easily.”

“Understood. But what about cold iron?”

“Mr. O’Sullivan’s cold iron aura never affected the sword’s cloak, and he handled it often. You have that talisman,” she says, pointing to my amulet, “and you can wear it all you want afterward. But I need you to remove it now so that we can target you for the ritual.”

“Oh. All right.” I take off my necklace and put it over Orlaith’s head, asking her to keep it safe for me.

“Your hound will need to remain outside the circle, by the way.”

I ask Orlaith to wait for me outside the circle, with my amulet and Scáthmhaide, and once she does I feel acutely vulnerable, because the Sisters of the Three Auroras could target me with something else now and this might be the end of a long con on the gullible young Druid. I don’t know whether to be proud of my paranoia or saddened that I think so poorly of these women who have done nothing but be kind to me so far. I mean, except for that time Klaudia snared me with those charmed lips of hers.

The question, I suppose, is whether getting a divination cloak is worth possibly dying for. Considering all I have already gone through to get it—getting bitten by a snake-god—I think I have to answer yes. I certainly can’t continue to be the method by which Atticus’s many enemies track him down. And until I get this cloak, I can’t even begin to free myself from all his entanglements. This god or that Fae monstrosity or the other evil wizard bro will continue to use me to get to him, unless I do something about it. And fuck that. I’m not going to be their stepping stone or hostage or anything else. I want myself removed from the picture. In practical terms,
not
getting the cloak would probably be just as deadly as letting the sisters have their free shot at me now.

“This will take about an hour, and all you’ll hear is Polish from now on,” Malina says, rising and taking her place in the circle.

“Oh, and one more thing,” Berta says. When I turn around, she waves at the chopped-up plants on the altar. “We have to throw some of this stuff in the pot there, and it might smell bad. We have to sprinkle some of this on you too.”

“But you won’t smell bad!” Martyna hastens to reassure me. “Only the boiling stuff smells bad. We need you to have some of the raw stuff on you for focusing.”

“Oh … okay,” I say. “You did all this for Fragarach?”

“We sure did,” Malina replies. “It’s only an hour of work. Mr. O’Sullivan had to do much more than that to earn it. And you had to do much more as well.”

That is certainly the truth, but as Martyna dumps a load of yarrow and some other herbs I can’t immediately identify into my hair and on my shoulders, I say, “No, I mean this.” I jerk a thumb at my beflowered hair. “You sprinkled herbs on the scabbard and had the cauldron and everything? In Tempe?”

“Yes. We had a secluded spot in the desert for our outdoor rituals.”

I cough, then sneeze from the pollen. “Maybe I can use your shower afterward.”

“Of course.”

They begin in earnest after reminding me once more to remain still, and it’s a slow, peaceful time listening to the language and absorbing its rhythms. The longer it continues, the more relaxed I feel, because building takes longer than destroying. If they meant me harm, I would have felt it much sooner. Orlaith falls asleep, lulled by their voices. Planes fly overhead on occasion and birds chirp, but otherwise it’s just thirteen witches chanting in Polish and an awful stench rising from the boiling cauldron. Near the very end I feel a gentle pressure all over, and my eardrums pop in and then pop out again. All of the coven raise their arms at that point and smile at the sky, a familiar ecstasy written on their faces: Goddesses have worked their will through them. When Gaia speaks through me, I feel the same way.

“That’s it,” Malina says. “You’re blessed, or cloaked, whatever you want to call it.”

I change my vision over to the magical spectrum and look at my hand, not knowing quite what to look for. I never got to see the cloak on Fragarach.

“Feel free to test it with any seer or deity you wish,” Malina goes on. “We guarantee our work.”

There, floating above my aura, the sheerest layer of lilac gossamer tells me that the Zoryas have indeed blessed me. Or, pending confirmation, I should say: That lilac bit wasn’t there before, and
something
has been done to me.

I will definitely confirm it, but I am already confident that they have dealt straight with me. The cold iron test would be prudent, however.

“Congratulations,” a couple of the witches say, and I smile in response but don’t say anything yet.

Orlaith, will you bring me my amulet, please?
I ask as I get to my feet and brush flowers and pollen dust off my shoulders and shake out my hair. She wakes and ambles over, tail wagging.

I think it might be. Thank you,
I tell her, retrieving my necklace. I drape it over my head and let it take its accustomed place just below the hollow of my throat. I watch my aura, examining that lavender layer closely on one arm and then the other. It remains strong and doesn’t flicker.

“My thanks to the Zoryas,” I finally say to Malina, shoulders sagging with relief. “And my thanks to you all!”

“Our pleasure. Fulfilling a contract always feels good.”

Orlaith asks, and I suspect she’s not really interested in the answer but rather wishes to keep me focused on breakfast.

We’re going on a secret mission, because now we can keep secrets,
I tell her.

P
rague is one of the most beautiful cities in the world—for my money it’s in the top five. The architecture is goth as fuck, pointy bits at the top and stone curlicues underneath, and the squares are full of bronze sculptures that celebrate ideas more than military conquest. It’s a setting that whispers of magic and mystic euphoria and bloody danger too. It was where Leif Helgarson had been turned to a vampire a thousand years ago.

Oberon and I arrived via the tethered trees of Petřín Hill, which is situated on the west side of the Vltava River, after nightfall—and also after I had taken some time to catch up on sleep and healing. It was overcast and some mist had rolled in, clinging to the trees, and we both took a moment to appreciate the smell.

Oberon asked.