Drag Hunt (12 page)

“Come with me.”

He felt a not too gentle tug at his mind and, unable to resist, followed her as she left.

F
ROM A WINDOW
of the Club, Morrigan turned, alerted by her battle ravens’ caws of alarm as they mobbed the intruder outside. She watched, fascinated, in expectation of blood. She was disappointed.

C
OYOTE-RAVEN BROKE FREE
of the murderous mob and flew up across the rooftops, startling a flock of dull-witted pigeons into the air. The battle ravens raced after him in single-minded pursuit, tearing through the hapless birds as they flapped frantically.

Bloody-feathered pigeon corpses dropped out of the sky to the screams of pedestrians below.

The battle ravens pursued Coyote-raven so relentlessly, they reminded him of a rock he once knew. He shuddered at the thought and flew on.

The beat of their wings was like a martial drum, their harsh calls, bloodthirsty war cries urging each other on.

If he had his penis, this would have been so easy...

Coyote-raven swooped down through the buildings, along the street and over the traffic, the battle ravens on his tail, their strident battle caws cutting through the city’s cacophony.

Coyote-raven flew lower, as low as he dared, over the top of cars and taxis to the sounds of blaring horns.

Scared by the sudden aerial activity, docile junk-food-grazing pigeons took to the air in a flurry of wings and coos of alarm, causing pedestrians to flinch, squeal and flail their arms, adding to the chaos.

A double-decker bus loomed. Coyote-raven caught sight of his reflection in the windscreen—and those of the battle ravens closing in behind him. He saw the bus driver throw up an arm as he flew over the cars at the bus, only to swoop under it at the last minute. Two battle ravens on his tail tried to follow, smashing into the engine grille and vanishing in puffs of black vapour that soon dissipated, mingling with the exhaust fumes.

Wheeling left, over the heads of screaming pedestrians who ducked, yelped and squealed, some taking swings with attaché cases, newspapers or umbrellas, Coyote-raven beat his wings, climbing up past the shiny glass walls of an office block. This close it was almost invisible, its mirrored surfaces reflecting the skyscape around it. He banked sharply round the corner, smirking to himself as he heard the deep reverberating
thung
of a bird strike on toughened glass. Another one down. He banked round the building, doubled back round the other side, put his beak down, and dived, picking up speed as he headed towards the fast approaching mouth of a corner Tube station.

Coyote-raven heard a caw as a battle raven, claws forward, slammed into him. Dazed, Coyote-raven lost control and fell from the air, a tumbling bundle of flailing wings and ruffled feathers. As he sought to come out of the spin, the pain hit. A sharp flash along his left side that melted into a sense of heat and burned as ichor oozed from the wound.

Now the others began to mob him as he fell, swooping in for opportune slashes and pecks.

Coyote-raven made for the opening of the Tube station, dispersing the gathering commuters, some of whom had taken out smartphones to film the unusual avian behaviour. Coyote-raven landed in an untidy ball by the ticket machines. He had no time to catch his breath before the mob of battle ravens descended. Commuters fled the station foyer in a panic. As the triumphant cawing of iridescent black battle ravens fell upon their victim, Coyote-raven cried with pain at each slice and rip. His caw lengthened and deepened into a howl as he transformed. The battle ravens’ cries of triumph turned to ones of pain as the coyote, its fangs bared, shook his body, throwing them off. It snapped at the nearest raven, seized it by its wing and shook it violently until it dissolved into a greasy black vapour in his mouth. He pounced and seized another, clamping his teeth down hard on its body, feeling the bones crunch in his mouth before the red light in its eyes died like embers, and the body turned into a foul tasting mist.

By now, people were screaming at the wild dog in the Tube station as it charged the diminished flock of battle ravens.

They took to the air, over the heads of shocked onlookers, leaving the coyote bloodied and panting in the foyer.

Coyote howled in humiliation and the crowd of gathered commuters yelled and parted as he loped out of the station, across the road and down an alley.

S
OME OF THE
shallower cuts were beginning to heal by the time Coyote walked upright and human into Weyland’s lock-up under the arches. He was tired and sore, but this was a power spot and a good place to replenish his personal power.

