Staked (The Iron Druid Chronicles, #8)(9)

“No, I did most of the talking. Told him I would kill him the next time I saw him. He didn’t reply, but I assume the reverse is true.”

I shift my eyes back to the dwarf, considering. The last time I saw him, the Runeskald was working on axes that would cut dark elves in their smoke forms and force them to take physical shape again. If he is going to visit Svartálfheim, it might not be an innocuous trip.

Fjalar forestalls any more conversation by saying, “It’s ready.” The stone is glowing faintly red when he plucks it out of the fire. It’s not bright orange like Loki’s was, but I have no doubt I’ll feel the heat just fine. “Your arm, please, quickly.”

Orlaith, I’m going to be in pain and yell a bit, but don’t get upset. I need this.

<Okay, if you say so.>

I roll up my left sleeve, exposing my biceps where Loki branded me. Fjalar’s gloved left hand reaches out and guides my hand under his left armpit, bracing me there and using his palm to lock my elbow and keep the arm straight.

“Do your best not to move. Fight the instinct.”

“I will,” I say, nodding to him and tucking my tongue firmly behind my teeth. I don’t want to bite it off when the pain hits—and I’m quite sure it will hit regardless of what I do to block it. I’d been blocking all the pain I could when Loki branded me and I still felt it; his chop did more than burn the skin—it seared the aura, if I understood Odin correctly, marked me on a level beyond mere flesh. Fjalar’s Rune of Ashes will presumably do the same. At least I hope it will; multiple tries at this would not be fun.

I can feel the heat radiating from the stone on my cheeks and arm as Fjalar positions the chop above my biceps.

“Do it,” I tell him through clenched teeth, and he doesn’t hesitate. He clutches my elbow tightly and brings down the chop directly on top of Loki’s mark, and the sizzling pain is nothing I could have prepared for. It burns everywhere, not just on my arm, and my muscles seize up and even my throat is unable to scream past an initial cry of shock. But that first, quick gasp opens my mouth and then, despite trying to prepare for it, I bite my tongue anyway. I taste coppery blood in my mouth, and sweat pops out on my skin all over.

“Gah!” Blood spurts out of my mouth and sprays Fjalar in the face. He’s keeping the rune on my arm much longer than Loki did. Or maybe it only seems that way.

Orlaith’s voice cries out in my mind. <Hey! Granuaile, that’s blood! He should stop! He’s hurting too much!>

I agree heartily but tell her, It won’t be much longer. I’ll heal.

“We have to make sure we burn it all away,” Fjalar says.

“It’s through … my skin!”

“Ah! So it is.”

He yanks the rune away and some additional strips of skin come away with it. He releases my arm and calls to a pair of Valkyries. “Bring the water.”

I miss where they come from or how long it takes for them to get there—an eternity of pain—but two Valkyries arrive with a large vase sloshing with cold water. I thrust my arm into it, and the lancing fire abates somewhat. Then I’m able to shut off the nerves, pull it out in relief, and examine the hole in my biceps. There’s not a trace of Loki’s mark left—just crispy Granuaile. I can’t flex my arm, but I laugh in delirium anyway. The god of lies used some dark unholy thing to break most of my bones and then branded me, thinking it would break my mind too, turn me into his meek servant. Well, it hadn’t quite worked.

“Haha. Hahahahaha. Fuck Loki.” I turn to Odin and grin broadly, not caring if it looks as unhinged as it feels to my own muscles. “Am I right?”





CHAPTER 3





While the bathwater ran, I unwrapped one of those laughably small hotel soaps and then looked at the mud caked on Oberon’s fur, especially his belly. It was a David and Goliath situation, but I had little choice except to proceed and hope the wee bar of soap would win.

“All right, buddy, here we go,” I said, starting out by splashing him underneath and then pouring cups of water on his back. “No shaking yourself until we’re through.”

<Hee hee! It tickles, Atticus! Hurry up and distract me.>

“Okay, let’s begin,” I said.

To understand what happened to me, you have to know a little bit of Toronto history first.

I had come to Toronto in the fall of 1953 as a pre-med student. The world had learned a lot about surgery and patching up bodies after shooting the hell out of everything in two world wars and another war in Korea, and I thought I might be able to pick up something useful, so I enrolled in the University of Toronto under the name of Nigel Hargrave, with every intention of staying a few years as an earnest wanna-be doctor. I wound up staying only a few months, and the reason for that is a spooky old building and a tragedy in the nineteenth century.

The University of Toronto was actually a collection of old colleges, many of which were religiously affiliated, and one such college—now the Royal Conservatory of Music on Bloor Street—used to be a Baptist seminary long ago. It’s a red stone Gothic marvel built in 1881, the kind of building where you’re sure the architect was laughing maniacally to himself as he huffed a lungful of lead-based paint fumes. Pointy spires and sharply sloped roofs and large windows. Wood floors that echo and creak when you step on them. And attending the seminary in the late nineteenth century was a young man named Nigel, betrothed to Gwendolyn from Winnipeg, dark of hair and possessed of a jealous eye.