EPILOGUE.

Three weeks later, after the winter solstice and the New Year, it was such a clear blue day in the Pacific Northwest that I didn't mind the winter chill. Thanks to the new treaty with Leif, Owen would be able to get to the serious business of training apprentices in peace-which included the peace that came with my absence. And since Granuaile, like me, was effectively shielded from divination, Fand and Manannan Mac Lir wouldn't be able to find us at the new place in Oregon, if that was on their list of things to do. I hadn't heard anything about their recapture and didn't plan to inquire. My plan was to ignore them until I couldn't.

Magnusson and Hauk finalized the closing of the property for us and then gave me papers terminating me as a client. The termination saddened me, as did the cause for it; since I'd never gotten a chance to attend a memorial for Hal I held my own private one in the woods, shed tears at his passing, and hoped that wherever his spirit was he would forgive me.

But the property, at least, was worth the wait: an isolated spot in the Willamette National Forest, a legacy homestead with a wraparound porch and one of those steep green roofs. There was even a greenhouse for growing herbs in the winter, a new addition to the property that was Granuaile's idea. She had paid for it out of her own funds and said I should consider it a housewarming present. And an investment.

"I think you should get back into the tea business," she said upon revealing it to me, draping her arms around my shoulders and kissing my cheek. "But do it online this time. Sell your Mobili-Tea and so on and we'll ship it." It made me happy that she was thinking about the long term. The first-person plural made me happier.

Maybe my worries about us as a couple were unfounded, but ... well. Doubt is a pernicious, invasive weed in the mind that is nigh impossible to destroy once it germinates. You can pull it out and think it's gone, only to find it growing again after weeks or even days. Not that Granuaile had given me doubts about her fidelity; I'm not particularly jealous in that regard anyway-we are made to enjoy the bodies of other people, and I've long thought it silly to condemn another for acting according to their nature. Passion, though: That's entirely separate from lust. Granuaile is still in her thirties and hasn't lived long enough to know what a slow burn is. So when we first made love after Rome and it was different than before, damn if doubt didn't sprout in my mind with the speed of a time-lapse video and wave hello like an improbably cheerful hostess at a steak house. The last thing I wanted was Friar Laurence from Romeo and Juliet in my head, reminding me that These violent delights have violent ends and in their triumph die, like fire and powder, which, as they kiss, consume, but there the bastard was, schooling me as if I were a horny young Montague instead of someone far older than he was. And he kept at it too, into the next day, until I said aloud, "Hey, fuck you, Friar Laurence, okay?" and Oberon heard me through our mental link.

No, I was just worried because it was different and I've had more than my fair share of relationships. I can read the signs, and I'm not ready for it to end. But I also know from a surfeit of experience that people outgrow each other, and she still has plenty of growing to do. I can't teach her Polish, so she's been spending lots of time in Poland with the Sisters of the Three Auroras. She already scored a bartending job in Warsaw to get the immersion she needs, and she also spent time monitoring the activities of Thatcher Oil and Gas. I only see her now when she comes home to sleep and on her weekends, which are Mondays and Tuesdays.

But it was entirely possible-even probable-that my worries were unfounded and magnified out of proportion by the infamously fragile male ego. Apart from my imagination, she had given me no cause to fear. What I should be doing was the same thing everyone should be doing: enjoying the blessings I have while I have them, instead of worrying that one day they will be gone. I fought to keep that thought foremost in mind rather than the poisonous words of that fucker Friar Laurence.

The pine and Douglas fir lent a crisp scent to the air on a January Monday, and down by the McKenzie River the air was especially fresh. We took a walk down there with the hounds for what we assured them would be a memorable occasion.

"Granuaile and I would like to try something," I said to the hounds. My tongue, jaw, and lips had healed to the point where I could speak without impediment. "A new kind of binding. But we need you to be still for a few minutes while we do it."

Orlaith asked. Granuaile answered her, "Wagging your tail will not be a problem. But if you could keep the rest still, that would be great."

Oberon said. "No, Oberon," I said. "There is no food involved here at all. But we're pretty sure you're going to like this. Just be patient and enjoy the sun while it lasts, okay?" It was a rare clear day for an Oregon early winter, but in a few hours a storm system would roll in from the Pacific and it would get even colder.

