Druid Master

  Druid Master

  A Druidverse Urban Fantasy Novel

  M.D. Massey

  Copyright © 2020 by M.D. Massey

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  1

  There are few things worse than losing your mentor, only to have them replaced by someone you despise.

  Granted, I knew that my mother loved me—somewhere deep down in that stone-cold heart of hers, that is. But as memories of my early life with her surfaced, so did all the feelings that had been repressed by the geas Finnegas had placed on me. The woman who sat before me at our kitchen table, sharpening a wicked-looking battleaxe while she observed me with hard, gray eyes, had never been a mother to me.

  Instead, she’d been more like a combination drill instructor, martial arts sensei, and prison warden. Which one I got depended on the day of the week and her moods. Sometimes she was a patient, almost kind teacher, and other times she was as hard and uncaring as an arctic winter. From the time I could hold a blade, she’d trained me—day in and day out—in the art of war.

  And for a pudgy, sensitive boy who’d lost his father at an early age, it had been hell.

  “Are you going to sit down, or just stand there looking at me like I’ve a horn growing out of my forehead?” She gestured at the chair opposite hers with her whetstone. “Sit.”

  Her tone brooked no argument, and I sat with an annoyed sigh. “Why all the deception? I mean, besides the fact that you were always mental.”

  She gave a crooked, sarcastic grin that brought out the slightest hint of crow’s feet around her deep-set almond eyes. Mom’s features were simultaneously exotic and familiar. It was a strange thing to imagine until you saw her—the dark blonde hair that fell in loose curls around her face, the high cheek bones, Greek nose, cleft chin, and thin lips that were most often drawn into a disapproving frown.

  She looked a bit like a more muscular yet leaner version of Emily Blunt, the Angel of Verdun with a harder edge. The olive-drab fatigue pants and black tank top she wore did little to detract from the look, revealing her almost masculine shoulders and arms and slender waist. As far back as I could remember, she’d made a conscious effort to dull her good looks to avoid attracting notice from men. No makeup, loose clothes, the works. And all business, all the time.

  My mother, the Fomorian ice queen.

  “Why do you think?” she responded as she slowly drew the whetstone across the axe’s edge. “You were too sensitive, The Seer said, and I was too harsh. He was worried I would scar you emotionally. Besides that, we couldn’t let the fae know about your ríastrad, or they’d have killed you before your balls dropped.”

  “It didn’t reveal itself until I was a teen.”

  “No, earlier,” she said, lifting her chin to reveal a long, thin scar that ran down the side of her neck. “I have the marks to prove it. Pushed you too hard one day in sparring, and you snapped. Almost had to kill you, but Finnegas showed up and put you to sleep. If you’d been grown, he’d never have managed it.”

  “Hmph. Suddenly, I wish I remembered that day.”

  “You couldn’t, as your Fomori side had taken over. That’s when Finnegas demanded that he and that half-kelpie take over your training. I asked him how he’d stop the same thing from happening again. He suggested a geas to make you forget.” She chortled mirthlessly. “For better than ten years, I had to play the brain-addled mom around you. Fecking torture, but I gave my word.”

  “So, you two created a fantasy for me to live in until I became an adult.”

  “Finnegas made the right call.” She gave me an appraising look before returning to the task of sharpening her blade. “Kept your rampages to a minimum, anyway.”

  “I—” I gave a short, frustrated sigh. “For the life of me, I don’t know what Dad saw in you.”

  “He was a warrior through and through—that’s what he saw in me, and I in him. Had he been a demigod like you, he’d have brought Underhill to its knees. Unfortunately, he was no match for the Fear Doirich as a human, hero blood or no.”

  “And where were you when the Dark Druid was trying to steal Dad’s body? Where were you when he died?”

  She slammed her axe down on the table. “I was looking after you, whelp. I should’ve been at his side, but you were too soft, too—”

  “Too human?”

