My house was built in the fifties, a north-facing cottage with a white-posted raised porch and a flower bed in front of it. The lawn in front is dominated by a single towering mesquite tree planted to the right of center, while a driveway on the right leads into a garage. A flagstone path goes from the driveway to my porch and front door. My front window told me nothing, being cast completely in late-afternoon shadow. But by examining my wards through the grass … yes. Someone was there. And since no mortal or lesser Fae could ever break through the wards on my house, that meant I had two choices: Get the hell out now, or go find out which member of the Tuatha Dé Danann had untied my knots and was waiting for me inside.

It could be Aenghus Óg, and the thought chilled me even though it was nearly a hundred degrees outside (Arizona does not cool down to sensible temperatures until the second half of October, and we were still a week or so away from that). But I could not imagine him leaving Tír na nÓg, despite the Morrigan’s insistence that he was on his way. So I checked in with my pet—well, I should say in all honesty, my friend—Oberon, with whom I was specially bound.

How goes it, my friend?

"Atticus? Someone is here," Oberon answered from the backyard. I did not pick up any tension in his thoughts. I rather got the impression that his tail was wagging. The fact that he had not been barking on my arrival was another clue that he thought everything was fine.

I know. Who is it?

"I do not know. I like her though. She said perhaps we would go hunting later."

She spoke to you? In your mind, like me? It took some effort to make an animal understand human language; it was not a simple binding, and not all of the Tuatha Dé Danann would bother. Most often they confined themselves to communicating emotions and images, as one does when speaking to an elemental.

"Aye, she did. She told me I remind her of my sires of old."

High praise. Oberon was indeed a magnificent specimen of Irish wolfhound, with a rich dark-gray coat and sturdy constitution. His sires of old were called warhounds, not wolfhounds, and they accompanied the Irish into battle, unhorsing cavalry and attacking chariots. The warhounds of my youth were rather less friendly creatures, not like the gentle wolfhounds of today. Indeed, most modern wolfhounds are so mild, bred for gentle dispositions for centuries, that they can scarcely conceive of attacking anything beyond a bowl of dry kibble. But Oberon personified a fine blend of characteristics, able to turn the savagery of his heritage on and off as occasion demanded. I found him online at a rescue ranch in Massachusetts, after becoming frustrated with breeders in Arizona. Everything they had was too tame. Oberon, once I flew out to visit, was practically wild by modern standards, but of course all you needed to do was talk to him. He simply wanted to hunt once in a while. Allow him that, and he was a perfect gentleman. No wonder you like her. Did she ask you any questions?

"She only wondered when to expect you."

That was encouraging. She obviously wasn’t looking for any of my treasures—and that meant she might not be in the employ of Aenghus Óg. I see. How long has she been here?

"She arrived here recently."

Dogs are not all that great with time. They understand day and night, but beyond that they are nearly indifferent to its passage. So “recently” could mean anything from a minute ago to hours. Have you taken a nap, I asked, since she got here?

"No. We just finished speaking before you arrived."

Thank you, Oberon.

"Will we go hunting soon?"

That depends entirely on the visitor. Whoever she is, she was not invited.

"Oh." A hint of uncertainty crept into Oberon’s thoughts. "Have I failed to protect you?"

Do not worry, Oberon, I said. I am not displeased with you. But I am going to come back and get you, and we will enter the house together. I want you to guard me in case she proves not to be as friendly as you thought.

"What if she attacks?"

Kill her. One does not give the Tuatha Dé Danann second chances.

"I thought you said never to attack humans."

She hasn’t been human for a very long time.

"All right. I do not think she will attack, though. She is a nice inhuman."

You mean nonhuman. Inhuman is an adjective, I said, as I rose from the lawn and padded softly around the left side of the house to the backyard.

"Hey, I’m not a native speaker. Give me a break."

I left my bicycle resting in the street, hoping that it would not be stolen in a few minutes of neglect. Oberon was waiting for me as I opened the gate, his tongue lolling out and his tail wagging. I scratched him briefly behind the ears, and we walked together to my back door.

