Trapped (The Iron Druid Chronicles, Book Five) by Kevin Hearne

Author:Kevin Hearne
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
ISBN: 9780345535627
Publisher: Random House, Inc.
Published: 2012-11-27T07:00:00+00:00

Chapter 15

One of the odd details about sporting goods stores is how incredibly full of steel and straight lines they are. The ambient atmosphere is harsh and fluorescent because, at some point in the planning stages, an executive said, “What, you want windows? Sunlight and moonlight? Fuck that noise.”

If nature were Little Red Riding Hood and a sporting goods store were the Big Bad Wolf, nature would observe, “My, what orderly rows of synthetic products you have,” and the store would say, “The better to dominate you with, my dear.”

People go into sporting goods stores ostensibly to prepare themselves to get closer to nature, but, in fact, every time they buy another plastic doodad, they’re doing just the opposite.

Still, if you’re wanting to go Bronze Age Rambo on some Bacchants and their principal deity, there’s some great stuff for booby traps in sporting goods stores. Rope. Twine. Nets. Sharp, pointy tools of all kinds, perfect for throwing and getting stabbity.

But to get the best selection, you have to be in a pretty big city, full of people who are desperate to buy things to get them closer to nature. That’s why Granuaile and I were in a store in Thessalonika, a large port city to the north of Olympus, browsing the selection of sharpened instruments designed to kill and gut all the animals people love. My theory was that someone out there had to make knives of bronze or other materials besides steel, and if we picked up enough of them, we’d be able to handle a few Bacchants. We’d emerged from the Olympian wilderness near the tiny village of Petra and hired a car from there to drive us all the way to Thessalonika.

We arrived near dinnertime and got a hotel room, primarily to clean up. I trimmed my beard, which was getting a bit scraggly after weeks of neglect, and felt better without all the hair on my neck. A bit of channel surfing found a station that played old American movies, and Oberon was happy. We left him stretched out on the king bed, watching When Harry Met Sally.

You’ll love it, I told him before we closed the door. It will reaffirm your contention that human mating habits are stupid.

<I think the evidence is pretty overwhelming, Atticus. It’s more than a contention; it’s an axiom. I could construct proofs with it.>

Is that a fact?

<You watch. Someday I’ll have puppies, and I’ll sit them down, or sit on them, and I’ll say, “Given: Atticus and Clever Girl are humans. Given: Humans have mating habits. Prove: Human mating habits are stupid. Proof: Watch them mate. Q.E.D.”>

I think your logic broke down there at the end, buddy, but you keep working on it.

The apprentice and I shared an awkward supper, the unsaid words from the cave remaining unsaid yet hanging in the air between us like little comic book balloons that someone had erased. I cannot speak for her, but my feeling was that our personal drama would have to wait until we had a safe soap opera setting in which to emote.

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