  “Aye,” she said, settling back in her seat. “Yet, I was determined to prepare you for what we both knew was coming, as best as I knew how. The Fomori way proved too harsh for you, especially after the loss of your father. So, Finnegas took over and acted as a surrogate for Colm.”

  “And Maureen for you.” She ignored that remark, but a twitch of her upper lip told me it stung. “She was more of a mother to me than you could ever be.”

  Mom raised her chin in defiance. “I’ll not deny it. But consider my upbringing—” She paused, looking toward the front of the house with her mouth drawn into a grim smile.

  I half stood out of my chair, because I knew that look. “What is it?”

  “A messenger.”

  There was a scratching at the door, then a familiar voice with a thick Jersey accent echoed down the hall. “Yo, druid! Open up, already.”

  Mom stayed put with a knowing smirk on her face. The shrikt, shrikt, shrikt sound of her whetstone followed me down the hallway as I approached the front door. When I opened it, Larry the Chupacabra sat on the welcome mat, his tongue lolling crazily to one side.

  “Colin, no time to explain—we gotta boogie,” he said as he pushed past me into the house. “That dude with the evil sword is on his way here.”

  “Which dude?” I asked as I followed Larry down the hall and into our kitchen.

  “Hey, Leanne,” he said with a wag of his tail as he passed her on his way to the fridge. He bumped the door open, and soon he was digging around inside. “Ah, there it is.”

  “Wait, you two know each other?”

  “The rat dog has his uses,” Mom replied. “He’s stealthy, and he knows how to keep a secret.”

  Larry tossed a box of vegan breakfast sausage out of the fridge and nudged the door closed. “Ever since you fought that Dermot Mulroney guy, your mom’s had me following his dad, tracking his movements and stuff. Pervy fucker, that guy. Really into hentai—not the usual smut, but that dark, shokushu goukan stuff.”

  “He means Aengus,” Mom said, still sharpening her axe. “Not Donn.”

  “I gathered as much,” I replied in the snarkiest tone possible. Failing to get a rise, I turned to Larry. “Tell me what you know.”

  “Well, he’s still mega-pissed at you, he still has that sword, and he’s going to be here any minute.” Larry held the box down with a forepaw as he ripped it open with his needle-sharp teeth. “That’s why we have to go—now.”

  Deciding Larry was probably right, I reached out for my connection to the Oak. Nothing.

  “Don’t bother,” Mom s
aid. “The Seer’s spell blocks all magical communication and farsight. ’Twas a necessity, to keep this place hidden. So, you’ll not be talking to your magic tree from here.”

  “I could run out of range of the dampening field and then portal away,” I said, trying not to sound overly salty.

  “You could, but he’d just follow you. The Young One has your scent now.”

  “Of course he does,” I groused. “Thanks, Larry.”

  “Hey, buddy, she tricked me. Not my fault your mom is Attila the Hun.”

  “Boudicca would be a fairer comparison, but I’ll take that as a compliment,” she replied, just a bit too smugly.

  “What a minute,” I said, crossing my arms as I glared at my mom. “I thought this house was supposed to be the Switzerland of the World Beneath or something. Doesn’t that mean Aengus can’t come here to cause trouble?”

  Mom tested the edge of the axe with her thumbnail. “In a fashion. The truth is, The Seer placed a concealment spell on it that kept it mostly hidden from the fae and the Tuath De. That spell also acts to keep them from trespassing here, but it began fading the moment of his death.

  “Fortunately, among their kind, only Niamh knows of my presence, and we have an—understanding, of sorts, that she will not reveal me to others of her kind. As far as the rest of them are concerned, I died long ago, and my spirit wanders somewhere on the other side of the Veil.”

  At that, another memory bubbled up from my subconscious. In it, my mom was shaking me by the arms, squeezing them so tightly that tears came to my eyes. I’d overheard a conversation between her and my dad, in which he called her “Ellen” instead of Leanne. When I asked her why he’d called her that, she flipped.

