“Dinner date?” King asked as he exited as well.
“Reservations of a sort, but not for food.” Alexander closed his door. “Nothing to concern yourself with.”
But King was concerned. Everything Alexander said and did raised more questions, and with each unanswered question, his trust of Alexander ebbed. Who was he talking to? Who were the two people he mentioned? And what were these secret reservations? The only reason Alexander had to keep secrets from King—who wasn’t interested in money, power, fame, or immortality—was that he wouldn’t like what he heard.
“Throwing me a surprise party?” King asked, searching for information without an outright confrontation.
But Alexander acted as though he hadn’t even heard the question. “I can hardly remember my parents,” he said. “But I know I’m glad I didn’t have a cell phone when they were alive.” He shook his head with a grin.
King saw through the phony smile and understood the meaning behind Alexander’s deflection: back off. Not one to back down from anyone, including immortals, he was about to push the subject when a mob of tourists exited the tour bus. Some went to the visitor’s center for pamphlets, restrooms, and drinks while the rest made a beeline for the subterranean passage that led to the other side of the road and a spectacular view of the stones. Other than the new arrivals, the parking lot was largely empty, save for a few cars. By Stonehenge standards, they had the place to themselves.
The air smelled of wet grass and car exhaust—a strange mix of nature and civilization that reminded King of more than a couple battle zones. But it was mildly cool and comfortable, despite the dreary weather.
“Sorry if I blasted you,” the tour guide said as she exited the bus. She was tall, all smiles, and had a tangy British accent. Her short brown hair was partially tied back in a ponytail. When she smiled, her thin eyes became squints and her lips became slivers of pink. “Saw you gabbin’ on your cell.”
“Ah, no worries luv,” Alexander said.
King flinched and glanced at Alexander. While his accent was spot on, they hadn’t discussed any kind of cover.
“Locals are ya?” she asked.
“Born an raised in Amesbury,” Alexander replied. “But my friend here’s a highlander fresh out of the mountains. Never seen the stones before.”
“Ohh,” she said flirtatiously, sidling up next to King. “A Scotsman, eh?”
King did his best not to roll his eyes and said, “Aye.”
“Well if you have any questions about Stonehenge, I’m the one to talk to. Never mind the guides in there,” she said, motioning to the visitor’s center. “They’re dead from the neck up.”
King couldn’t help but smile at the woman. Making sure to keep his accent, he said, “Are all the lassies in London this highfalutin?”
She gave King a funny look and laughed. He knew he was laying on the Highlander role-play a little thick, but he intended to come off as flirtatious. Given the broad smile on the woman’s face, he was succeeding.
“I just know my shit is all,” she said and then motioned to her bus. “Been top banana on this crimson cruiser for five years now. And no one knows more about the wonders of Wiltshire County than me. It’s why I get top whack for my tours.” She nudged King in the ribs. “But I’ll give you handsome gents a first-rate tour on the house.”
King extended his hand. “The name’s Calum. And my counterpart here is Humphrey.”
The woman giggled. “Bit of an old-fashioned name, eh?”
“He’s older than he looks,” King said.
She shook his hand. “Lauren Henderson. Owner and operator of London Hills Tours.”
“You know,” King said. “There is something I’ve been wondering about.”
Lauren cocked her head to the side. “Oh? And what might that be?”
“I’ve asked Humph a few times, but when it comes to history, he’s something of a dolt.”
Alexander chuckled and began wandering toward the tunnel entrance, scanning the parking lot, the visitors, and the site across the street. While listening to the conversation, he was also watching for anything unusual. King and Lauren followed him.
“Are there any examples of words, umm, spoken language being used to manipulate the elements?”
She stared at him for a moment, then cracked a big grin. “You highlanders are into some cheeky stuff.” She elbowed him again. “Ahh, I’m just winding you up.”
They stopped in front a tall green sign at the tunnel entrance. “So, just to be clear, you’re asking about magic, right? Casting spells?”
