The Chiricahua Mountains in southeastern Arizona have a sere beauty to them. One of the things I enjoy about the desert is the hardiness of the plants and animals that live there. Rains are unpredictable and the Arizona sun can be extraordinarily harsh, yet life thrives in the Chiricahuas, albeit without the lush display you find in wetter climes.
The Chiricahuas are unusual in that there are several “sky islands”-old volcanic ranges that jut nine thousand feet above the desert grasslands-featuring diverse ecosystems.
Oberon and I hunted mule deer and javelina there, and we also terrorized a couple of coatimundis just to hear them chitter at us. We didn’t find any bighorn sheep but refused to let that small disappointment mar an idyllic outing.
‹This place is great, Atticus,› he said as we rested by a canyon stream, enjoying the gurgle of the water as it tumbled over rocks and eddied around the stalks of cattails. ‹How long can we stay here?›
I wished I could tell him we could stay until he tired of it. This was what I’d fought and lived for-a world without Aenghus Og in it. There wasn’t a place in Tir na nOg finer than that spot by the creek, and I couldn’t remember a time in recent centuries when I’d felt more at peace than there with my friend at that particular moment. It reminded me that Oberon had magic of his own: He could focus my attention on how perfectly sublime life can be at times. Such moments are ephemeral, and without his guidance I might have missed many of them, working so hard to get somewhere that I would fail to recognize when I had arrived.
Just another couple of days, I said. Then I have to get back to the shop and let Perry take his vacation. There was also the matter of the dead land around Tony Cabin to heal, and I needed to figure out how to grow back a convincing right ear. All I’d been able to do so far was grow a disfigured lump of cartilage, and it had yet to earn me a single admiring glance. I might have to resort to plastic surgery.
‹Aw. Too bad. I’ll enjoy it while it lasts, then.›
I have a surprise for you to enjoy when we get back home.
‹Did you get me that movie about Genghis Khan?›
It’s in the Netflix queue, but that’s not the surprise. You don’t need to worry, it’ll be something good. I just don’t want you to feel depressed about going home.
‹Oh, I won’t. But it would be cool to have a stream like this in the backyard. Can you make one?›
Umm… no.
‹I figured. Can’t blame a hound for trying.›
Oberon was indeed surprised when we got back home to Tempe. Hal had made the arrangements for me, and Oberon perked up as soon as we were dropped off by the shuttle from the car rental company.
‹Hey, smells like someone’s in my territory,› he said.
Nobody could be here without my permission, you know that.
‹Flidais did it.›
That isn’t Flidais you smell, believe me.
I opened the front door, and Oberon immediately ran to the kitchen window that gazed upon the backyard. He barked joyously when he saw what was waiting for him there.
‹French poodles! All black and curly with poofy little tails!›
And every one of them in heat.
‹Oh, WOW! Thanks, Atticus! I can’t wait to sniff their asses!› He bounded over to the door and pawed at it because the doggie door was closed to prevent the poodles from entering.
You earned it, buddy. Hold on, get down off the door so I can open it for you, and be careful, don’t hurt any of them.
I opened the door, expecting him to bolt through it and dive into his own personal canine harem, but instead he took one step and stopped, looking up at me with a mournful expression, his ears drooping and a tiny whine escaping his snout.
‹Only five?›
Acknowledgments
My pint glass runneth over.
Though it’s only my name that appears on the cover, novels truly don’t happen without the collaboration of others. My parents have always been supportive of my creative endeavors, from music to art to writing, and if they hadn’t convinced me that yes, I could do whatever I wanted creatively, I might have never started this project in the first place. My loving wife, Kimberly, has been watching me write one thing or another for close to twenty years now, and her iron conviction that I would get it right someday kept me going when I wanted to give up.
Several people provided valuable feedback in the early stages of the novel. Dr. Kim Hensley Owens, assistant professor of rhetoric at the University of Rhode Island, demanded consistency in the widow MacDonagh’s accent and occasionally suggested economies of phrasing, for which I am grateful. Alan O’Bryan provided insight into the simple truth of sword fights-they don’t last long-and introduced me to the Society for Creative Anachronism. Andrea Taylor had much to say on the subject of witches; I would tell you more except that I am under a spell.
I am convinced that my agent, Evan Goldfried, is a Magical Being. He said yes when others said no, and he sold the series so quickly that I’m still recovering from the whiplash. Cheers, Magic E.
Tricia Pasternak, my frabjous editor at Del Rey, is sans pareil in my esteem, and her enthusiasm for Atticus and Oberon is the reason you hold this book in your hand today. Her assistant editor, Mike Braff, tolerated my puerile shenanigans with great good humor and proved to be a font of wisdom regarding all things Nordic.
While the characters and events in Hounded are entirely fictional, one could, if one were so inclined, visit parts of the setting in Arizona. Third Eye Books and Herbs rests where the real-life comic shop of my cousin, Drew Sullivan, lies on Ash Avenue in Tempe; Tony Cabin is still out there in the Superstition Mountains, and the land around it is thankfully not dead; Rula Bula on Mill Avenue is indeed one of the finest Irish pubs anywhere, and I have yet to find a plate of fish and chips that comes close to theirs.
Linguistics aficionados may notice that while the Sisters of the Three Auroras are Polish, they use a decidedly Russian name-the Zoryas-for the star goddesses from which they derive their powers. The Zoryas are known throughout the Slavic world by one name or another (such as Zvezda, Zwezda, Zorza, etc.), but since most of the coven was born in the nineteenth century, when the eastern portion of Poland was occupied by Russia, it made sense (to me) to have them use the Russian name. No one is required to agree that this makes sense; I explain this merely to give the impression that my backstory is remarkably thorough and well-researched.