  You must never mention that name to anyone—swear it, child!

  I snapped my fingers. “Son of a bitch—they don’t know you’re my mother.”

  “If they did, you’d have been dead long ago,” she said, rising from her chair as her eyes drifted to the front door. “It’s too late to flee now. He’s here.”

  “Why do I have this sneaking suspicion you wanted him to find me here?” I asked.

  “Well, she did tell me to let Aengus see me before I headed this way,” Larry said through a mouthful of vegan sausages. “Didn’t know you’d be here until I got to the door and smelled your Bag. Stinks like rotten feathers—did’ja know that?”

  “Great, my mother set me up so I’d have to fight a god.” I hung my head, rubbing the back of my neck before I looked up at her. “Any more surprises?”

  “Not today,” she said. “Now, quit whining and go out the back door so you can start shifting. Take it the whole way, boy—half-measures will not do against the likes of Aengus. He may not be the most powerful of the Tuath De, but he can be dangerous, especially when wielding Móralltach.”

  Stripping off clothes as I walked, I headed for the backyard, muttering curses all the while. As I grabbed the door handle, I whistled at the chupacabra. “Hey, you coming, or what?”

  Despite his canine features, Larry managed to give a “who, me?” look. “Seriously? If it’s all the same, I think I’ll stay right here and enjoy this premium, bonafide soy byproduct.”

  “Uh-uh. It’s your fault I’m in this mess, so you’re coming to watch my back.”

  “Go with him, francach madra, if you want to see our bargain through,” Mom interjected with a stern look.

  “Fine, but nobody better touch my sausage.”

  “Yeah, there’s no risk of that,” I muttered.

  “Boy,” Mom said, causing me to pause without looking back. “You’re not ready to face a god alone—yet. Just keep him distracted for a time.”

  “Two things. One, I became a man while you were shirking your parental responsibilities. And two, I did just fine against Býleistr.”

  “The jötunn chieftain was not the equal of Aengus, despite having common parentage with the trickster. It takes more than breeding to make a god—and more than killing to make a man.”

  Even after all these years, the woman was incapable of holding a simple conversation without criticizing me. Considering the circumstances, I decided to take the high road and ignore her last remark.

  “So, basically, you want me to keep him busy and not die?” I asked.

  “If you did, you’d not be worthy to be my son,” she replied matter-of-factly. “Now, go. The Seer’s spell is weakening, and Aengus will soon find the house.”

  My final response to her instructions was a disgusted grunt, shifting as I exited off the back deck into the yard. A half-minute or so later, I was in my full Fomorian form. It hurt like hell to shift, and when I did, I became ten-foot-nothing of ugly as fuck—kind of a cross between Quasimodo and Paul Bunyan. But I was a hell of a lot more resilient in this form. If I had to fight a god, I’d need every advantage I could get.

  About the time I finished the transformation, I heard an otherwise pleasing tenor voice taunting me. “MacCumhaill! C’mon out, ya’ wee prick, an’ take yer medicine!”

  So, I had to fight a god.

  Well, maybe I didn’t have to fight him. But in this case, I found myself agreeing with my mom. It was one of those “I may as well get this over with” situations. Damn it, but I’d forgotten how much I disliked her. I didn’t hate her, because she was my mom—but she sure knew how to chap my ass, that was for certain.

  “Um, we’re burning daylight here, druid,” Larry said from somewhere nearby.

  Whenever there was danger to be found, the chupacabra did his invisibility act. Admittedly, it came in handy, as he was better at doing recon than any other supernatural creature I’d met. If only he wasn’t so cowardly—but I could hardly blame him considering his complete lack of offensive capabilities.

  “Larry, is he carrying that sword?” I asked as I rummaged around in my Craneskin Bag.

