Smells Like Finn Spirit Read online

  “Oh, well, that’s … good?” I said.

  “That’s why I have a dog,” he added, and released the beast at his side.

  13

  THE EMPEROR’S NEW CLOTHES

  The dog tackled me to the ground, and I saw Dawn from the corner of my eye fumbling her Taser out of her pocket. The back of my head hit the gravel roadside with a painful thud, and the dog lunged for my face.

  I flung up my arms to protect myself, and to maybe summon the dog’s spirit. If I could.

  Slobber and warm dog tongue smeared my face as the dog licked me excitedly.

  “Heel, Lancelot,” Merlin said, chuckling.

  Merlin—aka George Mills, aka George the Druid—was a sixty-year-old alchemist who had been sent under deep cover to live as one of the Gedai about forty years ago. But after the first twenty years or so, he came to believe he was Merlin reincarnated.

  Nobody, not even the ARC I suspected, knew what had caused this revelation. Some said he tried one too many sacred mushrooms with the other Gedai druids. Some said it was just the mental strain of pretending to believe in magic despite all doubt and ridicule, while at the same time pretending that magic wasn’t actually real and therefore his belief in magic (which as an alchemist he knew was actually real) was wrong, despite his (pretend) belief to the contrary. I got a slight headache just thinking about it myself, I couldn’t imagine living it for forty years.

  But whatever the reason for the belief that he was indeed Merlin, it appeared sincere. He had legally changed his name to Merlin Emrys. He carried a twisted oak staff, and often wore brown druid robes and a fitted metal helmet like Merlin from the film Excalibur. And he claimed to possess ancient druidic knowledge lost since Merlin’s time.

  But here’s the thing—he didn’t run around trying to use the charm of summoning, or looking for King Arthur, or preaching the doom of Camelot on some street corner. Rather, he organized fundraisers and signature campaigns for nature conservancy groups and naturopaths. He led groups of fellow believers in Solstice rituals to heal the Earth. He attended public meetings of local government to speak on behalf of the environment and pagan religious equality.

  If Merlin were reincarnated into a three-hundred-pound Samoan-American alchemist, he just might do the exact same thing. Hell, Merlin did a lot more good with his (probably) imagined birthright than most people did, arcana or mundane.

  On the other hand, he also held some rather unfortunate beliefs. For example, he believed that marijuana was the dragon’s breath, “as proven by the song ‘Puff the Magic Dragon.’” And that the Lady of the Lake now lived in the golf water hazard of the Dalles Country Club in order to be close to him. So he’d been arrested for possession, and for entering the water hazard nude at night hoping to … reconnect spiritually with the Lady, among other similar offenses that had harmed nobody, but left him with a spotted record as far as mundy law enforcement was concerned.

  And then there was the fact that he came to me two months past hoping that I could find his long lost love Morgana so that he could mend the breach between them and have true happiness at last.

  He had learned of my dating service somehow, perhaps through the Matchmaking for Magicals website Sammy made for me on the arcanet. I tried everything to get rid of him. As long as he was a member of the Gedai and calling himself Merlin, official ARC policy was to treat him like a mundy. For all we knew, he could be wearing a wire and one of those tiny button cameras or something, sent in by the Gedai to try and get proof of magic. In the end I told him the website was some joke I’d made for my D&D group.

  But I am a lousy liar, and he was determined. And, damn it, I wanted to help him. Arcana or not, crazy or not, he was so sincere in his desire for love, so clearly lonely, that he tugged pretty hard at my heart strings. But I couldn’t use the Kin Finder or other magic to find his true soul mate. So I told him I’d help as best I could, sent him home, and created a profile for him on a couple of online dating sites with Dawn’s help. We sorted through the results, and sent Merlin the profile we thought the most promising.

  Apparently, they went on one date that went horribly, horribly wrong. He hadn’t shared the details, but had informed me that he considered it a deliberate act of sabotage on my part.

  As I stood and wiped the dog slobber from my face, I was grateful that druids were, in the end, pacifists.

  “Very funny,” I said to the dog, and touched the back of my head to feel for blood.

