Trapped

Chapter 13

Once I shifted away from Tír na nÓg with Fragarach in my scabbard, I found it difficult not to grin like a geek at a Trekkie convention.

I had it back. After twelve long years, I had it back. Gifted to me this time by one of the Tuatha Dé Danann, not stolen from them!

Giddy euphoria seized me and I shivered with it. A squee welled up in my throat because I felt cool again—impossibly, inhumanly cool, like Laurence Fucking Fishburne—but I suppressed it savagely; if I squeed out loud, all the cool would be gone.

“Why are you shaking?” Granuaile asked. “Are you cold?”

“Oh. No. Um, excess energy. Excitement to get started again.” To calm myself, I told Granuaile about the odd origins of the dark elves and how we’d have to fight them if it ever came to that. Keep moving, flank attacks, and, damn it, keep your mouth shut.

“What about your nose or your ears?”

“I don’t think that would work for them. They become flesh and blood once they solidify; the bones of the skull would slice right through their arm. If they’re willing to do that to kill you, then, yeah, I guess you could worry about it. Down your throat, however, that’s all soft tissue. They’d unhinge the jaw, tear muscles, and rupture the esophagus just by solidifying, then when they pulled their arm free, your throat would come with it.”

Granuaile swallowed and put a hand up to her neck. “Thanks for the visual.”

We were once more on the billowing skirts of Olympus, but this time we were on the western side. There was no reason to search for an appropriate spot; now that Olympia knew of our need, she was only too happy to guide us to an appropriate place to continue Granuaile’s binding. Similar to the cave on the eastern slope in that the required thornbushes also provided cover for the entrance, it was situated a good thirty yards or so from a small creek that would provide us with water. The ceiling of the cave was lower, it wasn’t so deep or comfortable as the first one, and something small and furry had left pellets of shit scattered about, but it would serve. We scouted patrol routes for Oberon and plotted escapes before we cleaned out the cave as best we could. Connecting with Gaia didn’t take quite as long—less than a week, since she’d been expecting us—and soon I was stabbing Granuaile with a thorn as if we’d never been interrupted.

Modern tattoo guns can pierce the skin about eighty to one hundred twenty times per second. I can do it with a thorn about once a second. The tip was sharpened and hardened with a binding, but still it was painful and slow and bloody. And sometimes I’d get a bit distracted.

Because. You know.

Granuaile’s bare leg.

Underneath my hands.

There are hosts of mental tricks you can play to keep your libido in check—thinking of baseball is just one—but it’s a near-constant battle when there are thighs involved. Smooth, toned thighs that curved and … oh, damn. And eventually we progressed far enough up her leg to where she had to take her shorts off.

I know tattoo artists barely notice such things; when they’re on the job, flesh is just a canvas to be bloodied and inked. But I wasn’t a jaded tattoo artist, and Granuaile’s body wasn’t simply a canvas to me. It was more like the Holy Grrrail, pronounced with a rolling Scottish rumble.

She wanted to shed her underwear at the same time, but I stopped her.

“Keep those on,” I said, silently asking the Dalai Lama to help me give up all earthly desires. She was still my apprentice.

“Why? I’ll just have to take them off later.”

“No, we’ll work around it.”

“But it’s silly. They’ll get all bloody and nasty.” She had raised her butt off the floor of the cave and had her thumbs hooked in the sides. The top was already partially down, and there was that beautiful flat expanse between the valley of her hips, leading down to—gods!

“I promise to buy you a new pair. Just. Please. Keep them on.”

“Oh. I see.” Her voice was toneless as she lay back down and turned away, hiding behind a shoulder. “You’re still pretending.”

A bit wounded at the accusation, I replied, “I’m not pretending at all. I’ve always made it clear that our relationship needs to remain strictly professional.”

“Right. You go on and keep telling yourself that. You can’t hide it anymore, Atticus, so just stop, okay? You know we both have feelings that go beyond that.”

“We can’t go beyond that, Granuaile. I won’t.”

“And what happens when I’m fully bound? May I do as I please then?”

“Technically, yes. The earth will recognize you as a Druid and answer your call, and you’ll be free to go wherever you wish. But new Druids typically remain with their archdruids for a short while to learn how to shape-shift well and to travel the planes properly.”

She twisted around to face me, a scowl on her face, and then she punched me hard on the arm.

“Ow!”

“You’re being willfully dense! For a man who can see the bonds between all living things, you’re remarkably blind to ours. Have you been filtering them out of your vision, seeing only what you want to see?”

Panic filled my frontal lobe and I tensed, though I’m sure all Granuaile saw was my mouth drop open. She was right—I had been filtering quite extensively; I was seeing only what Gaia needed me to see to get the binding done. And then I realized that was a weak excuse.

“Um,” I said. The truth was, I could have looked at Granuaile in the magical spectrum anytime I wished in the past twelve years, and I hadn’t done so unless I needed to teach her something. When I did, I always filtered out everything extraneous to the objective, just as I was doing now while tattooing her. It was denial, pure and simple.

Once I removed my blinders and looked at the emotional ties between us, I knew precisely what I was looking at. I’d seen knots like this before. Some of them were lust. And some of them, the ones I hadn’t dared to confirm for fear that they wouldn’t be there, were love.

Granuaile could see them now for herself, and she’d figured out what they meant without my coaching. She was right. I couldn’t pretend anymore.

What I could do, however, was feel like a complete dumbass. Again.

I’ve lost track of how often I’ve felt that way in relationships. Somehow, despite having more practice than anyone, I’ve never learned how not to feel like a dumbass. It’s like ordering a medium anything at the movie theatre and the teenage employee always, always, asks if you want a large for fifty cents more. Even if you ask them nicely ahead of time not to upsell you, they still do it, because the word medium triggers an automatic response in their brains. Falling in love is like that: You always feel like a dumbass at some point, even if you know it’s coming—it’s unavoidable.

Before I could offer something beyond a helpless monosyllable, Oberon’s voice in my head demanded my attention.

You mean a thyrsus?

A new panic filled me. Bacchants were on their way.