  “You mean the sentient sword that’s one-hundred-ten percent batshit crazy? The one that never shuts up? The thing that carries on 24/7/365 about slicing up babies and making lace from the entrails of old, enfeebled women?”

  “That would be the one,” I replied as I found what I needed.

  I grabbed it in a reverse grip, hiding the handle inside my massive right fist and tucking the blade behind my arm. One of the challenges of facing down a god was that they had access to all the best loot. In this case, Aengus carried Móralltach, the Great Fury, a sword that never missed its mark once swung.

  Not to mention that he was a god, and by all accounts a highly accomplished warrior. That was a problem, because “highly accomplished” meant something entirely different when you were dealing with immortal beings who could spend centuries honing a particular skill. They hadn’t called him “The Red-Armed” for nothing, after all. I had a plan for the sword, but regarding his legendary skill in battle, I’d be winging that one.

  After queuing up a few highly specific spells, I released a frustrated sigh before heading through the side yard for the front of the house.

  “You sure you want to do ’dis?” Larry’s disembodied voice asked from my left. He was smart enough to know not to stand on my strong side, I’d give him that.

  “No. But I’m doing it anyway,” I said.

  “Druid!” Aengus bellowed as I rounded the front of the house. “Are ya’ craven? Come out ’n face the music. Or run, if yer’ a coward. I’ll merely hunt ya’ down fer’ sport, makes no difference ta’ me.”

  Strangely, the god was dressed much as he’d been at my duel with Diarmuid. He looked every bit the wealthy businessman, save for the late Bronze Age Celtic longsword in his hand. Aengus wore a gray, pinstripe three-piece suit, a lavender shirt with matching tie and pocket square, and wingtip shoes. He wore his golden hair long, as many gods did, but pulled back in a neat ponytail to reveal his supernaturally enhanced facial features. Piercing blue eyes, good cheekbones, a strong, clean-shaven jaw—the guy could’ve been on the cover of GQ, or the lead in an action movie franchise.

  Yeah, I definitely hate him
.

  I noted with interest that Aengus couldn’t see me, although I stood a mere fifteen feet away. Apparently Finn’s obfuscation spell was holding on, despite his departure from the mortal plane. Switching the blade I held to my left hand, I reached into my Bag and drew Gae Dearg, the Red Spear, which I’d kept as the spoils of battle after slaying Diarmuid Ua Duibhne, Aengus’ adopted son.

  He had kidnapped my girlfriend, after all, and mind-raped her to boot. By all counts he hadn’t sullied her physically, but to a werewolf with alpha tendencies, the mental domination may have been worse. As a condition of agreeing to the duel, I’d demanded that he release Fallyn whether I won or lost. I won, but I hadn’t seen her since, and her absence had left a gaping hole in my life that I still hadn’t managed to fill.

  That pyrrhic victory was apparently why Aengus wanted to kill me. Never mind that Diarmuid was technically already dead due to Fionn MacCumhaill’s willful neglect, and his adoptive father had sent him to kill me in the first place. It was all very confusing, trying to keep track of who wanted me dead and why. Honestly, I was at the point where I was ready to start dropping bodies just to clear the field a bit.

  The good thing about the Red Spear was that it caused wounds that could not be healed. Those wounds had nearly killed me after my fight with Diarmuid—several times, in fact. I figured if I could score a hit on Aengus, that might turn the tide enough to eke out a victory. I’d had a hell of a time beating his adopted son, so I could only imagine how a fair fight with the father would go.

  Balancing the spear in my mighty right hand, I drew back and cut loose for all I was worth. That was a lot in this form. When in full Fomorian mode, I could benchpress a Buick without breaking a sweat, outrun a pronghorn buck—a fact which I’d tested at a local wildlife preserve—and shrug off hits from small-caliber pistol rounds without so much as leaving a mark. By my estimate, the spear flew toward Aengus at roughly 300 feet per second, about as fast as a crossbow bolt. Having trained with the spear since I was young, my aim was dead on.