“Please do. I would like to hear what has made you so upset.”
“It reads: To the young Druid bitch and her upstart Viking boy: I will not be leaving Poland, and neither will my friends. We do not recognize your treaty or the leadership of Leif Helgarson and do not consider ourselves required to obey the demands of children. Instead, obey your elders: Leave Poland, and indeed leave Rome. You may think because you surprised some ancient ones grown stale in their thinking that you deserve to lead. That is not the case. You may both leave or die. That is all.”
“Ah,” Leif said. “Well. What is the modern parlance for that? Cheeky? Saucy? Clumsily stumbling over one’s own testicles? I think I have that right.”
“What? Do you mean ‘tripping balls’ or something? Gods, stop trying to sound hip, Leif. You’re even worse than Atticus led me to believe. What I want to know is why he called you a boy. Didn’t you tell us in Rome that you were the oldest vampire in the world now?”
“I believe I used the phrase as far as I know. I did not know at the time that Kacper was still walking the earth. I thought he was unmade in World War Two. Obviously I was in error.”
“So how old is he? I mean how much stronger is he than you are?”
“He is my elder by a hundred and thirty years, born into a tribe in the ninth century living near modern-day Krakow, before Poland became any sort of distinct political entity.”
“Which means his claim to leadership among other vampires is legit.”
“It is. He is a genuine threat. The vampires of Poland are certainly listening to him. Some have left, but I estimate that he has fifty to sixty more rallying to his banner, and perhaps others are coming in, urging him to contest my leadership.”
“Nobody rallies to banners anymore, Leif.”
“Old vampires do. His call to reject our treaty is reverberating around the globe, I assure you. I just learned of it myself today; he has picked his moment to emerge from obscurity. Tell me, has either Atticus or Owen received similar communication?”
“I don’t know yet. I need to check in with them. But I bet they haven’t, and you haven’t either, am I right?”
“You are correct.”
“I thought so. Because Kacper wouldn’t call Atticus and Owen anything demeaning, would he? Atticus is eight or nine hundred years older than he is, and while Owen hasn’t lived that long in subjective time, he was born before Atticus and wouldn’t stand for such language.”
“Surely you will not stand for it either?”
“Hell no, I’m going to unbind him just like his buddy Bartosz. As soon as I can find him. I don’t suppose you know where he might be?”
“My information on him predates the rise of Hitler. He used to hold properties in and around Krakow. He may have shifted his holdings elsewhere after the war, but I imagine he simply transferred ownership to a new alias unknown to me.”
“All right. I need you up here to help take care of this.”
“I could not agree more. This challenge must not go unanswered.”
“Call me when you’re in the country.”
I already had the next couple of days off, so that was fortunate. It might take more than that, however, to get the job done, and since the vampires were able to find me, my position at the brewery might be compromised. How were they able to do that? I wonder. I’ve only been here a couple of weeks and hadn’t done any obvious Druidic stuff in that time, and I’m protected from divination now. I should have been completely anonymous. Somebody at the brewery—either a customer or an employee—knows a vampire.
It’s late and I don’t feel like reviewing the story again to the coven, so I jog to the bound tree in Pole Mokotowskie, take off my shoes, and shift home to Oregon. The coven could hear about it in the morning.
My sweet hound, Orlaith, greets me with such happiness that her body shakes in all directions. <Granuaile! Guess what! Guess what!>
What is it, Orlaith? I reply through our mental link.
<You’re home and I’m happy! But guess what else!>
I can’t possibly. Tell me.
<Atticus said I have six puppies coming! He looked in my belly and said there were six auras. Can you believe it? That’s like five…plus one!>
You’re right, it is! Wow! That’s a lot of puppies!
<Oberon says it is because he is magnificent, but I think it’s because I’m magnificent. Who do you think is right?>
Can’t you both be magnificent?
<Well, yeah, that’s what Atticus said, but, come on, I’m doing all the work here. And I know that five plus one equals six.>
That’s an excellent point, Orlaith. Let us say, then, that you are magnificent and Oberon is kind of okay as far as dudes go. You can tell him I said so.
<Oh, that’s going to make him growl! Hee hee! You are the best human and I love you.>
You are the best hound and I love you too. Are Atticus and Oberon inside?
<Yes! And Starbuck too!>
Oh! Of course! I’m embarrassed to have left him out, but Starbuck is such a new addition to our home; he’s a Boston terrier that Atticus rescued in Portland and I’m still getting to know him.
<Atticus is preparing several chickens for our delight.>
He really said it just like that, didn’t he?
<He did!>
Let’s go see them. I take six happy steps, one for each puppy, before a message shoots up through the sole of my foot from the Willamette elemental. There is something that demands Druidic attention in Tasmania, and I hurry in to call Atticus outside so he can get the message as well.
After a quick hello and turning the stove down low, he joins me outside.
“Don’t give an answer yet,” I tell him. “We need to talk about what happened today.”
“Okay.”
We work it out so that he’ll go to Tasmania on the earth’s business, returning each night to make sure Orlaith and Starbuck are okay, and I’ll return to Poland to enforce the treaty.
“Don’t ever turn your back on Leif,” he tells me. “His allegiance is only to himself. You’re safe only so long as he believes you’re of more benefit to him alive. And watch out: The ones you’re after might be using infrared if they know you’re coming.”
He was referring to the single reliable way to penetrate camouflage—and, I assumed, the invisibility conferred by Scáthmhaide. The vampires had used it successfully against him in Germany. “Thanks for the reminder,” I say, and we leave it settled and enjoy the delightful chicken and, later, some private time together, with the hounds firmly instructed to leave us alone for a while. I sleep in until noon, local time, and wake to my phone buzzing. Atticus and Oberon are already gone.
“I’m in Krakow,” Leif says. “It is eight in the evening here.”
“Okay. I am shifting into Las Wolski forest above Old Town in a half hour. Where will you be?”
“At Stary Port, a sailor-themed establishment where they serve grog and sing sea shanties. The address is Straszewskiego twenty-seven. Please hurry. The singing is already intolerable.”