“Richard Green!” he called out.

There was no answer. He couldn’t say he was surprised. He wasn’t even disappointed. Trust the human to make the boring choice. Well, the choice had been his. Coyote was Dickless again. The truth was he’d just wanted sympathetic noises while he licked his wounds, while he remade the story of his defeat into one of heroic triumph. However, for that transformation he needed an audience. Anyone would have done. It didn’t have to be Richard Green.

There was a loud retort as several short high-pitched farts filled the silence.

“Oh, there you go,” said Coyote. “Where were you when I was being chased down by battle ravens? You could have guffed them to death.”

A single loud wet one followed.

“No, I wouldn’t call you a James Bond gadget.”

Still, now he could concentrate on getting his pecker back without the mortal whining all the time. And once he did, those raven mofos better watch out. Oh, yes. Wakdjunkaga had a long memory.

He took his deerskin wrapped war bundle from under the workbench where he’d stashed it, and laid it reverently on the top.

He rolled a shoulder and winced, kneading his neck muscles.

He was healing nicely but the humiliation of defeat still smarted and it would take longer to fade.

Something large shifted in the shadows. There was a glint of metal.

“Someone has been in my shop.”

A figure stepped from the shadows, holding a gleaming sword. It looked odd in the hand of a jump-suited biker mechanic. Odd, but no less fearsome.

“Weyland,” greeted Coyote, as he gingerly felt the left side of his ribcage. “Yes, sorry about that. You weren’t here. We didn’t think you’d mind.”

“I didn’t mean you, trickster.”

“Oh, sorry.” Coyote fanned a hand round his backside and pulled a face. “He does that sometimes.”

Weyland stepped over to the bench and put the broadsword down next to the war bundle. “Where is Richard Green? My radio’s been retuned, the digestives have all gone and someone’s been at my teabags.”

Coyote looked up at him. “It’s not my fault. I wasn’t here.”

“And Richard isn’t here now,” said Weyland.

Coyote shrugged, as if that cleared it all up. “Well, there you go. I knew he’d run out on me. Still, it’s one less thing to worry about.”

Weyland sniffed the air. He wandered round the lockup, still sniffing. He turned back to Coyote with a frown.

“Personally? I’d say it was one
more
thing to worry about.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Coyote Loses his Dick

R
ICHARD WANTED TO
please Cerridwen, as a child wants to please its mother. To be honest, after the last few weeks, it felt like blessed relief to give up all his worries. He wanted to bury himself in her bosom and be comforted, but he knew the cruel sting of her hand could be waiting. Nevertheless, his love for her was unconditional. He wanted the approval, not the rebuke, so he followed Cerridwen into the Club.

Although he would do anything for her, there was a small part of him, locked away in his head, banging behind plate glass. He could feel her hold on his mind exerting just enough pressure to let him know she was in there.

The front door opened of its own accord. He walked through, bracing himself for the psychic pressure wave of nearby gods. Coyote had helped alleviate that by giving him a push, jolting his awareness by lending him a small amount of power. What he felt on leaving before was psychic decompression. However, this time it didn’t feel as overwhelming. No doubt, Cerridwen’s constant hold on his mind acted as protection.

Richard followed her through the lobby and up the stone stairs to the landing, and along a wood panelled hall. There, double doors swung open silently at their approach. They passed through a large room full of leather armchairs and walnut tables. The members’ lounge, the Inner Sanctum. There, sat in the chairs, reading or chatting in low voices as mortal servants moved quietly between them, were gods.

Their passage warranted barely a glance from the few members that were about as Cerridwen led them to another door.

Beyond was a drawing room.

Richard felt a churn of nausea as the door opened and the minds of the occupying deities turned their attention towards him.

“Bow before my Lord Lugh, the Shining One, a god of great skill and art,” said Cerridwen sternly. Richard could not resist.

“So this is the trickster’s stray?” said Lugh. He laughed as Richard bowed for his mother-mistress.

Richard felt like a child in the company of adults—insignificant, powerless, and uncomprehending. They seemed larger than their size, as if their physical bodies could barely contain them, and looking at them gave him a kind of vertigo. Despite that, he tried to speak. Richard’s face screwed up with the effort of trying to move, a child wriggling and fidgeting against a mother’s firm grip.