The patio furniture seemed undisturbed. My herb garden, planted in rows of boxes along the back fence and in much of the area normally reserved for a lawn, grew unmolested.

I found the visitor in my kitchen, trying to make a strawberry fruit smoothie.

“Manannan Mac Lir take this cursed thing to the land of shades!” she shouted as she smashed her fist onto the buttons of my blender. “The mortals always push these buttons and the bloody things work. Why won’t yours work?” she demanded, flipping an irritated glance my way.

“You have to plug it in,” I explained.

“What is this plug?”

“Insert the two-pronged device at the end of that cord into the slots on the wall there. That will give the blender its, um, animating force.” I thought I could explain electricity later if necessary; there was no use burdening her with new vocabulary.

“Ah. Well met, then, Druid.”

“Well met, Flidais, goddess of the hunt.”

"Told you she was nice," Oberon said.

I had to admit that of all the Tuatha Dé Danann it could have been, Flidais was one of the most agreeable to find in my kitchen. But you know that old saying about storm clouds being thrice cursed: Flidais brought the second one rolling behind her, and I never saw it coming.

Chapter 4

“You know you cannot get one of these drinks in Tír na nÓg?” Flidais said above the whine of my blender.

“I thought as much,” I replied. “Blenders tend to be in short supply there. So how did you hear of them?”

“Only recently, as it turns out,” Flidais said, puffing an errant wisp of curling red hair away from her eyes as she watched the strawberries puree. It was a somewhat windblown mane she had, a bit frizzy and so natural that I thought I spied a twig or two reclining lazily in her locks. “I was guesting in the forest of Herne the Hunter, and I caught a poacher driving through it in one of those monstrous truck things. He had taken a doe and covered it up in the back with a sheet of that black plastic material. Since Herne was not with me at the time, I took it upon myself to avenge the doe, and I followed him in my chariot to the city.” She began to pour some of the smoothie into the glass, and it looked pretty good. I found myself hoping she was in a sharing mood. And then I remembered that Flidais has a chariot pulled by stags, and I thought that even the reserved British of today would behave badly when confronted with something like that on the highway.

“You were invisible to mortals during this chase, I presume?”

“Of course!” Her hands froze and her green eyes flashed at me with a temper that matched the flame of her hair. “What kind of huntress do you take me for?”

Whoops! I lowered my eyes and spoke down to her boots, the soft brown leather sort with tough yet pliant soles like moccasins. They rose to her knees, where she had some tan leggings tucked into them—also leather and well worn. But the leather didn’t stop there; she’d never met a piece of it she didn’t like, as long as it wasn’t black. Her belt and sleeveless vest were dyed forest green, and some supporting material underneath, the same chocolate brown of her boots, suggested that it loved its job. A strip of green rawhide was wrapped repeatedly around her left forearm to protect it from the lash of her bowstring, and it bore signs of recent abuse. “The very best, Flidais. My apologies.” Flidais was one of the few who could pull off the invisibility trick. The best I could manage was a decent camouflage. She nodded curtly, acknowledging my apology as her due, and continued as if I had never bothered her with such sauciness.

“It quickly became a tracking operation, though. My chariot could not keep up with his truck. By the time I caught up with him, his truck was parked in one of those asphalt wastelands. What are they called again?” The Tuatha Dé Danann have no problem asking Druids for information. That’s what we’re for, after all. The secret to becoming an old Druid instead of a dead Druid is to betray nary a hint of condescension when answering even the simplest of questions.

“They are called parking lots,” I replied.

“Ah, yes, thank you. He came out of a building called ‘Crussh,’ holding one of these potions. Are you familiar with the building, Druid?”

“I believe that is a smoothie bar in England.”

“Quite right. So after I killed him and stowed his body next to the doe, I sampled his smoothie concoction in the parking lot and found it to be quite delicious.”

