“O’Sullivan?” an uncertain voice pulled my consciousness back aboveground. It was Mr. Semerdjian.

“Yes, sir, how may I help you?” Everything was back to normal—that is, the vines looked great and so did my mesquite tree. The saguaro cactus using its many arms to mold stone as if it were clay and making loud bug-crunching noises was admittedly worth comment.

My neighbor raised a shaking index finger to point at the saguaro. “That moving cactus … and the big bug … and you, you spooky bastard. What are you?”

I stuffed my hands in my pockets and grinned winningly at him. “Why, I’m the Antichrist, of course.”

Mr. Semerdjian responded by fainting, which seriously surprised me. I’d expected a vulgar expression of disbelief, like a middle finger or a clutching of the crotch, because the man had seen a giant demon and casually offered to blow it up like a tough guy. Why would saying the name of the boogeyman from Christianity make him lose his mind? He was a Muslim, for the free love o’ Flidais!

Actually, his collapse was a blessing. When he woke up, everything would be swell and I’d deny that any of it ever happened. If he tried to get anyone else to believe him, well, they wouldn’t. The cut on my shoulder was already healing over.

The elemental finished its work and left the stone keg full of distilled demon on my empty driveway, where I could easily camouflage it and the ghouls could load it into their refrigerated truck. Sonora said its farewells and then sank back into my lawn from whence it came, cleaning up as it disappeared, leaving no sign that anything supernatural had occurred. My lawn even looked like it had been freshly fertilized.

"Is it safe now?" Oberon asked from the backyard.

Yeah, come on out. I have a couple calls to make. First I called 911 for Mr. Semerdjian, establishing an official record of my concern for his welfare. If he woke up calling me the Antichrist, he’d get a strong dose of sedatives and maybe one of those snug little straitjackets to play around in. Next I called my daytime lawyer, Hal Hauk, to get the number for the ghouls. I didn’t think Leif would want to talk to me right now, and besides, he was probably having an ASU student for breakfast.

After I rang the ghouls, the ambulance arrived for Mr. Semerdjian, and I waited for them to take him away before making my last call, to Malina Sokolowski.

“Hello, Malina,” I said with relish when she answered the phone. “I’m still around. Your little spell didn’t work.”

“You were attacked too? Those bitches!” she spat. “Damn them!” She was clearly upset; she’d never used anything but the politest, formal language with me. “It makes me wonder who else got hit tonight and who else is dead now.”

That wasn’t the response I expected at all. “Wait. What bitches? Who’s dead? Malina, who’s dead?”

“You’d better get over here,” she said, and hung up on me.

Chapter 4

"Did I just hear you say something about bitches?" Oberon asked hopefully.

“Yeah, but not the kind you’re thinking about, unfortunately,” I said aloud. “Are you willing to try going for that run again, buddy? We need to pay Malina Sokolowski a visit.”

"She’s the witch who doesn’t like dogs, right?"

“Well, I don’t know many witches who do like dogs, so she’s hardly exceptional in that regard. Witches tend to be cat people.”

"Can I get my sausage before we go to her house, then?"

“Of course,” I laughed. “And thank you for reminding me. Just let me go inside and get my sword. I want to be prepared this time. Stand sentinel out here?”

"Sure." I ducked inside to get Fragarach, the old Irish sword that cut through armor as though it were crepe paper, and slung the scabbard across my back so that the hilt protruded above my right shoulder. As I stopped at the fridge to take a couple chugs of Naked berry juice, Oberon called to me from the porch.

"Atticus, there’s a man out here on foot who doesn’t smell like a man."

I shoved the juice back in the fridge and hurried for the front door. Does he smell like a demon? I asked.

"No. He smells kind of like a dog, but not quite."

I hauled open the door and beheld a slim Native American man in the street. Straight black hair spilled past his shoulders from underneath a cowboy hat, and he was dressed in a white sleeveless undershirt, blue jeans, and scuffed brown boots. He held a grease-stained brown paper bag in his left hand, and he had a smirk on his face.

He waved leisurely with his right hand and said in a slow, friendly voice, “Evenin’, Mr. Druid. I reckon you know who I am?”

