Hounded

My name is Atticus O'Sullivan, and I'm the last of the Druids. Most folks in Tempe, Arizona, where I run my occult bookshop, "Third Eye Books and Herbs," figure me for a handsome, tattooed Irishman in his early twenties. They're only off by about twenty-one centuries. Hiding in plain sight has been my modus operandi for a long, long time, ever since I swiped a rather potent blade called Fragarach, the Answerer, from a certain Celtic god of love, Aenghus Óg. He's been a persistent sort, hounding my every step across continents and millennia, but I've grown tired of running. This desert town, with its low fae population and distinct lack of ash, oak, and thorn, felt like a safe haven, a place where I could finally lay low with my telepathic Irish Wolfhound, Oberon, and enjoy a decent fish and chips.

But the past, as it always does, has caught up. The peace shattered when five faeries, clearly expendable pawns, attacked my shop. I dispatched three, and my iron elemental took care of the rest, a rather visceral thank you for the delicious meal. This was merely a prelude. The Morrigan, the Celtic Chooser of the Slain, soon appeared, not to reap my soul just yet, but to deliver a chilling warning: Aenghus Óg and his formidable Tuatha Dé Danann were finally coming for me. She tossed her wands, and they confirmed a warrior would fight and die, though she conceded it might even be Aenghus Óg himself. Her presence, a stark reminder of my precarious existence, left a lingering chill, especially after she advised a few unwitting students to put their affairs in order.

My life, which usually involves selling fake weed to stoners and bantering with Oberon about the finer points of sausage, quickly escalated into a whirlwind of supernatural preparation. I secured my shop, checked on the amulet bonded to my aura, and braced for the inevitable. My circle of allies, though eclectic, is fiercely loyal. There's Leif, my night lawyer, who happens to be a vampire, and Hal, my day lawyer, a werewolf. Then there's the local coven of witches, led by Radomila, and the fiery Granuaile, a bartender possessed by a Hindu witch, all of whom I might need before this is over. Even Brighid, goddess of poetry and forge, and Aenghus Óg's own sister, offers a surprising, albeit cautious, hand.

The days leading up to the confrontation are a tense dance between mundane errands and dodging divine wrath. I find myself navigating the complexities of godly politics, trying to outwit a deity who, despite being the god of love, is remarkably unlovable when he's after something he believes is his. Fragarach, the sword he covets, is more than just a weapon; it's a symbol of my defiance and a source of immense power. It's the catalyst that has drawn every god, fae, and supernatural creature in the vicinity into this impending maelstrom.

The climax arrives, not with a whisper, but with the full, thunderous might of the Celtic pantheon descending upon Tempe. Aenghus Óg leads his forces, determined to reclaim his blade and exact centuries of revenge. It's a battle of ancient magic against modern wit, of divine power against the raw, earth-given strength of the last Druid. With Oberon by my side, his telepathic commentary a constant, comforting presence, and my motley crew of supernatural friends, I stand ready. My goal is simple: survive, keep Fragarach, and perhaps, just perhaps, finally be free of Aenghus Óg's relentless pursuit. This isn't just about a sword; it's about freedom, survival, and proving that even a twenty-one-century-old Druid can still kick some divine arse.