See, sentences like that are why I nurture a healthy fear of the Tuatha Dé Danann. Now, I will be the first to admit that human life was not worth much to my generation in the Iron Age, but Flidais and her kind are forever rooted in Bronze Age morality, which goes something like this: If it pleases me, then it is good and I want more; If it displeases me, then it must be destroyed as soon as possible, but preferably in a way that enhances my reputation so that I can achieve immortality in the songs of bards. They simply do not think like modern people, and it is because of them that the Fae have such twisted senses of right and wrong.

Flidais took an experimental sip of her smoothie and her face lit up, very pleased with herself. “Ah, I think the mortals are on to something here,” she said. “Anyway, Druid—what name are you using now?” A faint crinkle appeared between her eyes.

“Atticus,” I said.

“Atticus?” The crinkle deepened. “Does anyone actually believe you are Greek?”

“Nobody pays attention to names here.”

“Then what do they pay attention to?”

“Crude displays of personal wealth.” I stared at the remaining liquid in the blender and hoped that Flidais would get the hint. “Shiny trucks, shiny rocks on their fingers, that sort of thing.” Sure enough, she noticed that my attention was not totally centered on her.

“What are you—oh, would you like some of my smoothie? Help yourself, Atticus.”

“That is most considerate of you.” I smiled as I reached for another glass. I thought of the stoners who came into my shop earlier, probably already dead at the hands of the Morrigan, and how they would have been equally dead had they found Flidais in their kitchen. They would have seen her and said something like, “Yo, bitch, the f**k you doin’ with my strawberries?” and those would have been their last words. Bronze Age manners are tough to fathom for modern men, by and large, but it’s fairly simple: The guest is to be treated like a god, because he may, in fact, be a god in disguise. I had no doubts on that score when it came to Flidais.

“Not at all,” she replied. “You are a gracious host. But to finally answer your question, I went into the Crussh building and watched the mortals use these machines to make smoothies, and that is how I learned of them.” She considered her drink for a moment, and the crinkle appeared between her eyes again. “Do you not find this age to be horribly strange, so much of the sublime alongside the abominable?”

“I do indeed,” I said as I poured some red slush into my glass. “It is fortunate that we remain to preserve the traditions of a better time.”

“That’s what I have come to see you about, Atticus,” she said.

“Preserving traditions?”

“No. Remaining.” Oh, bloody hell. That did not sound good.

“I would love to hear about it. But may I first offer you anything else by way of refreshment?”

“No, I am perfectly content with this,” she said, wiggling her glass.

“Then perhaps we can retire to the front porch while we talk?”

“That will serve nicely.” I led the way, and Oberon followed us out and sat between us on the porch. He was thinking about hunting in Papago Park and hoping we would take him there. My bicycle was still in the street, to my relief, and I relaxed a little bit, until it occurred to me that Flidais had probably not walked here.

“Is your chariot safely stowed?” I asked her.

“Aye, there is a park hard by here, and I have bound the stags there until my return. Do not worry,” she added when she saw my eyebrows rise, “they are invisible.”

“Of course.” I smiled. “So tell me, what brings you out to visit an old Druid long gone from the world?”

“Aenghus Óg knows you are here.”

“So the Morrigan tells me,” I replied equably.

“Ah, she’s paid you a visit? Fir Bolgs are on their way too.”

“I am well aware.”

Flidais cocked her head and considered my air of unconcern. “And are you also aware that Bres follows them?”

I spewed strawberry smoothie into my flower bed at that, and Oberon looked at me in alarm.

“No, I suppose you had not heard that yet,” Flidais said with a faint smile, and then she chuckled, pleased to have elicited such a reaction from me.

“Why is  coming?” I asked as I wiped my mouth. Bres was one of the meanest of the Tuatha Dé Danann alive, though he was not particularly bright. He had been their leader for a few decades, but eventually he was replaced for being more sympathetic to the monstrous race of the Fomorians than to his own people. He was a god of agriculture and had escaped death at Lugh’s hands long ago by promising to share all he knew. The only reason he had not been killed since then was because he was husband to Brighid, and no one wished to risk her wrath. Her magical powers were unmatched, save perhaps by the Morrigan.