He hadn’t considered magic as a term to describe what Ridley was able to do, but the more he thought about it, the more he realized that’s exactly what it was. And with the realization came the epiphany that the mythology of magic most likely developed as a result of this ancient language. And there may have been genuine magicians who had learned certain phrases that allowed them to do amazing things.
“Aye,” King said. “But specifically spoken magic. Is there any association with Stonehenge?”
“In fact, there is,” she said, excitement in her eyes. “It’s said that the bluestones were quarried in a remote region of Africa and were brought first to Ireland by giants.”
“Giants?” King asked. “Stone giants?”
Lauren’s smile disappeared for a moment, her train of thought ruined. “I dunno. Giants are giants.” Her smile returned and she continued. “But the man responsible for bringing the stones from Ireland to Britain was none other than the grand wizard Merlin himself. If you’ve got the time, you can read about it in Geoffrey of Monmouth’s Prophetiae Merlini, the Prophecies of Merlin. Stonehenge was referred to as ‘the giant’s circle’ back then, on account of being built by the giants.”
Lauren had just confirmed a slew of suspicions: Merlin’s spoken magic and giants that smacked of golems. It all made surreal sense. What King didn’t understand was that when he spoke again, his voice shook like he was being rattled around in the back of a bus.
Then he realized what was happening.
The ground was shaking.
FORTY-SIX
El Mirador, Guatemala
QUEEN, KNIGHT, AND Bishop exited the tour helicopter and entered a hellish nightmare. Blinding flashes of lightning pulsed in the sky. Rain whipped by high winds stung their exposed skin. A loud hiss created by rustling palm leaves and rain filled the air, broken by the occasional boom of thunder. But the storm had its bonuses. With no other tourists on-site and the science team weathering out the storm in their tents, they could explore the site without interference. Or so they hoped.
After taking their cases, which contained equipment no tourist should have access to, they left Luis behind and headed into the jungle. The pilot was happy to remain safe and dry inside the chopper.
A clearing full of large sturdy blue tents sat just inside the jungle, buffeted by the elements. Rainwater, diverted by tarps, flowed away as small streams that had already eroded the topsoil. Muffled conversations could be heard as the science team took cover from the storm. A large tent, this one built on top of a wooden platform four feet off the ground, lay at the center of the site. Given its size and the effort taken to protect it from flooding, Queen pegged it for the site’s laboratory and headed for it. If Jon Hudson, the archaeologist behind the excavation, was anything like the scientists they’d collaborated with in the past, he’d be hard at work despite the inclement weather.
The wooden steps creaked under the weight of Queen, Bishop, and Knight as they entered the tent, but the man inside showed no reaction to their approach. He sat with his back to the door, hunched over a worktable. He suddenly reached out his hand, snapped twice, and pointed. “Get me a clean brush, will you?”
Queen saw the brush in question, picked it up, and handed it to the man. He immediately went back to work, brushing dust from a shattered Mayan relief.
“Thank you,” he said. “It’s nice to see not everyone is hiding away because o
f a little storm.”
“You’re welcome,” Queen said.
The man stopped working at the sound of Queen’s voice. He turned around and with widening eyes looked Queen up and down. Dressed as a tourist in cargo shorts, green poncho, and blue bandanna, much of her finer qualities were disguised. But that didn’t seem to matter as the man beamed at her. When he saw Bishop and Knight all signs of pleasant surprise faded. Whether she was available or not he would never know. The two men with her were too intimidating to even risk asking the question.
“Tourists?” he asked.
“Of a sort,” Queen answered.
“Are you Jon Hudson?” Knight asked, reaching under his poncho.
Fear crept into Hudson’s eyes. “You’re not looters?”
Knight removed his hand from under his poncho. He held a photo of Richard Ridley. “Hardly,” he said. “We’re looking for a friend.”
