Underground Druid_A New Adult Urban Fantasy Novel by M. D. Massey

Author:M. D. Massey [Massey, M. D.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Modern Digital Publishing
Published: 2017-09-11T16:00:00+00:00

Other feldgeisters were already running at the party from both flanks—hounds, cats, deer, and even a donkey. It was sheer mayhem. Somehow, they’d managed to avoid the fire, and now tried to drive us into the flames ahead.

I couldn’t worry about that at the moment, because I was pretty certain I knew who the man in black was… and he was no joke.

I shifted on the fly as I jogged across the field. I swatted away wheat birds and the odd feldgeister hound as I ran. The hounds were like smaller versions of the rye wolves, but thankfully, they lacked their larger brothers’ magical powers. I mowed them down like grass, which was basically what they were.

The man in black wouldn’t fall as easily as the hounds had—of that I was certain. I halted a few meters from him, blocking his way. I planted the butt of the Spear to the side, holding it at arm’s length to avoid being burned by the flames.

“The Hafermann, I presume.”

“Some have called me that,” he replied. His voice was deep and raspy, like dried corn husks rubbing against one another in a cold autumn wind.

The Hafermann, or “oat man,” was yet another nightmarish harvest demon that was one of the Germanic fae. Like his female counterpart, the Rye Mother, he was said to be fond of stealing children. Whether the Rye Mother had brought him in as muscle or if he was part of her operation was of no consequence to me. He’d meet his fate here as well.

The Hafermann was a strange character as feldgeisters went. He dressed in black from head to toe, from his dusty leather shoes and worn woolen slacks to his collarless dress shirt. A long black overcoat completed the whole ensemble. The feldgeister’s hands were calloused like a farmer’s, but his skin was gray and sallow, and his cheeks sunk into a lean, hungry face. His eyes were the creepiest of all—large black circles edged by a jaundiced yellow sclera devoid of blood vessels.

Those black and yellow eyes were full of hate as he returned my stare. “You’ve chosen the wrong enemies, druid. Time was when your kind paid tribute to mine, giving us offerings of younglings and virgins. We could’ve been allies, as in the old days. But instead, you attacked us unprovoked.”

I laughed. “Look here, ‘American Gothic.’ I couldn’t give a shit what druids did two thousand years ago. Times have changed, and humans today tend to look poorly on harvest deities who demand blood sacrifices in exchange for a bumper crop. News flash: we don’t need supernatural agricultural intervention anymore. I mean, have you even heard of hydroponics? And besides being a relic of times long gone, your provocation is inherent in your actions. You hurt kids, and that’s something I can’t let stand.”

He chuckled in that raspy dried-leaves voice of his. “My kind are eternal, while you are merely a handful of dust and spit gathered for a few insignificant moments in time. Tomorrow, I’ll grind your bones to a meal, and your rotting flesh will return to the earth.

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