by Weston Ochse
No. SEAL Team 666 had it easy.
Walker entered a roundabout. He missed his turn onto A303 and had to go around again. Ian had no choice but to follow him. If Walker was actively detecting surveillance, then he was as good as made.
They continued for another ten minutes then pulled into the parking lot north of Stonehenge.
Walker got out of his car. As he passed Ian sitting in his own car, Walker turned and gave him a steady look. Ian had no doubt that the double roundabout had been a provocative move and part of the SEAL’s surveillance detection. Not that Ian had been trying to hide. Walker approached the policeman at the barricade. Although the crime scene had been released, until the blood was cleared the place was closed for tourism.
Ian watched as Walker tried to talk his way past the guard but got stopped. When Walker began to yell and gesticulate, Ian decided it was time for him to get involved. It would be neither right nor proper for a SEAL to kill one of their bobbies.
Ian made his way up the path to where Walker was about to attack the policeman.
“Walker,” he called.
The response was immediate. Walker ceased his engagement with the bobby and strode purposefully toward Ian. Fire blazed in the man’s eyes. It would do no good to talk to him now. Instead, Ian sidestepped him, saying, “Wait here a moment.”
CHAPTER 5
STONEHENGE. DUSK.
Walker was furious at the world. Not only weren’t they going to let him see the place where his fiancée was murdered, but some man, probably a government flunky, had trailed him all the way from London also. By his poor tradecraft, the skinny guy who knew his name must be some low-level worker bee they probably assigned to trail him based on his use of his official passport when he went through customs.
Fuck it. If the man wanted to play a game, then Walker was ready to play. But now he had to wait until the man spoke with the police officer. Walker realized his hands were fists and forced them to relax. After a moment, the man began walking into Stonehenge.
What the fu—
Then he gestured for Walker to follow.
Walker jogged past the policeman and couldn’t help but give him a look as he passed. He soon caught up with the man and slowed. They walked the rest of the way in silence. The man stared at the ground, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his jacket. Walker had a sense of expectation as he approached the monolithic stones. They were at once so real and present as they seemed impossible. Part of him wanted to reach out and touch them, but then this was where Jen died.
Walker paused at the outer stones, but the man continued inside. He stopped, then turned to look at Walker. He pointed at the ground. “They found her here. Her throat was cut; then she was mutilated.”
Eyes riveted to the grass, Walker took a reluctant step forward, as if he were being pulled.
“Seventeen civilians were killed in the same way. Some ceremony by some whacked-out neo-pagans or druids. MI5 is still trying to figure it out.”
There was so much fuzz in Walker’s head he barely heard the other man’s words. Walker suddenly felt the need to touch the spot. Three quick steps, he was down on both knees, his hands against the cold ground. He stayed there for a long while. He pressed his cheek against the ground. He didn’t know what he’d expected to find. He didn’t even know what he’d feel, maybe a piece of her. He had the ability to detect supernatural forces. Maybe if her ghost had been nearby he would have detected her, maybe put himself in position to communicate with her somehow.
But there was nothing here.
The ground was cold.
The place was empty.
He stood. Stonehenge had the feeling of an old battlefield. Like Chickamauga or Gettysburg, whenever he was at a place where a lot of people had died, it felt different. Reverentially empty.
He suddenly felt cold and shivered. “A lot of people died here,” he said.
“This used to be a ceremonial place for the druids, some say all the way back to two to three thousand years before Christ.”
Walker shook his head and blew into his hands. He hadn’t prepared for the cold. Coming from Tucson and San Diego before that, all he had was jeans, a T-shirt, and a light Polo jacket. “Do they have any leads at all?”
The man nodded. “I expect they do. We can ring them up tomorrow morning.” He stepped forward and held out a hand. “Ian Waits. Commander Ian Waits. Retired Special Air Service. Your commander called me and asked that I look after you a bit.”