Hudson took the offered photo and looked at it. He showed no reaction, so little reaction in fact, that it was clear he did recognize Ridley. “A lot of people come and go here. Tourists, interns, too many faces to remember. And I spend most of my days looking at faces carved into stone. Speaking of which, I’m sorry to disappoint, but I really do have a lot of work to do and thanks to the weather, no one brave enough to help out.”
Queen flashed a phony grin. “We’ll let you get back to it, then. If the weather improves, would it be possible to get another look at the site? A tour perhaps?”
“Of course, of course.” He turned and went back to work.
Queen stood there long enough for the moment to become uncomfortable. She turned and rolled her eyes at Bishop and Knight, who grinned in reply. All three left the hut, worked their way back out of the camp, and entered the jungle. Hidden from view, they climbed a short hill, lay down on top, and waited for the inevitable.
* * *
HUDSON CONTINUED BRUSHING away at the piece, its visage both beautiful and haunting, but his thoughts were not on work. They were on the three strangers looking for the man who had become his friend over the past few months, Marc Kaufman. He was also keenly aware that they had made the journey to El Mirador in the midst of one of the worst storms the rainy season had brought that year. He had no idea what Kaufman’s relationship to the three visitors was, but they oozed bad intentions.
I’m a good judge of character, Hudson thought, and those three are up to no good. I need to warn Kaufman.
After waiting long enough for the strangers to leave camp, he left his workspace and stood in the doorway. A loud static hiss, created by rain beating down on the black tarps, filled the air. But visibility was good and he couldn’t see anyone in camp or in the jungle surrounding the site. Crouching, he skulked through the camp. As his booted feet squished through mud, water rose up over them, soaking his feet.
He arrived at Kaufman’s tent and squatted by the entrance. “Kaufman,” he whispered. “Are you in there?”
After getting no reply, he whispered again. “Are you asleep, man? Wake up!”
Impatience got the better of him and he unzipped the tent. He flung open the blue flap and looked inside. Kaufman wasn’t there.
Hudson stood up, scratching his head. He turned to head back to the science hut and came face-to-face with Queen. With a shout, he fell back into Kaufman’s tent. As Queen, Bishop, and Knight crouched down around him, he moved deeper into the tent.
“Who’s Kaufman?” Bishop asked, his statement punctuated by a boom of thunder that shook the forest floor.
“I don’t—”
Queen cleared her throat. She had a handgun leveled at Hudson.
Hudson’s face twisted in fear. “The man in the photo. He’s a … a journalist. He’s doing a piece on El Mirador for National Geographic. What … what do you want with him?”
“Where does he spend his time?” Knight asked.
Hudson looked at him dumbly.
“Is there a specific location he’s shown interest in?”
Hudson thought for a moment. “He toured the whole site, but has spent most of his time at the biggest pyramid.”
“La Danta?” Queen asked.
“Yes. In fact, that’s probably where he is now.” He nodded. “I’m certain of it. Since discovering the entrance he’s been—”
“Where’s the entrance?” Queen asked forcefully.
“On top. A tree had put its roots down in it. A storm knocked it over a few days ago. You … you don’t need me to take you there … do you?”
“No, boss,” Queen said, tightening her grip on her weapon. “We don’t.” She pulled the trigger, firing a dart into his neck. Thanks to a powerful sedative, he lost consciousness immediately. After shoving his feet inside and zipping up the entrance, Queen stood and joined Bishop and Knight, who were looking at a map of the site.
“Which way, boys?”
“East,” Bishop said. “Mile and a half.”
Anyone who saw them running out of the camp, dressed in dark green ponchos, concealed by sheets of rain, and accompanied by earthshaking thunder might have mistaken them for one of Alexander’s Forgotten. As a result their exit from the camp went unhindered.
FORTY-SEVEN
Wiltshire, England
THE SHAKING SUBSIDED as quickly as it had begun, leaving King and Alexander on edge. It felt like a simple tremor, but they knew the source was much more likely to be Ridley.
Lauren flashed a nervous smile. “Now that doesn’t happen much round here.”
