by Jasmine Walt
“Whoa,” Loren said. “That was trippy. It sounded like my horse just said hello.”
“He did,” I assured her.
People weren’t the only beings that the ley lines blessed with magic. But sometimes, the translation between magical beasts and people went a little wonky.
“It sounded like he said welcome back,” Loren said as she nuzzled the horse’s nose. “But I’ve never been here.”
“Maybe he thinks you’re your mother?”
Broad shoulders blocked the entry beside me, shutting out the moon. Gawain’s wicked lips curled as he held out a saddle for Loren.
“This horse is from the line of Sir Galahad’s first mare,” Gawain said. Then he asked Loren, “Do you ride?”
Loren bit her lip, not out of shyness. There wasn’t a shy bone in Loren’s body. “Give me a leg up?”
Loren extended her leg, making both her words and her actions suggestive.
Gawain took her calf in hand and then slid his big palm down to her heel. I should have warned her about this particular knight back in the dining hall when they’d caught each other’s eye.
Gawain was notorious for loving them and leaving them. He couldn’t hang around even if he wanted to. He had a curse on his head. One day he’d have to face death—literally.
But then again, ever since I’d known Loren, she’d had no problem loving and leaving men. Maybe it was Gawain I should warn. Or better yet, I’d keep out of whatever was brewing between those two and get my own love life in order.
Arthur mounted his steed alongside Lance. The five of us took off into the night. The horses’ hooves beat a steady rhythm, bringing us closer to the caves.
I hadn’t ridden in a while, at least not at a full gallop. Definitely not at the speed of a magical steed, which approached seventy miles per hour. I held on tight to the reins as the horse’s speed defied logic. It felt like we were flying.
A memory shook loose in my mind. I was airborne, falling, flying, running through a… garden. Up above me, the leaves were a deep purple that I couldn’t remember ever seeing before. The flowers were such a lush pink that defied hue, tone, and saturation.
And the smell? Even in my mind’s eye, every gulp of air tasted like the sweetest dessert. Behind me I saw my friend Vau walking hand in hand with her paramour Epsilon. Aleph sat in the field picking flowers, Yod watched her from a distance as he stood beside Bet. On the far side, I saw Delta huddled with Zeta and Evan. The ever-reclusive Ian sat beneath a tree alone. Up ahead, Tres and Zane stood close together…laughing.
What the hell?
I blinked, bringing myself back to the present. Deep in my heart of hearts, I knew that wasn’t a vision. It was a memory. One I’d never had before. One I’d never dreamed possible. All twelve Immortals together. I felt myself being pulled somewhere familiar, somewhere I’d forgotten.
You will be allowed to return soon. Igraine’s prophetic words echoed in my head as the winds slapped my forehead. More and more, they were seeming less prophecy and more prediction. Or better yet, a forecast. Unlike the storm that had brought me here to Caerleon, it didn’t feel like everyone would make it out alive.
The horse slowed to a trot as we reached the top of the hill. Down below, I heard the gentle crashing of waves. Up ahead, I saw familiar lights. They were floodlights, the type used at a night dig. I also recognized several remote sensing devices that would be used as the archeologist on site tried to see what was below the ground before actually digging it up or descending.
Gawain had been right. The camera crews with their spotlights were gone. But the archaeologists weren’t the only light source or organized group around.
A group of people, some dressed in flowing robes, others in strips of fabric and headdresses, danced and chanted around a fire. Wiccans.
The knights looked on in disgust as the barely clad women danced around a man with a pointed hat singing praises to the earth and moon. I’d met many witches throughout my long life. I’d met my fair share of pagans as well.
A witch was born just like any human. Who that witch or human became after birth was a series of decisions. A witch or human could make choices that led them to either the dark side of the force or the light side of the force.
The dark side might include forcing others to do things against their will, murder, and forming a boy band. There were other choices, too, like deciding on a career, a spouse, a political party, and a religion.