  “And now you know a bit of what my date was like,” Merlin replied. “So why are you here?” He looked past me to Dawn and Sammy. “Would you claim one of these to be my Morgana?”

  “You wish,” Sammy said.

  “Afraid not,” I said. “Actually, I need your help.”

  Merlin laughed. “And so the wheel turns. Come inside, and we shall discuss what Merlin may do for you.” He patted at his thigh. “Come on boy, inside.”

  The dog returned inside the trailer. After a glance at Sammy and Dawn to make sure they were willing to follow, I led them after him.

  The interior of Merlin’s trailer looked like a Greenpeace office run by the Society for Creative Anachronism. Maps and posters highlighting areas of environmental concern and potential magical activity, interspersed with Green Man figures and neo-pagan artifacts prominently featuring crystals, runes, and pentacles. A worn-looking guitar leaned against a coffee table covered in books, empty beer bottles, and a blown-glass bong shaped like a dragon.

  Merlin waved us to a sofa covered in a sheet. “How may I help you?”

  “A group of, uh, dark druids are going to be using the Stonehenge to exile a bunch of innocent souls to the Other Realm at sunset,” I said. “We need your help to stop them.”

  The druids believed in an Otherworld, a place that can be visited by dreamwalkers and the spirits of the dead, so whatever Merlin’s state of mind with regards to his arcana nature versus Gedai beliefs, I hoped my description fit within his frame of reality.

  Merlin blinked at me, then said, “Dark druids?”

  “Yeah.”

  He frowned. “I don’t know of any dark druids. That is like saying dry water.”

  “Well, they exist. And they are the enemies of all that you stand for.”

  “So you say,” Merlin replied. “But it matters not. It is not the druid way to do battle. That, we leave to the warriors, and always we counsel against war.”

  “This is not Gaul,” Sammy said. “And you aren’t a goddamn druid, George. War is here whether you want it or not. Pick a side.”

  “I pick the side of wisdom and love,” George said.

  Sammy threw up her hands. “I knew this would be a waste of time.” She pulled her phone out, and slammed out of the trailer, saying, “I’m calling in some muscle.”

  George sighed. “She has a lot of anger.”

  I nodded in agreement. “Her girlfriend is about to be exiled to the Other Realm, and likely killed or trapped there in a plot to destroy the Fey.”

  “The Other Folk would not let that happen.”

  “It seems that at least some of the Other Folk are helping the dark druids.”

  Merlin shook his head. “First you say these dark druids wish to destroy the Others, then that the Others are helping them.”

  “It’s complicated. So what can you do to help?”

  He raised his hands. “I can call a moot between the local grove and your group of, ahem, ‘dark druids,’ and seek to guide all to a path of peace and mutual happiness.”

  Dawn picked up the guitar and turned it over in her hand, examining it with a wistful look on her face.

  I shook my head at Merlin’s suggestion. “I don’t think that would work out for you, or your grove.” At best, the ARC would call in infomancers to erase their memories. At worst, the Arcanites would simply erase them.

  But his suggestion gave me an idea. A terrible idea, but I had to try.

  “Or, actually, that would be great. A moot between me, and the lead
er of the dark druids, mediated by you in a public place.”

  “Very good,” Merlin said in an approving tone. “And how shall I contact this dark Arch-Druid?”

  “I’ll take care of that, if I can borrow these?” I picked up a pen and a piece of junk mail off of the coffee table. “You just give me the time and place, and I’ll make sure he shows up.”

  “Of course.” Merlin gave me directions to a local diner.

  Dawn began strumming the guitar, and Merlin looked over, his round face lighting up. “Are you perchance a bard?”

  “You could say that,” Dawn said, smiling. “Never been to Skara Brae, but I like to think I capture the tale of the times in my songs.”

  “Then come! We shall drink beer and I will tell you my tale.”

  “Um,” I said. “I’m not sure—”

  “I’d kill for a beer right now!” Dawn said.

  “Excellent!” Merlin rocked himself to his feet. “And you, Finn?”