Walker should have known. Looking at the man now more carefully, he realized he’d been mistaken when he’d thought of him as skinny. That wasn’t the right word. “Lean.” “Wiry.” Those were better. He stood about five foot six or seven. His head was clean shaven, but in the dying light of the day Walker could make out scars on the man’s face and scalp. And his eyes were definitely the eyes of a military officer—someone who’d seen too much and didn’t miss a thing. Like Holmes’s.
He took Ian’s hand. “Jack Walker, but you already knew that.”
Ian nodded. “What happened here was egregious. We’ll sort this out. It might take a few days, but we’ll take care of it.” He turned to leave. “For now, however, let’s get to someplace warmer. We’ll have a pint and discuss our way ahead.”
Ian’s phone suddenly rang. He pulled it from his pocket and brought it to his ear. Walker couldn’t hear the conversation, but by the look on the man’s face it wasn’t anything good. When it was over, Ian stared at the phone, then slowly replaced it.
“Come on,” he said. “Let’s get your bag out of your car.”
“What? That’s my rental!”
Ian shook his head. “No reason to have two cars. I’ll have the rental company come pick it up. We have somewhere we need to be, anyway. It might have something to do with the murders. If nothing else, it should shed light on what happened.” Ian stepped out of the stone circle with long, quick strides.
Walker struggled to catch up. His head was spinning. “Who are we going to meet?”
“A seer we use from time to time.”
“A what?”
“A seer. A witch if you will.”
Walker put a hand on Ian’s arm to stop him. “Wait a moment. Who do you work for?”
Ian smiled, revealing a gold tooth on the lower left side of his mouth. “Section 9. We do what you do, only we do it here. Who’d you think I was? The welcome wagon?”
The man took off again, leaving Walker to stare at his receding back. Well, of course England would have its own group. Walker broke into a run to catch up.
CHAPTER 6
WOKING, ENGLAND. NIGHT.
They drove in silence for forty minutes before they pulled into the town of Woking. Walker noted the interspersed new and ancient architecture. It had begun to mist and Ian had put on the wipers. Through the prism of wet glass, the land seemed surreal. To think that twenty-four hours ago he’d thought that Jen was still alive and that the life they’d planned together was his definitive future. He squeezed his fists together until his knuckles cracked.
Laws had sent him a text with a few kind words and then a link to what was called the Kübler-Ross Model. It’s also referred to as the Five Stages of Grief, but Walker believed that Kübler-Ross had little to no idea what she was talking about. Her theory was that a person went through each of these stages in order and it was through these stages that a mourner felt at peace. According to her, they were denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. If he was to build a model of stages, it would have at least ten stages, beginning and ending with rage and interspersed with enough anger to fuel movement to the next stage.
He reflected back to his last mission and how dangerous it had been for Jen. Not only could she have been killed by one of the Flayed Ones or the Los Zetas or the Obsidian Butterfly, but Ramon the werewolf could have killed her at any time. To think she survived all of that so she could die on a fucking vacation made him want to explode. What a sad fucking universe this tur
ned out to be.
They passed a sign that read: “Horsell Moor” and Jack immediately thought of the Hound of the Baskervilles. Was the seer’s cabin somewhere on the moor? They turned onto Broomhall Road, a narrow way bordered on either side by shrubberies that blocked the views of the nearby homes. They reached the end of the road where a sign read: “Turning Point No Parking.” Ian turned the vehicle around, then parked.
Ian switched off the car. “It might say no parking, but no one’s going to mess with this car.”
“Do they know who it belongs to?”
“No, and that’s why they won’t mess with it. It only comes back as belonging to Her Majesty’s government with no other affiliation. They’re afraid they might piss someone off if they so much as give the car a parking ticket.”
“So you can drive however you want.”
“With impunity if we have to.” Ian opened the door. “Come on, let’s go.”
They exited the car and headed back down the street. The moor stood dark with multiple layers of shadows on their right. On their left stood homes, brightly lit windows warding off the night above the shrubberies. They turned into one of these homes, which surprised Walker. Doubly surprising was the way the yard was decorated with landscaping lights and cat statues. Seriously? His gaze panned over a plaque with a kitschy slogan about a house never having too many cats. This was the home of a witch?
