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but smile at. » I mean, how would you know, right? They could be passin’ out holy arrows with their Jesus crackers and you’d never know any different. «
    Coyote hooted and hollered and howled his laughter, and it wasn’t long before I was doing the same. He doubled over; he slapped his thighs; he laughed silently for a while because he was out of breath; he laughed until he had tears streaming from his eyes. » I bet it was just like that, Mr. Druid! « Coyote finally managed to gasp. » Them priests would come on up to the soldiers and say, ‘In the name of the Father and the Son, here’s a cracker, now go kill some fuckin’ Indians!’ « And abruptly the laughter died in our throats, and our smiles fell quietly like death shrouds on the fallen. It was simply too close to the truth to be funny. We spent some small while staring down at the flower bed in front of my porch. I cannot speak for what Coyote was thinking, but personally I was haunted by the ghosts of those who had trespassed against me; I was the only survivor of the Holy Roman Church’s war against Druidry.
    Coyote eventually wiped at his cheeks, finished off his Stella, and said, » Thanks for the beer an’ the laugh, Mr. Druid. « He stood up and put the empty on my porch rail, then held out his hand to shake, a huge grin on his face again. » You’d be a good guy if ya wasn’t so damn white. «
    I shook his hand firmly, grinned back, and said, » An’ you’d be a good guy if ya wasn’t a damn dog. « That set Coyote off to laughing again, but this time it seemed not entirely human. He let go of my hand and then I saw what was happening. He fell to all fours, and in another heartbeat he was bounding off my porch in his animal form, yipping his amusement into the cool November night.
    He didn’t even leave any clothes behind; they just sort of melted away somehow. Oberon noticed too. › Bitchin’, ‹ he said. › You should learn how to do that. ‹
    » Right. « I looked down at Oberon and clapped my hands together as Coyote disappeared from view. » Now we can go see the Polish witches. «
    › I think Coyote’s messed with your head, ‹ Oberon observed. › You just said that like it’s some sort of treat. ‹

Chapter 5
    Detecting some ambivalence, I asked Oberon if he’d rather stay home than visit the witches.
    › Actually, a run doesn’t sound all that great right now, ‹ he admitted. › I just had all those sausages. I think a nap would be nice. Maybe you can pop in a Clint Eastwood movie for me. ‹
    » Sure. Besides, you don’t like witches, right? «
    › Well, no. But neither do you. Except now you’re ready to trot over to Malina’s gingerbread house because she said so—and right after someone tried to off you, I might add. Have you thought that maybe you’re making her day here? Do you feel lucky? ‹
    » I guess I know which kind of Eastwood movie you’d like to watch. « I got Oberon set up in the living room with a Dirty Harry flick and then took off on my bike, sword strapped to my back in plain sight, heading for Malina’s condo near Town Lake.
    Ever since I’d started to carry Fragarach around regularly—just in the last few weeks—I had noticed an interesting phenomenon: Hardly anyone thought it was real. Most people took a look at the guy on a bike with a sword and assumed I was still living with my mom and harboring an unhealthy obsession for anime. Or they supposed the sword was a prop for a role-playing game or some other fantasy, because the idea of carrying a sword for personal defense in an age of firearms caused them too much cognitive dissonance. While I paused at the stoplight on Mill and University, one citizen even inquired if I was on my way to the comics shop.
    Malina lived in the Bridgeview condos, a twelve-story tower of glass and steel built just after the turn of the century in Tempe’s rush to develop the Town Lake district. She and the rest of her coven owned the entire ninth