Tricked

it by touching the soaked end to the flame of her other one.
    » Excellent. Throw the one you just lit over its head far back enough to hit the wings. Lob it like you’re playing Skee-Ball. «
    She switched the torches in her hand so that she could throw right-handed; the newly lit torch was flaring brighter and had a better chance of catching.
    » Weapons hot, « she said drily. Oh, what a fabulous Druid she was going to be, when she could make puns under pressure!
    » Fire at will, « I responded in the same tone.
    She tossed the torch in a low arc over the locust’s head, and it backed up a couple of steps, then stopped, forgetting perhaps that it wasn’t a spirit anymore and it had a big, physical body behind its eyes. It cocked its head, almost as if to say, » Ha-ha, you missed, « and then found out Granuaile hadn’t missed after all.
    I couldn’t see precisely how the torch landed, nor could Granuaile, but the locust certainly reacted. It hopped back—it wasn’t going forward when Granuaile still had the other torch—and fluttered its wings a tiny bit, landing only twenty yards or so away. It repeated this a couple of more times, hopping to either side, but that didn’t help. Then it leapt up high in desperation and tried to fly with a full extension of its wings, but that resulted in a crazy spiraling crash back to the mesa, its wings on fire, fanned to a cheerful blaze by its own efforts. We saw that the stake had lodged itself point first into the joint where the wings attached to the thorax. The noise it made wasn’t threatening or terrifying now but rather comforting. It hadn’t ever heard of stop, drop, and roll, so all its flailing did nothing but feed the flames more oxygen. The fire continued to spread along the locust’s body and I was able to return my attention to my predicament.
    » That was excellent, Granuaile. Feel like tearing apart this head for me now? «
    » Um, « she replied. I looked up at her and she wasn’t paying attention to me at all. Her gaze was directed back at the hogan, and I followed the line of her sight until I spied a large crow resting on the roof of the hogan. Its eyes were red, but they faded to black even as I watched.
    » Good evening, Siodhachan, « the Morrigan said.
    » Have you been there all this while? « I asked, outraged.
    » I only just arrived. «
    » A bit late, wouldn’t you say? «
    » I would say in good time. Introduce me to your brave young apprentice. «
    » Oh, I do beg your pardon. My manners must have been consumed by this locust, along with my arm. Granuaile MacTiernan, meet the Morrigan of the Tuatha Dé Danann, Chooser of the Slain, also known as Badb, Macha, or Nemain when occasion calls. «
    The crow flew off the roof toward Granuaile and sort of melted in midair until there was a naked woman with milk-white skin striding toward her, hand extended.
    » Pleased to make your acquaintance, « the Morrigan said.
    » Likewise, « Granuaile managed, shaking the Morrigan’s hand. » I think we prayed to you on Samhain. «
    The Morrigan smiled. » Yes, you did. Please continue praying to me, as I’m the only one of the Tuatha Dé Danann who knows both of you are alive. «
    The locust’s screeching ceased and clued us in that it had finally died, though its body continued to burn. The Morrigan tilted her head down to look at me.
    » You will find, once you are free, that your tattoos are badly damaged. You will need to have them touched up, and I am the only one who can do it now. Call me when you are ready. «
    She took a step or two back and raised her arms in preparation to shift back to a crow. » Wait! « I said. » Aren’t you going to help me out of this? «
    » You’re perfectly capable of figuring it out on your own, Siodhachan, now that you have time to think, « she said, and then nodded once to Granuaile. » Farewell. «
    She shifted to a crow and left us there. Oh, were we going to have a talk later.
    » Wow, « Granuaile said.
    » Yeah. «
    » I just shook hands with a naked goddess. What was that she called you? She-ya-han? Does that mean dumbass in Old Irish or something? «
    » No, that’s my real name. Maybe it does mean dumbass, though. Keep calling me Atticus. Watch out—step back about ten yards, will you? «
    The Morrigan had been right. Now that the creature was dead and I wasn’t so panicked, I could think and use Druidry to get myself out of this. Still, I needed to see what I was doing. There was an awful