I relaxed and fell into the unhurried rhythms of his speech. By speaking like him, I would make him relax as well, and he’d be more likely to trust me. It was the first rule of fitting in: Talk like a native. As soon as people hear a foreign accent, it’s like ringing the doorbell of xenophobia. They immediately classify you as the other instead of as a brother, and it was this fundamental aspect of human nature that Leif had seemingly forgotten. It applies to dialects and regional accents as well, which is why I’m obsessed with mimicking those properly whenever I can. Ask any Boston Yankee what happens when they get pulled over by police in the Deep South, and they’ll tell you that accent matters. So I took my time with my reply, as if I had all day to get to the end of a sentence, because that’s the way my visitor spoke. “I surely do, Coyote. Only question is which tribe you’re callin’ from this time.”

“I’m callin’ from the Diné,” he said, using the proper name for the tribe the United States called Navajo. “Mind if I come up and sit a spell?”

“Not a’tall,” I said. “But you catch me poorly equipped for comp’ny. Ain’t got any tobacco in the house, ’shamed to say.”

“Aw, that’s all right. I’ll take a beer if you got one.”

“That I can handle. Come set on the porch here and I’ll be right back.” I dashed inside and snaked a couple of Stellas from the fridge, while Coyote walked up to the porch. I had the tops popped off and was back outside as he was settling into his chair. I held a bottle out to him and he smiled.

“Mmm, fancy beer,” he said, taking it from my hand and examining the label. “Thanks, Mr. Druid.”

“Welcome.” We both took a swig, sighed appreciatively like men are supposed to do, and then he held up the bag in his left hand.

“Got some sausages here for your hound. Mind if I give ’em to ’im?”

"Sausages!" Oberon’s tail began to wag madly. "I thought I smelled something yummy!"

“What kind o’ sausages?” I asked.

Coyote chuckled. “Old paranoid Druid. You never change. Normal sausages, perfectly safe. Chicken–apple flavor. I didn’t want your hound to go hungry while we talk.”

“That was right nice o’ ya, Coyote. My hound and I both thank ya for it.” If he knew Oberon wanted chicken–apple sausages tonight, that meant he was close by when we first ran into that demon—close enough to help, but he clearly chose not to. It also meant he could hear Oberon’s thoughts. I took the bag from him and opened it up to find eight perfect chicken–apple sausages the size of bratwurst, still warm and smelling delicious. I tore open the bag and laid it down on the porch in front of Oberon so he could get at them easily. He wasted no time inhaling them.

"These are awesome! Tell him I said so!"

“Good,” Coyote nodded, taking another swig of beer. He seemed unaware that he had replied before I had repeated Oberon’s words. “So, seen any demons ’round here?”

Oberon stopped chewing and raised his head, ears perked, and I studied Coyote carefully for any signs of suddenly sprouting horns or the stench of brimstone. He threw his head back and laughed at us. His canine teeth shone in the pale yellow light of the streetlamps.

“Hoo-ee, you oughtta see your faces! I bet ya seen a demon, all right! Lemme guess, a big black bug?”

“Yeah. But I reckon ya didn’t have to guess, didja?” I asked.

“Naw, I saw him comin’ this way afore I got here. But he ain’t the only one out there, ya know.”

“Yeah, I figured,” I said.

“I ’spect you did, Mr. Druid. And you’re the reason they’re runnin’ ’round here, eatin’ people.”

“What do you care if a demon makes mischief in town?” I asked.

“What do I care? If a demon went ’round eatin’ white men like you, you’re right, I wouldn’t care. But I said they’re eatin’ people, an’ by that I mean they’re eatin’ my people, Mr. Druid. My people are feedin’ a demon that’s here because of you. So we have somethin’ to talk about, you an’ I.”

“I see.” I nodded, and Oberon took this as a signal that it was okay for him to finish off his repast. “Where and when did your people die?”

“A maiden at Skyline High School was eaten yesterday, when all t’other kids were eatin’ lunch inside.”

“What, at the school? Where ever’one could see?”

“Nobody seen it happen but me. She was by herself, eatin’ flatbread outside. An’, besides, humans can’t see this one. You coulda seen it, though. An’ I seen it for sure.”

“What did it look like?”