Wicca and paganism were religions. I didn’t believe that all religions were bad. Just like I didn’t believe that all careers or politics were bad. It was what a person—human, witch, or other—chose to do with them.
I’d had run-ins with this particular branch of Wiccans before. They weren’t bad people, but I didn’t agree with their decision-making process. Exhibit A—ritual sex.
I wasn’t a prude. But when there are more women than men present in a religion that has ritual sex as a tenant, I get suspicious.
The chanting man stopped his unintelligible diatribe and reached out for a woman. He locked lips with her and then reached for another, repeating the process as the other women continued to twirl their torsos and swivel their hips in anticipation.
Witches had been persecuted for thousands of years. In the Middle Ages alone, nearly fifty thousand men and women lost their lives for being accused of practicing dark arts. Very few of them actually had magical blood. What these people in present day were doing by gyrating under the moon was a mockery of everything these knights fought to protect.
I came up to Arthur. Placing a hand on his bicep, I felt nothing but tension. “We have a mission to complete. Let’s hurry inside.”
I watched his throat work before he glanced down at me. Then he turned and led the way toward the entrance. I stepped in front of him as we approached the cordoned-off area.
The area was entirely unassuming. I could understand how it could have been overlooked for centuries. Whoever had chosen this spot had done well. It was in plain sight and completely hidden at the same time.
“There’s more activity than we expected,” Lance said.
“Let me handle this,” I said, approaching a middle-aged man with a notepad in his hands. “Dr. Nia Rivers, IAC.” I presented him with my identification card.
The man narrowed his gaze, scrutinizing the card. Then he cursed. “You IAC bastards, always trying to get in on a dig.”
“I’m just here to take a look.”
“That’s what the other guy said.”
“Other guy?” I said.
“He’s already down there.”
I looked over my shoulder at Arthur. The IAC didn’t move this fast. It was a bureaucratic organization, and it would take weeks to cut through the red tape to get access to this find. Whoever was down there wasn’t official.
Arthur shouldered past the other man and made his way down the makeshift stairway. They’d widened the rabbit hole to make a man-sized entrance. Down, down, down we went. The air got thinner and danker with each step until the light from above was a distant memory.
Arthur held up a charm that lit the way, illuminating the dark cave to show off the nooks and crevices. And just like that, the archaeologist in me turned on full blast.
The walls were damp as we went further down. I tasted salt in the air. The thing about underground caves was they preserved things so well because of the humidity. As we stepped down on solid ground, I saw there were tunnels that snaked out in three different directions. Each passage was cast in dark shadows, giving no hint of what hid in its depths. But above the entryways were scratches in the rock.
“Which way do we go?” Arthur asked.
I looked at the writings on the walls above the tunnels. Only two had any markings. Over one, I saw the cross symbol. It could’ve been for the crucifix, or for Christ. But I assumed it was the symbol for the Knights Templar.
Over the second tunnel, there was a symbol for witch. Arthur recognized it too. We headed in the direct
ion of the witch.
The entry was tight around my body. It had to be cramped for the three knights. But we made our way through. When we entered the chamber, I immediately wished we’d gone the other way.
If the wanna-be witches above us could see these atrocities, they’d pull on jeans and sweatshirts and head inside a Puritan church where it was safe.
There were rusted manacles on the walls held up by chains. Small cuffs for the wrists. Wider cuffs hanging high for the neck. Cuffs hanging lower for the torso.
An array of bones littered the floor, brushed haphazardly into corners, and piled in a shallow pit. Tattered pieces of rope still clung to some of the bones as though the bodies had simply been cut down and tossed in what was likely a fire pit, the singed rope still dangling from the deceased’s necks. Faint traces of red still stained the stone walls and floors.
This had been a torture chamber for witches.
All around me, the knights breathed in shallow pants as though they could feel the pain of the witches who’d been tortured and murdered in here. The room was heavy with the knights’ sorrow, anger, and helplessness. These had been actual witches, not humans accused of power they didn’t have. I knew because I could still feel a faint trace of power in the air.