Eager to get a better view of Stonehenge, King headed for the tunnel, but was stopped by Lauren’s next words. “Now what do you suppose that is?”
King looked to where she was pointing. A black plume rose into the sky in the distance. It spread, dissipated, and was carried off by the wind. “What’s over there?”
Lauren glanced around and looked up at the sun, getting her bearings. The dark cloud had risen from the northeast. Her eyebrows arched. “Durrington Walls and Woodhenge.”
“I’ve never heard of them,” King said.
“Not surprising for a Scotsman.”
“Woodhenge is a circle of timber,” Alexander said. “Similar to Stonehenge, but built of wood, which rotted long ago. The postholes have recently been filled in with modern beams.”
Lauren looked at Alexander, impressed with his knowledge. “You’d be surprised how many of our kinsmen don’t even know that much about the site. Durrington Walls is only five hundred meters beyond Woodhenge, but is more significant because it not only held a wooden henge, but a village as well. Several homes have been uncovered. The sites might have been used for burials, with cremated bodies being carried from one site to the other before being discarded in the river. But that would’ve just been the peasants. Some think that religious leaders or cultural champions, like the designer of the circles, would have been buried beneath Stonehenge. It’s one of the reasons a planned highway tunnel project, which would have burrowed through the earth under the henge, was scrapped. Seems like no one will see what’s buried under there at this rate—archaeologists or contractors.”
The ground shook again.
They all looked northeast, expecting to see a second dark cloud rise up. But nothing happened. Still, King thought they were connected. Whatever was causing the ground to shake had begun at the Durrington Walls.
“How far is it?” he asked.
“Two miles straight shot from here to there, but a little more if you don’t have wings.” Her face brightened. “I can get you there in three minutes if you don’t mind getting your hair mussed.” She looked at King, his hair slightly askew as usual. “Which I can see won’t be a problem for you.”
She cheerfully walked to the bus, though her walk was now closer to a skip. She hopped in the big red double-decker, turned on the engine, and gunned the gas twice. A thick cloud of gray coughed from the muffler. She leaned out the window. “C’mon, mates. I have forty-five minutes before I have to take these Yanks to the next stop.”
Alexander motioned to the bus. “After you.”
They entered and took seats behind Lauren. Then they were off, speeding back onto the road. She glanced at them in the large rearview mirror. “It’s always boggled my mind why people are so much more interested in Stonehenge than the Durrington settlement. Granted, the stones are something to look at, but when it comes to history, the village is far more informative. What they ate, how they cooked, what they slept on, what weapons they had. It’s all boring details to some, but it reveals who lived there. Who knows, maybe Merlin’s magic wand is buried in that field’s dirt?”
King thought her statement might not be far from the truth, then held on tight as she made a hard left turn.
“What’s really interesting is that both sites were constructed at the same time as the pyramid of Cheops in Egypt.”
“That is interesting,” King said.
“The sites are thousands of miles away from each other and somehow, around 2500 B.C., people simultaneously developed the technology to move giant stones over long distances? Bollocks, I say. And we still can’t figure out how they did it.”
Alexander pointed beyond her. “We’re here.”
Lauren hit the brakes hard, bringing them to a stop across the street from a green field, which was now scarred by a dark hole at its center.
They left the bus and entered the field. The hole opened up before them, thirty feet across, burrowing into the soil at a forty-five-degree angle. Darkness filled the void, but echoing from deep within was a constant droning rumble.
King took a step in and turned to Lauren. “Best if you notify the authorities. Get the Stonehenge parking lot cleared out.”
“What? Why?”
“Because this tunnel heads southeast and we’re not feeling the rumbling here like we did there. Whoever made this hole is beneath Stonehenge by now.”
Lauren’s eyes widened and then squinted. “Hey, what happened to your accent? You sound like a Yankee.”
Alexander entered the tunnel. “He is a Yankee.”
King took her by the shoulders and glared into her eyes. “Never mind who I am or where I’m from. You go do what you need to do to clear out that parking lot.”
Threshold Page 21