“Huge black thing with wings.” Oberon belched and I felt a bit of indigestion as well. I knew the demon Coyote meant. It was one of the first creatures out of hell when Aenghus Óg opened the portal and the first demon to disregard the binding. It was very strong, and since it flew, there was no way I could kill it with Cold Fire, which required the demon to be in contact with the earth. “So what’re ya gonna do?” Coyote asked.

“I’m gonna wait,” I said. “Eventually it’ll come after me here, and when it does, I’ll be ready.”

“Lemme suggest a different plan,” Coyote said, his half smile still playing about his face. He pointed the mouth of his beer bottle at me. “You’ll go out to that school tomorrow an’ kill that demon afore it kills again. There are more of my people at that school, an’ I don’t wanna lose another one ’cause you wanna wait.”

“Why don’t you just kill it, Coyote?”

“ ’Cause I ain’t responsible for it bein’ here, paleface. You are. An’ it’s a demon from the white man’s religion, anyways, so my medicine won’t be as strong against it as yours. But I’ll help ya if I can.”

“Well, my medicine might not be any stronger. I may be a white man, but this thing don’t figure into my religion neither. Besides, I’m awful busy with problems of my own.”

Coyote’s perpetual smirk vanished, and he glared at me from underneath his hat brim. “This is your problem, Mr. Druid. Or didn’t I make that clear? You’ll fix this situation or you’ll answer to me. An’ to Pima Coyote. An’ Tohono O’odham Coyote, an’ Apache Coyote too. An’ while ever’ single one of us might die in the first fight, an’ maybe the second an’ third fights too, you know we’ll keep comin’ back. How many times can you come back from the dead, Mr. Druid? Me an’ my brothers can come back all we want, but I reckon we only have to kill you once.”

"Atticus?" My hound flattened his ears and showed his teeth, but didn’t quite growl at our guest.

It’s okay, Oberon. He can hear you, so don’t give anything away. I’ll let you know if I need you. He subsided but kept watching Coyote warily.

I nodded for Coyote’s benefit. I didn’t tell him I was awfully tough to kill, since the Morrigan had promised never to take me. Still, Coyote could do a lot of damage I might never recover from, as my mangled right ear testified. I just wanted to know how serious he was about this, and now I had my answer.

“Think ya can give me a ride out there?” I asked. “I ain’t got a car.” Skyline High School was on the east side of Mesa, near the borderline with Apache Junction—which, of course, was the city right outside the Superstition Mountains where the demon had escaped from hell. It would be a twenty-mile bike ride for me one way, which would be less than comfortable.

“I ain’t got a car neither.” Coyote grinned as he took another slug of beer, threats forgotten. “But that shouldn’t stop me from gettin’ one by tomorrow.”

“All right, pick me up here at ten in the mornin’,” I said. “And bring a bow. We’re gonna shoot us a demon out o’ the sky.”

“With regular ol’ arrows?” Coyote’s eyebrows rose so high they got lost underneath his hat.

“No, we’ll get ourselves some special arrows,” I said. “I think I know where we can get us some holy ones, some demon-slayin’ arrows.”

“You do? I ain’t never seen any for sale in any of those Cath’lick churches,” Coyote said.

“When were you ever in a Cath’lick church?” I asked incredulously, and Coyote started to laugh. It was infectious laughter, the kind you cannot help but smile at. “I mean, how would you know, right? They could be passin’ out holy arrows with their Jesus crackers and you’d never know any different.”

Coyote hooted and hollered and howled his laughter, and it wasn’t long before I was doing the same. He doubled over; he slapped his thighs; he laughed silently for a while because he was out of breath; he laughed until he had tears streaming from his eyes. “I bet it was just like that, Mr. Druid!” Coyote finally managed to gasp. “Them priests would come on up to the soldiers and say, ‘In the name of the Father and the Son, here’s a cracker, now go kill some f**kin’ Indians!’ ” And abruptly the laughter died in our throats, and our smiles fell quietly like death shrouds on the fallen. It was simply too close to the truth to be funny. We spent some small while staring down at the flower bed in front of my porch. I cannot speak for what Coyote was thinking, but personally I was haunted by the ghosts of those who had trespassed against me; I was the only survivor of the Holy Roman Church’s war against Druidry.