Gwin had said the only way for magic to die was to burn the body of the witch or wizard who had contained it. I supposed that would explain the char marks on the bones and the pile of dust in the corner. But the residual effects of the power were still present in the dust.
I reached for the comfort of my dagger at my hip. I’d traded it for one of my sai swords, bringing the big guns tonight, just in case. And boy, this was a case.
I spied small pots, bowls, and a cup in the corner. I left the knights to their commiseration and approached the cup. It lay on its side, as though it had been used and discarded. It couldn’t be this simple.
“Is that it?” I turned to Arthur.
He blinked as though he didn’t know what I meant. Then he turned away from me and shook his head. “He wouldn’t have left the Grail on English soil.”
“He who?” I asked. “Wait, what? So, you knew the Grail wasn’t in here?”
“We’re looking for a clue to its location. Likely in an ancient script. Perhaps on the walls, or maybe on a piece of parchment.”
I shook my head at him. First, he’d said the Grail hadn’t been in the knights’ possession for centuries. Now, the place where he believed it might be would only offer up a clue? Was he leading me on a wild goose chase? And if so, to what end?
I took a step toward Arthur and heard the crunch of bone. I looked down at the body I’d desecrated. I set my mouth to apologize to the deceased when I saw that the corpse was swathed in the tunic of a Templar, the red cross preserved in the humid room.
In the Middle Ages, the Knights Templar wore white tunics with a red cross on the chest. The cross was a symbol of martyrdom. To die in combat was considered a great honor. But this man had died in a hole where he’d once tortured the innocent.
Looking closer, I noted that he was remarkably well preserved for someone who had died at least five hundred years ago. Decomposition was slowest underground. A body lying directly in soil without a coffin could take up to twelve years to decay into bone. After half a millennium, there was still skin on this man’s bones.
“Is that him?” Lance asked.
Arthur moved around me and bent over the corpse. After a brief investigation, he nodded and then began to search the dead man’s pockets.
“What the hell?” I said. “You can’t do that.”
Arthur spared me a glance.
“Those bones are an ancient artifact. Would you at least use gloves?”
“Says the woman who just stepped on his neck.”
Ignoring Arthur, I reached into my sack. I pulled out and handed him a pair of protective gloves.
He looked at the proffered gloves, then back to me, and finally back down to the corpse. Giving me a dismissive glare, he reached beneath the tunic and began rummaging around.
“Is magic transferable?” I asked, giving up and looking around at the remains of the dead witches. “Otherwise, how is it that this Templar is so well preserved?”
No one answered. In fact, I felt a marked tension in the room at my question. I looked up at Lance and Gawain only to see that they were studiously avoiding my gaze.
Arthur pulled out an ancient sheet of parchment, a scroll. “This must be it.”
“That must be what?” I asked.
Arthur straightened and handed the ancient parchment to me. I reached out my hand and then pulled back to put on the gloves. Arthur huffed with impatience, but I ignored him. My misstep had been a mistake. He could destroy history if he wanted to, but I wouldn’t be a part of it.
Once the gloves were on, Arthur shoved the paper in my hand. “Can you read this?”
“What exactly is this?” I asked, taking the paper gingerly. “A suicide note?”
No one answered.
“Who was that man?” I said.
“A traitor to our kind,” Arthur said grimly.
I took a better look at the document, hoping it would be something as simple as a map. I was good at following directions, putting one foot in front of the other. But there was writing on this document and not images.
“Can you read it?” he asked. “Do you know the language?”
“I know every language, and I can decipher any written symbol,” I said. “Except for riddles.”
“She hates riddles,” Loren offered.
“I love them.”
We all turned toward the sound of the intruder’s voice. A tall man stood in the doorway. He wore a tunic much like the deceased knight’s. The red cross was over his chest, but instead of white, it lay in a sea of black fabric.