Oberon and Orlaith sat down side by side in the grass, tongues lolling out and tails wagging like the happy hounds they were. Granuaile and I sat down facing them, legs crossed beneath us. I nodded at her and we both flipped our vision to the magical spectrum, where we could see the hounds' auras and the bindings that linked their minds to ours. We had long promised the hounds that we would bind them together eventually so that they could hear each other, but since we had never actually done it before, we didn't tell them what we were planning, in case it didn't succeed.

We began to work on the new binding in tandem, Old Irish streaming out of our mouths in almost identical patterns. The only difference was in our targets: I was starting with Oberon and binding his thoughts to Orlaith, and Granuaile was binding Orlaith to Oberon in turn. For now they were also connected to us: We'd be able to hear both sides of their conversation, but out of necessity we would soon give them the equivalent of their own private line, or else we'd constantly hear them chattering when we were trying to sleep or concentrate on something else. When the bindings were complete, no chimes or sirens went off in their heads. They would have to be told the link was there and then discover that they could use it. We had agreed to tell Oberon first and let him be the uncertain one.

"Okay, Oberon," I said aloud. "You should be able to talk to Orlaith now. Go ahead and try it. Think something at her rather than at me."

Granuaile's hound replied and got to her feet, her entire rear end shaking back and forth in her excitement. And then the two of them tore off through the forest, carried away by their joy, leaving Granuaile and me behind, facing the river. We exchanged a glance and laughed at our hounds for a few seconds, and then Granuaile leaned over and kissed me. She pulled away an inch and murmured in a low voice, "I knew we'd get along too, you know."

"Wait, what? Like Oberon knew?"

"Ha! No. But the first time you walked in to Rla Bla, I just knew. I was attracted on first sight, not first sniff."

"Because Laksha was in your head and told you I was a Druid?"

"No, no. I saw you first. Laksha didn't tell me about what you were until later."

"Ah, that's a fine salve for my ego." Her lips remained close to mine and I could smell her strawberry lip gloss. It felt the way it used to again. "You still drive me crazy, you know."

"Yeah," she said, smiling. "I know." And then we broke our eavesdropping link to our hounds so that they could enjoy their privacy, and we enjoyed some privacy of our own right there on the riverbank, not caring in the least how chilly it was outside.

There was bliss for a few days. They were the kind of carefree days you dream of having someday, the kind of days you spend most of your life working and suffering for. And then Orlaith came into heat and the hounds disappeared into the woods for long periods, until one night they sat us down by the fireplace for a Very Serious Talk.

Orlaith added. Granuaile and I assured them that they had our full attention.

Oberon explained.

We both clapped and squeed and gave them hugs. "This is fabulous news!" Granuaile said.

"Yes, indeed! I think we should celebrate," I said. "Oberon, I never did goulash you when we were in Prague. Let's all go get goulashed!" Granuaile and Orlaith didn't know what that was all about, but they got on board with the idea quickly enough.

I've decided that, apart from the herb greenhouse, I'm going to plant a flower garden around the cabin and keep some bees. The puppies should be here in time to play around in the spring blossoms. They'll be simply adorable, and harmony will have found us.

extras

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if you enjoyed

STAKED.

look out for

THE OVERSIGHT.

by

Charlie Fletcher

CHAPTER 1.

THE HOUSE ON WELLCLOSE SQUARE.

If only she wouldn't struggle so, the damned girl.

If only she wouldn't scream then he wouldn't have had to bind her mouth.

If only she would be quiet and calm and biddable, he would never have had to put her in a sack.

And if only he had not had to put her in a sack, she could have walked and he would not have had to put her over his shoulder and carry her to the Jew.

Bill Ketch was not a brute. Life may have knocked out a few teeth and broken his nose more than once, but it had not yet turned him into an animal: he was man enough to feel bad about what he was doing, and he did not like the way that the girl moaned so loud and wriggled on his shoulder, drawing attention to herself.

Hitting her didn't stop anything. She may have screamed a lot, but she had flint in her eye, something hard and unbreakable, and it was that tough core that had unnerved him and decided him on selling her to the Jew.

That's what the voice in his head told him, the quiet, sly voice that nevertheless was conveniently able to drown out whatever his conscience might try to say.

The street was empty and the fog from the Thames damped the gas lamps into blurs of dull light as he walked past the Seaman's Hostel and turned into Wellclose Square. The flare of a match caught his eye as a big man with a red beard lit a pipe amongst a group standing around a cart stacked with candle-boxes outside the Danish Church. Thankfully they didn't seem to notice him as he slunk speedily along the opposite side of the road, heading for the dark house at the bottom of the square beyond the looming bulk of the sugar refinery, outside which another horse and carriage stood unattended.

