When Mal drives Alima back, Ogma and Marian are still up and the TV is on. Marian barely hears the key turn before she latches onto Alima. "Sweet lord above, are you and Mal all right?!"

"Mostly." She steps into the doorway, and the last of the cold leaves her skin.

"It’s been years since the Wild Hunt came this close to the walls," Ogma grouses.

"--and please remember that steel and titanium are not effective against the Folk," adds the reporter. "Folk arrows can also go through most non-magical walls, but if you’re in town or in a car, you should be fine."

Marian clucks as she spots the blisters on Mal’s hand. "Get off the couch, man, Mal’s got Folk blood on him."

"They got my shoulder, but someone called Ogma fixed it," Mal says.

This Ogma puts his hand over the blisters, and they heal back into normal skin. “Figures he’d be around. Most of the young gods are summer gods. Aside from Brighid, but she’s the hearth-keeper.”

“I guess.” He knows that Aine is also named after a goddess, and that she never drowns, but she’s not particularly religious. Spiritual, yes, but she can’t seem to pin herself down to religion with schedules and ritual yet. “Call me if you need anything,” he says, and he’s not quite sure who he’s talking to.

“I’m the cunning-man, Mal, what do I need help for?” Ogma asks with a chuckle. “But I’ll remember that offer.”

After Mal leaves, Marian sighs and brings the unusually quiet Alima to the couch. “‘Mostly,’” she echoes. “And then you don’t say a word. I’m sorry you keep running into the Folk, love. But they already go after travelers, and since you’re not just a tourist, you’re in the halfway place.”

“Halfway?”

“Not here, not there,” Marian explains. “You’re still American, but you’re not Irish yet. Before the whole legal-magic business, moving was the same whether you switched towns or countries--just move, then get a house and a job. Or marry someone, that’s got at least one.” She walks to the kitchen. “I’m making you some tea. You want some too, Ogma?”

He scoffs; Marian makes him one anyway before she heads to bed. The tea is a lavender and chamomile blend; sweet, languid, and dusty. Ogma sits with Alima on the couch, letting her drain about a third of her mug before he starts.

“Have you ever talked about your parents?” He asks. “You never really mention how they reacted when you shipped yourself off to Ireland.”

“Well, they didn’t,” she admits. “They... vanished. Late April, nearly June.” She stirs in another spoonful of her Moher honey.

She doesn’t realize Ogma’s watching her until he speaks again: “That does explain why you took to the Moher honey so well.”

“Oh.” She takes another sip. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry, lass,” he tells her with a good-natured push. “I figured they were either dead, gone, or they turned abusive. Most people who want home, they either lost it or they never had one.”

“That makes sense.” She swirls her tea around. “Is this why the Folk are going after me so much?”

“Yes. People at halfway-points are tricky, sure enough, but the ones who are drifting like you are? The Folk love to go after vulnerable people.”

“So...” She finishes her tea and shrugs. “Time to be more careful, I guess.”

“You’ll want one of these,” Ogma says. He reaches under the couch for a small wooden box, and hands Alima a dagger. It has been diligently kept sharp, and has a handle made of oak; a thickly-braided linen cord is tied into a loop on the sheath. “Most people have at least a couple of them.”

“Thanks.” She takes it and ties it to her belt.

---
On the way home from his shift at the Live Oak, Mal meets up with Owen. He’s going slow, so Mal catches up. “Owen! Hi!”

“Hello, Mal,” says the other man, which is an odd sign--normally he makes a crack at something or other. “Got a visit from Teis last night.”

“It’s not a holiday, is it?” Mal scans his memories, but he can’t quite remember if there’s an American holiday in August. They usually come by the Live Oak, too. "Or did he just get a good portal price?"

“Not that kind of visit. It got weird around the middle.”

So he was having an oak dream. That explains why he’s quiet; people with the wyrth-eyes get a lot of visits from the Otherworld. “Did he say anything?”

“Well, that’s the weird part.” Owen sighs. “Saw the Wild Hunt trying to kick someone around, and this Chinese guy came up to help. Then... someone was in a tree? Anyway, I sent Teis out.”