“Father Gerard?” Loren asked in surprise.
“Hello, Ms. Van Alst. You’re a vision, as ever.” Father Gerard stood in the doorway with a group of men at his back. The men had swords drawn.
“Templars,” Arthur growled.
13
“I’ll take that scroll, if you don’t mind,” Father Gerard said.
“You’re one of the bad guys?” Loren huffed. “How come I always fall for the villains?”
Her eyes connected with Gawain. She did a quick glance up and down his rock-hard body. Then she shrugged as though in acceptance of her perpetual plight.
“I’m not the bad guy, angel,” Father Gerard said. He held a torch to light the way. “Magic, be it encased in an idol object or the veins of a human, is a scourge.”
“Oh.” Loren quirked her lip in a smirk. “I should probably tell you. I’m no angel. My mother was a witch.”
Father Gerard didn’t blink. He didn’t narrow his eyes. His pupils didn’t dilate as he looked at her with fresh eyes. Still, the light that had been in his eyes every time he’d glanced at Loren on the yacht dimmed. It turned into something dark. It was like watching the bright scales be sheared from a fish, leaving behind flesh and bones.
“I may not be on a first-name basis with God,” Loren continued, “and I may not follow all the commandments, but I do know the one about ‘love thy neighbor.’” She leaned into me. “That’s one of them, right?”
“Yeah,” I said. “But I think both you and the Father may have taken it to the extreme.”
Loren had loved many a male neighbor, biblically. If Father Gerard was rolling with this new breed of the Knights Templar, then he was on the other end of the spectrum with killing anyone outside of his comfort zone.
Father Gerard took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He shook his head. “Magic is a disease. Luckily, I know the cure. I’m here to save your soul from these devils.”
Gawain stepped in front of Loren. “Have you actually met the devil? ’Cause I have. A self-righteous, pompous arse like yourself would get along quite well with him.”
“It’s not too late for you to be saved.” Father Gerard ignored everyone
but Loren. Behind him, the Templars raised their swords in the shadows of the torch and the dim light of Arthur’s charm.
“Keep your prayers, Father.” Lance stepped up beside Gawain, sword raised. “No one’s getting saved here tonight.”
The Templars behind Father Gerard rustled, gripping their hilts and digging in their heels. But Father Gerard held out his free hand. “Can’t we for once do this without violence? Just hand over our brother’s scroll. Come with us willingly. And then you can make your peace with our Lord.”
“You call for peace?” Arthur swaggered to the front of the defensive line. His sword swung by his thigh, his gait reminding me of the horses we’d rode here. “Yet you kill women and children.”
Father Gerard shook his head. “No, not women and children. The demons that possessed them. You must understand that there is evil living inside of you, like a parasite. When it overtakes your spirit, it turns your eyes white. I’ve seen it happen.”
Wait? White eyes? Oh. He had to be talking about a Chosen, the humans who shared their souls with one of the six Greek gods. When that energy transfer happened, the humans’ souls were sucked out of their eyes, leaving them entirely white.
“My own mother was possessed. The devil made her do heinous acts that no child should ever witness. Sexual orgies with other lost and demoralized souls.”
Heinous acts? Sex orgies with the devil? I got the feeling Father Gerard may have witnessed his mother at one of the Greek god Zeus’s orgies. I’d witnessed one myself a while back, and the acts going on had made me blush.
But I felt that if the idea of witches and wizards upset the holy man so much, the idea of six gods and goddesses would set him off. So I remained mute.
The knights did as well. Without another word, Arthur lifted his sword and charged. But Father Gerard was swallowed by the advancing Templars.
I palmed my sword in one hand. In the other, which remained gloved, I held the scroll. But the knights formed a wall around me and Loren, keeping us bodily from the fight as they went toe to toe with the Templars.
“Are we just supposed to stand here like damsels?” Loren asked.