He was pleased the square was so quiet at this time of night. The last thing he wanted to do was to have to explain why he was carrying such strange cargo, or where he was heading.

The shaggy travelling man in The Three Cripples had given him directions, and so he ducked in the front gates, avoiding the main door as he edged round the corner and down a flight of slippery stone steps leading to a side-entrance. The dark slit between two houses was lit by a lonely gas globe which fought hard to be seen in murk that was much thicker at this lower end of the square, closer to the Thames.

There were two doors. The outer one, made of iron bars like a prison gate, was open, and held back against the brick wall. The dark oak inner door was closed and studded with a grid of raised nailheads that made it look as if it had been hammered shut for good measure. There was a handle marked "Pull" next to it. He did so, but heard no answering jangle of a bell from inside. He tugged again. Once more silence greeted him. He was about to yank it a third time when there was the sound of metal sliding against metal and a narrow judas hole opened in the door. Two unblinking eyes looked at him from behind a metal grille, but other than them he could see nothing apart from a dim glow from within.

The owner of the eyes said nothing. The only sound was a moaning from the sack on Ketch's shoulder.

The eyes moved from Ketch's face to the sack, and back. There was a sound of someone sniffing, as if the doorman was smelling him.

Ketch cleared his throat.

"This the Jew's house?"

The eyes continued to say nothing, summing him up in a most uncomfortable way.

"Well," swallowed Ketch. "I've got a girl for him. A screaming girl, like what as I been told he favours."

The accompanying smile was intended to ingratiate, but in reality only exposed the stumpy ruins of his teeth.

The eyes added this to the very precise total they were evidently calculating, and then abruptly stepped back and slammed the slit shut. The girl flinched at the noise and Ketch cuffed her, not too hard and not with any real intent to hurt, just on a reflex.

He stared at the blank door. Even though it was now eyeless, it still felt like it was looking back at him. Judging. He was confused. Had he been rejected? Was he being sent away? Had he walked all the way here carrying the girl who was not getting any lighter all for nothing? He felt a familiar anger build in his gut, as if all the cheap gin and sour beer it held were beginning to boil, sending heat flushing across his face. His fist bunched and he stepped forward to pound on the studded wood.

He swung angrily, but at the very moment he did so it opened and he staggered inward, following the arc of his blow across the threshold, nearly dumping the girl on the floor in front of him.

"Why-?!" he blurted.

And then stopped short.

He had stumbled into a space the size and shape of a sentry box, with no obvious way forward. He was about to step uneasily back out into the fog, when the wall to his right swung open.

He took a pace into a larger room lined in wooden tongue-and- groove panelling with a table and chairs and a dim oil lamp. The ceiling was also wood, as was the floor. Despite this it didn't smell of wood, or the oil in the lamp. It smelled of wet clay. All in all, and maybe because of the loamy smell, it had a distinctly coffin-like atmosphere. He shivered.

"Go on in," said a calm voice behind him.

"Nah," he swallowed. "Nah, you know what? I think I've made a mistake-"

The hot churn in his guts had gone ice-cold, and he felt the goosebumps rise on his skin: he was suddenly convinced that this was a room he must not enter, because if he did, he might never leave.

He turned fast, banging the girl on the doorpost, her yip of pain lost in the crash as the door slammed shut, barring his escape route with the sound of heavy bolts slamming home.

He pushed against the wood, and then kicked at it. It didn't move. He stood there breathing heavily, then slid the girl from his shoulder and laid her on the floor, holding her in place with a firm hand.

"Stay still or you shall have a kick, my girl," he hissed.

He turned and froze.

There was a man sitting against the back wall of the room, a big man, almost a giant, in the type of caped greatcoat that a coachman might wear. It had an unnaturally high collar, and above it he wore a travel-stained tricorn hat of a style that had not been seen much on London's streets for a generation, not since the early 1800s. The hat jutted over the collar and cast a shadow so deep that Ketch could see nothing of the face beneath. He stared at the man. The man didn't move an inch.

"Hoi," said Ketch, by way of introduction.

The giant remained motionless. Indeed as Ketch stepped towards him he realised that the head was angled slightly away, as if the man wasn't looking at him at all.