“Are you okay?!” Mal asks. Owen is stubborn and proud enough to try taking on the Folk--and worse, he can usually hold his own.

“I’m fine. Turns out it was just a vision, not actual traveling. Called Teis back once it cleared out.”

“Hmm.” Visions from the Otherworld are connected to the future, Mal knows, but the finer details are what Owen learned from his grandfather. “Anything else in the vision?”

“I want to say it’s connected to Teis somehow,” Owen muses. “But none of his Asian friends look like him.”

---
Alima finally manages to find a job at the Standing Stone Vet Clinic. It’s not as medical staff--she’d have to get at least some education for that, and she has neither the money nor the interest for going into medicine.

"We really just need some extra hands around," says Brighid Brennan as they watch the training videos. "You’re essentially going to take on the non-medical care for the animals, clean the sleeping areas, and answer the phone if everyone’s busy."

"No problem, I did lots of scut work," Alima replies. "I minored in traditional magic, so in America that’s pretty much the art of the magical world."

"Ooh, traditional magic!" She bounces, which is a feat for someone who’s at least a head taller than Alima. "I took a few classes, but I never really had a knack for it." She listens a bit to the video, then shrugs. "Don’t worry, honey, the first third is just dog-walking protocol. Don’t walk dogs alone if they’re more than half your weight; make sure they’re on a harness; and if they get loose or pull too hard, have your friend help with the lead. We just can’t fast-forward or else it’s going to be marked incomplete."

The husky is about as good of an actor as his human companion; once the text regarding the situation scrolls onto the bottom of the screen, he clearly starts hunting for a tossed treat instead of breaking out of his walker’s grasp.

Brighid shakes her head when she spies Alima trying not to laugh. "It’s even worse than normal training videos, I know."

---
Once Alima gets her first paycheck, she visits Mal’s place that evening with a congratulatory six-pack. Unfortunately, he has to call a tree-trimmer when something creaks; it was windy last night, and one of the peach tree’s branches has gotten twisted into a strange position. After it happens a second time, he decides to make a quick call to the tree-trimmer.

“It doesn’t look too bad right now, but it keeps creaking,” he says. “I have work, but I can get a friend over if you--”

A sharp, pained cry interrupts them. The tree-trimmer is worried: “Are you okay, sir?”

“No, it wasn’t me...” He checks inside. “Alima, did you...?”

But she’s on the couch, watching the television with Logan. Mal checks his jacket for his knife; usually someone’s actually in trouble, but sometimes the Folk pretend to be a hurt person so they can get someone past the wall. “Well, that’s it for now," he tells the tree-trimmer. "Call you back tomorrow, ma’am.”

"No problem, sir."

“Mal?” Logan asks.

“I heard something,” Mal says. “Maybe someone fell or got hit outside? Logan, stay here.”

Alima checks her belt as they close the door; the knife she got from Ogma is hanging from it.

It isn’t too far from the house that they see a moon-white mass shivering in the alley. Mal crouches at the mouth of it; the dog’s ears are pinned back, but he seems more scared than angry; he shies away when they come too close. One leg is held taut, and the other is bleeding. He may have been hit by a car.

“Hey,” Alima says. “Hey, doggy. We won’t hurt you.”

The dog is massive and wolfish, with yellow eyes; probably a husky. He’s pure white, with a thick mane of fur, but he’s clearly been starving for at least a month or two. He creeps closer, tail between his legs, and noses Alima’s hand immediately.

“Malachy, do you have a rope? Or something we can put around his neck?” She makes the squeaking noise for his attention, and he licks her a couple of times in response.

“Just my knife’s harness. I can pick him up if we have to, though.”

She takes her dagger off her belt, loops the cord through the buckle, and slips it over the dog’s head. He only grumbles a little at the motion; he definitely used to be someone’s pet. He can walk, albeit with difficulty, and his skittering nearly yanks her down when Mal tries to pick him up.

“Poor boy.” He drops to one knee and pats the dog’s shoulder. “Just a couple blocks, mate.”