  “Uh, no, thank you.” All beer tasted like fizzy pee to me, and I didn’t care enough to pretend otherwise just then. “I need to go get a message to the, um, Arch-Druid.”

  “Very well. I am more than happy to treat with the bard here.”

  *La! Merlin’s hoping to wake the dragon with your girlfriend!*

  I’m not worried, I thought back as I stepped outside. The distant waterfall noise of the dam filled the pre-dawn air, and a bracing chill breeze blew up from the dark river below.

  I stepped over a low picket fence and found what I needed in the corner of Merlin’s garden, as I knew I would—a weather-worn gnome statue. I scribbled a message and an offer of payment onto the junk-mail envelope:

  For gnome delivery to Gavriel Gramaraye, Necromancer, last seen in possession of the body of Justin Gramaraye. Offer of payment: Standard mana rate, negotiable for extra costs, plus 1/2 Thoth of mana if delivered by local sunrise.

  Begin

  Dear Grandfather,

  I’m willing to trade myself for Fatima. Meet to discuss at Big Jim’s Restaurant at 8AM this morning.

  Phinaeus Gramaraye

  End

  In addition to message delivery, I request the following artifacts, cost to be negotiated and secured against the Gramaraye account:

  Wand of Sleep

  Wand of Freezing

  Amulet or other artifact that protects against necromantic possession.

  Then I slipped the note under the metal sculpture.

  Sammy marched up the road toward me, hanging up her phone and taking a drag on her clove cigarette.

  “Get your muscle?” I asked.

  “Maybe, some help to hide us once we have Fatima if nothing else. What are you up to?” She took another drag of her clove and exhaled a cloud of sweet-smelling smoke.

  “Plan A,” I said.

  “You know, I think the only thing that scares me more than you always running into danger without a plan is when you start making plans.”

  The gnome statue tipped over, and a real gnome hat poked out, this one blue and resting above a pair of narrowed eyes that scanned the surroundings before Priapus, don of the Giardini gnome family, sprang up and out of the hole. He immediately whipped his deadly-looking scythe out of his belt, the corded muscles of his bare arms flexing.

  “Priapus!” I said. “Greetings. I didn’t expect you to respond, not so far south.”

  “Gramaraye,” he replied. “I ain’t staying long. This is Prato family territory. But I been watching for you to make a gnome request, so’s I could talk at ya alone-like for a bit.”

  “If you think I owe you something—”

  “Nah,” he said. “But I wanted to let ya know, there’s been a temporary change in management of the Giardini family.”

  When last we’d spoken, he’d been surprised to find some gnome within his family had been undermining him, working against him to destroy records and even kill his loyal gnomes, and they appeared to be doing so in league with whatever force in the Other Realm was pitting the Silver and the Shadows against one another. It seemed things had escalated since then.

  “So … what does that mean?”

  “It means don’t trust no gnome from the Giardini family until I’m back in charge, and don’t go passing important messages by them, capiche?”

  “What about this Palto family?”

  “Prato, and they ain’t nothing to worry about. Never had much power, so don’t see as why anybody’d care much who’s who in their zoo.”

  “Look,” I said. “My Grandfather and the Arcanites have something big planned, I’m guessing it’s somehow tied to what’s been going on with the Fey, and you, and everything these past months. Don’t suppose you can do anything to help me stop him?”

  “Ha! Funny guy! Me and my boys, we’re laying low, magus, while I figure out who’s loyal and not, and who dies and not.”

  “Sure,” I said, and my shoulders slumped. “I understand.”

  “But here.” Priapus drew a sigil in the dirt with the handle of his scythe. “If it’s a real End of Times–type thing, and I mean seriously end of times, you put that there on a note and leave it under a statue, and I’ll know to come, see?”

  “Wow. Um, thanks!” I said.

  “We can work out fair compensation once we see how hard me and my boys’ll have to work to save the world and all.”

  I sighed. “Of course.” How silly of me to expect a gnome to do anything out of the goodness of his tiny little heart. “So who do you think is behind all of this?” I asked. “On the Fey side, I mean?”

