Staked (Iron Druid Chronicles) by Kevin Hearne

beyond cold iron. I don’t relish rehashing that conversation and I don’t know where he is right now anyway. That’s the way I’d like to keep it for a while: I have things I want to do besides hide myself from the gods. I have old business to conclude with my stepfather.
    Orlaith and I are somewhere in Sweden now, deposited here by request via the Bifrost Bridge after saying our farewells to Odin and Frigg. We’re on a lakeshore near some bound trees and we can go wherever we want, but we pause to appreciate the view. There’s some kind of hawk or perhaps an eagle hunting for fish—distance makes identification impossible. It’s chilly and the sky is overcast; it looks like it will snow soon. Orlaith’s tail wags when I point out the raptor hunting for its lunch. It dives down abruptly and comes up with a squirming pike in its talons.
     my hound observes, her tongue lolling out to one side.
    “Very subtle, Orlaith,” I reply. “Let’s go find some in India. I have someone I need to see there.”
    I shift us to a familiar banana grove outside of Thanjavur, India, where it’s much warmer than Sweden and the sun is shining. They often enjoy highs in the eighties during December.
     Orlaith says.
    “No, we won’t see Oberon and Atticus for a while. But the market in town should be hopping, and I bet we’ll find some chicken, at least.”
    We do indeed find some, and with basic needs met I pull out my phone and launch a browser, spending a few futile minutes trying to find a current address for one Mhathini Palanichamy, whose body Laksha currently inhabits. Time to act like the lost tourist I really am. I ask people who look friendly and willing to speak English how I might find a friend in town, feeling underdressed in my dull jeans and T-shirt in the midst of so many colorful saris.
    A Tamil University student sets me straight by telling me that the local search engines work fine but are mostly in the Hindi or Tamil languages, neither of which I speak. I offer her my phone, and in moments she has found the most likely address and sets me up with a walking navigation map.
    I feel the eyes on me from men and women alike as I make my way to the Palanichamy residence, and it’s just as well that I don’t speak the languages or else I would probably have to open a can of whup-ass on some men who catcall me. None of them approach, though, either owing to the presence of Orlaith at my side or the tomahawk at my belt.
    When I reach the address, my patience is tested further by the man who answers the door. He doesn’t speak English and dismisses me rudely, slamming the door in my face without making any serious effort to understand why I’m there. I pound on the door with one end of Scáthmhaide until he yanks it back open and shouts at me.
    “Mhathini,” I say, and repeat her name until it penetrates and he gives up his intimidation game. He shouts for her in the house and eventually she appears at the door, both wary and weary.
    Her sari is blue and green and her ruby necklace shines brightly against it, but her face is wan, even though the pallor of the hospital has improved to a healthier color. At least she brightens perceptibly when she sees me and says my name. A rapid argument with her brother or cousin or whoever the male is ensues, until he finally storms off, leaving us alone.
    “Sorry about that,” she says, stepping outside and closing the door behind her. “Mhathini’s family is quite conservative.”
    “Hey, you sound good!” I say, giving her a hug. When I last saw Laksha she had a severe speech impediment due to her host body’s brain injuries, but she had assured me she could work around it and she had.
    “Thanks. It took a few days, but I have her rewired now. Had to work fast if I wanted to have any kind of say in my life.”
    “Ugh. Who was that? Your brother? He had