Lugh leaned forward, eyebrow arched, and glanced at Cerridwen.

“He resists you.”

“The trickster has put a little of his power into him to protect him, though little good it has done him,” said Cerridwen, her smile tempered by an occasional wince as she tried to retain her grip on his mind. “Instead it has just weakened the trickster further. Without his member, he is not complete. Without Richard here, he is weaker still. Coyote cannot hope to stop us now.”

Lugh seemed less amused at this news.

“If this mortal possesses even a fraction of the trickster’s power, I want him out of the way. Take him down to the catacombs.”

“I—” began Richard as if trying to cough up something lodged in his throat.

“Stop it!” Cerridwen scolded, and he felt the removal of a mother’s love, a slap of bone-numbing cold, like falling into dark, desolate water. The shock was profound. He would do anything to crawl into the warmth of her affection again. Anything, if only she would reach out to him.

“Wait,” commanded Lugh. He sat forward. A look of amusement crossed his face. He nodded toward Richard and flicked a finger. “Let him speak his mind.
His
mind.”

Cerridwen nodded her permission to him. “Answer.”

“I... I thought Bran was the chair of this club,” said Richard, his mind slipping Cerriwden’s grip like a recalcitrant child.

Lugh shook his head. “Bran is weak. He did not see the glory of our proposal, so Ambrosia allows him to relive his own past glories. It seemed fitting.”

Richard cleared his throat. He tried to produce saliva enough to speak.

He caught sight of the silver reliquary on the table; through its crystal windows, he saw the shrivelled red protuberance.

“That’s—”

Lugh raised his eyebrows and nodded encouragement. “Yes?”

Fighting Cerridwen’s increasing grip on his mind Richard managed to spit out the words. “Coyote’s penis.”

Lugh patted the casket.

“He’s coming for it,” Richard blurted before Cerridwen’s mind clamped down on his once more.

Lugh tutted, shook his head, and gave Richard a look of deep disappointment, as if he were a wiry little terrier that had just fouled the carpet.

“Bored now.” He dismissed Richard with a wave of his hand. “Take him to the catacombs.”

As Cerridwen led Richard from the room, Lugh called after him.

“Cerridwen is right. He has no hope of success. Our plan will come to fruition. How can it not? Cerridwen inspired us. My art conceived it, Gobannon’s skill realised it and Osiris will help implement it.” He placed his hand on the reliquary and smiled broadly. “And with, or without, his consent, the trickster is about to become a father.”

B
Y THE TIME
Cerridwen led Richard down a set of small, cramped servant’s stairs, she had changed again. He was not aware of it happening, but it happened nonetheless. It felt as if she had always been as she was now and he willingly transferred his devotion to her new form, as if there had never been any other.

She appeared now as a young black-haired girl, gamine in appearance, with blue eyes that made Richard’s heart drum a tattoo, and a complexion that was all roses and cream. She was aware of it, too and the maiden played him without mercy, like a cat with a mouse: a coquettish look, a fleeting touch, the swing of her hips, and the rise and fall of her breasts under the simple shift she wore.

She tripped along lightly behind the floating greenish nimbus of light that went before them.

Below the Club, brickwork tunnels with barrel ceilings led to wine cellars and other storage rooms before giving way to deeper passages hewn from the bare bedrock, lit by misshapen skulls set into regular niches, each burning with a cold blue- green ethereal flame.

“The heads of slain Formorii,” said Cerridwen, pirouetting lightly on her feet as she turned to explain, her hair floating out with her shift as she did so. “An ancient enemy. Makes the place feel like home.”

“Uh huh,” agreed Richard with all the sincerity of a love-lorn youth.

She tripped gaily on and Richard followed. They passed branching tunnels. From some came the sharp clangour of beaten metal, and the red glow cast on the walls warped the shadows of repetitively falling hammers.

“Gobannan’s brethren of the Trí dé dána labour to finish their delicate task, so we may succeed in our goal,” said Cerridwen, now as prim and proper as a school prefect, Estelle to his Pip.