  “Buddy, if I knew that, I’d go over to the Bright Realm and introduce them to the sharp end of Mister Tickle Sickle here. And since you wouldn’t be askin’ me if ya had a clue, guess share time is over like.”

  And with that, he hopped back into the hole, and the statue magically righted itself.

  “Shit,” Sammy said. “If the Giardini gnomes are working for the enemy, that’s like North Korea hacking every database in North America. They can snoop in all our messages, dig through all our dirt.”

  “That sounds pretty North Bad,” I agreed.

  * * *

  Big Jim’s diner was empty except for Merlin and myself. Merlin had use of the place as a favor from one of the members of his druid grove. The main lights were off, the dining area lit obliquely by the bright morning light slatting in through the windows.

  I sat at a booth facing the door, toying nervously with the utensils on the table, my nervousness only partially offset by my annoyance at the letter in my pocket.

  Phinaeus Gramaraye:

  Message delivered, payment expected within 24 hours or penalties will be accrued and enforced.

  Regarding the artifacts requested, it has been made clear that you are no longer authorized to offer payment from the Gramaraye account. As our records do not indicate any significant personal wealth or mana stores, we must respectfully decline your request.

  Pala, chief of the Prato family.

  Mort. The jerk had made sure I couldn’t even access the family’s mana stores. One more thing I had to work out with him.

  But I had more immediate problems to worry about.

  I attempted to twirl the butter knife between my fingers as I glanced down at my watch. It was five minutes past eight A.M. If Grandfather didn’t show—

  A knock on the glass door made me jump slightly in the seat and drop the butter knife with a loud clatter.

  Merlin moved to the door, and glanced back at me with raised eyebrows.

  The man outside was hard to make out, silhouetted against the bright sunlight. But after a second he visibly sighed and placed his right hand against the door, the black stone of his arcana persona ring clicking on the glass.

  I nodded to Merlin. “Let him in.”

  Merlin unlocked the door, and opened it.

  Grandfather strode in as if taking possession of the place, pausing only long enough to give Merlin a disapproving frown before crossing to me.

&n
bsp; He looked even worse than before. Perhaps escaping the Fury had taken a toll on him, or whatever evil magics he had been performing in preparation for his big Spell o’ Doom. He looked seventy going on Evil Dead, his hair mostly fallen out, his flesh gaunt and pale, papery skin stretched thin over his bones.

  “Finn,” he said. “Time to put an end to this. For good.”

  14

  SO WHAT’CHA WANT

  *Well, this could have started better,* Alynon said. Grandfather stopped a foot away from my booth.

  Please save all comments for the end of the ride, I thought.

  “Grandfather,” I said. “You look great. Been working out?”

  Grandfather’s lips went even thinner for a second, then he said, “When I take possession of your body, it is a great relief knowing that your sense of humor shall be destroyed along with your spirit.”

  “That hurts!” I said. And I was surprised to find it genuinely did. “I used to make you laugh. Sometimes. You know, before you went all evil.”

  “Evil?” Grandfather said. “Don’t be so dramatic, boy. This isn’t one of your silly games or movies. And I am done trading barbs. Your time has come.”

  “Actually,” I said, “you’re going to leave here, and return Fatima to us unharmed.”

  The corner of Grandfather’s mouth turned up in a condescending grin before he said, “Really? And why would I do that?” He nodded back at Merlin. “Because of this pathetic excuse for an arcana?”

  “For one, yes,” I replied. “He is a Gedai leader, and druid. If you—”

  “If nothing,” Grandfather said. “George Mills is a failed experiment, nothing more.”

  Merlin’s face went red. “Now look here—”

  I raised my hand and urged him with my eyes to remain calm. “Merlin has druids and Gedai both converging on this diner right now,” I lied.

  Grandfather snorted. “The Gedai are mundies for all their watered-down Templar nonsense. And druids are even less a threat, with their New Age peacenik idiocy. A single arcana is more than a match for them all.”

  Merlin’s eyes narrowed. “You are a fool. You would upset the natural order—”