Ogma spots them a short way from the lawn. "Bringing home strays, Mal?"

“He must have got hit near the house,” Mal tells the old man. “We found him near Fourth.”

“You found a dog! Can we keep him?” Logan barrels over.

“Careful!” Mal steps between them, but the dog merely shies away. “Even if we were going to, we need to take him to the vet and check if anyone’s lost a white shepherd or a husky. Or a husky-shepherd mix.”

“No collar. That’s tricky.” Ogma presses the dog’s legs gently; he whimpers, but manages to stay still. “If he could walk even a short distance, it’s either a sprain or a minor fracture. It just looks worse with all the blood and swelling. Go and get stuff done, I’ll stay here with him.”

They bring the dog onto a towel while Alima takes a few pictures of him on her phone. Then she goes to make Found Dog posters and call the shelters, while Mal takes Logan to Mag Mell Park; Ogma waits until the car’s engine rumbles off before speaking. “Who are you?”

The dog shakes himself a bit, and Ogma can see a tall Chinese man struggling to break loose from his current shape. “I’m Alima’s father.”

“What happened to you?”

“The deer-man,” says the dog. “He grabbed me and my wife around last week, so my daughter was probably--”

“Wait, what?” It isn’t often that Ogma is thrown off. “Sir--”

“--and she ate Ramen for months last year, there’s no way she can... What?” The dog whuffs. “Did I get your name?”

“Ogma O’Luain.” He shakes the dog’s good paw.

“Ned Song,” the dog sighs. “I’m sorry, I just--I sniffed Alima out, found a portal, almost got trampled by the deer-man’s horse. You know, it might be an elk or moose skull, deer don’t have those kinds of antlers... am I talking too much?” He huffs and shakes himself out. “I’m sorry. Again.”

“Where do you think we are?” Ogma asks carefully. It takes a while for Ned to respond, and then it is only a whine of reluctance. “Right; Mr. Song? You’re in Ireland.”

“What the hell is my daughter doing in Ireland?!” He tries to get up, but yelps when too much weight gets put on his legs.

“You’ve been missing for about three months in the human world,” Ogma tells him gently, and pushes him back down. “Alima’s moved here because she thinks you both are dead.”

“I... You’re not... No.” The dog shows his teeth, but his whimper gives him away. “You’re wrong. You’re wrong.”

“I’m very rarely wrong.” Ogma ruffles the dog’s mane. "I never did well at transforming, or I’d have turned you back. My grandson does, but he can’t break a curse from the Hunter.”

“The deer-man.” Ned lies down in defeat and turns onto his uninjured side. “I don’t like the blond guy."

“Malachy? He’s helping you because he thinks you’re an abandoned stray,” Ogma retorts. “What do you have against him?”

“I’m sure he’s a nice boy,” says Ned. “I just don’t want him taking advantage of my daughter, who thinks her parents died this summer and is now emotionally compromised enough for someone to potentially lead her on.”

Against himself, Ogma laughs. "I admit that’s understandable, but no more ear scratches."

“Sorry.” Ned puts his head down, yellow eyes contrite. “I’m going to kill the Hunter, by the way,” he adds.

“You don’t need to kill the Hunter to break one of his curses,” Ogma tells him.

“Well, I want to kill him. I lost track of my wife once the Hunter cursed me.”

Ogma exhales; once people are separated by the Folk, it is very hard to get them back together. “I hope you find her.” Alive, he hopes as well. But he doesn’t want to put more stress on the cursed man.

Ned curls up as tight as he can with a whimper.

When the three others come back to the house, Ogma has fed Ned bits of dog-friendly leftovers; he can’t stand up for very long, but he can at least eat while sitting or lying down. Ogma is just about to tell Alima that the dog is her father, but a wall of the Folk’s magic locks his jaw until he struggles to cough.

"You all right, Ogma?" Mal asks.

"Just a bit of dog fur," the Hunter’s curse forces words into Ogma’s mouth.

"Figures." Ned sighs as the other three go on, not hearing him, and whines when Logan accidentally grazes a scratch. "But thanks for trying."

Next Chapter: XI: red hands