He meant to comment to Ian, but he was already at the front door and ringing the bell. An old-fashioned buzzer rang from somewhere inside. The front of the house was painted white and lined with dark beams. Walker thought it was the Tudor style but wasn’t exactly sure.
They heard footsteps on a hardwood floor inside coming toward the door.
When it opened, Ian dipped his head. “I appreciate you seeing us, ma’am.”
The woman couldn’t have been a day over thirty. She wore jeans, impossibly tall high heels, and a blouse that could have been at home inside a dance club. Her black hair was tied into a ponytail. She had blue eyes and wore deep-red lipstick. Skeleton earrings hung from each ear. She looked like someone’s sister, not a witch. This was the witch?
“What’d you think I was going to look like?” Her hands were on both hips as she addressed Walker. “A big old warty nose and a broomstick?” She rolled her eyes, then to Ian said, “Where do you get these people?” Then she turned on her heel and clomped back into the house.
Ian gave Walker a look. “I did pretty much the same thing myself.” He gestured for Walker to go inside, then followed.
The brightly lit interior smelled of incense and cooked chicken. Down a short hall and into the modernly appointed living room, two men sat. One was perched on the edge of a chair eating a plate of food, while the other sat back on a sea-foam-green sofa, drinking tea from a small china cup.
The witch sat at a card table and regarded Jack and Ian. A deck of Tarot cards was already on a white lace tablecloth.
“Jack Walker, this is Ms. Moore,” said Ian. “The git over there shoveling food is Trevor Jones, Royal Marine Sniper, and the effeminate one holding the teacup like a poof is Jerry McMahon. He’s our intelligence specialist.”
Trev nodded but kept chewing.
Jerry gave a single hand wave, then sipped his tea.
The witch gestured to the couch, then turned to her cards. “Why don’t you both have a seat?”
Ian folded his hands in front of him and remained in place. “I thought there was a pressing—”
“Oh, dear lord, why didn’t you tell me?” The witch stood and came to Walker. She put her arms around him and hugged him tight. Walker wasn’t sure what to do with his hands and eventually returned the hug. When she released him she said, “I’m terribly sorry for your loss. I’m just stunned that you’re holding up so well.”
Walker smiled weakly.
“And you’re angry too. I don’t blame you.” She leveled a stern gaze at Ian as she went back to her cards. “You really should have told me. It’s going to be easier now for me to help.”
Ian glanced at Walker. “Easy how?”
“Now we have a personal connection to the event. His spirit was most certainly intertwined with that of his fiancée. That link will serve as a bridge.”
Walker spoke up. “I’m not sure I want anyone messing around with any memories I have. They’re all that’s left.”
“It’s not your memories we need, Mr. Walker. It’s your love.”
Walker stared at the hardwood floor as he fought back emotion. He found he was blinking rapidly, his body’s autonomic response to keep his tears at bay. “What do I have to do?”
“Not much. Sit down, hold my hand, and keep still.”
Walker was having trouble reconciling her youthful appearance with the authority with which she spoke. He hesitated a moment, then sat in the other chair at the card table. She laid her hands across the table and indicated that Walker should place his on top of them, which he did.
“Now, Mr. Walker—”
“Everyone calls me Walker.” He closed his eyes for a moment. “Even Jen sometimes.”
The witch smiled softly. “Probably when she was mad at you. I can see her doing it. You can call me Sassy.” She hesitated a moment when Walker looked at her funny. “It’s my name. Seriously.”
“Ma’am, there is absolutely no way I can call you Sassy.”
Jerry laughed from the couch. “We all told her the same thing.”
She shook her head. “You military men are all so formal. Let’s just get started.”
“What do I do?”
“You be quiet, luv, and let me do all the work.”
Walker closed his eyes and tried not to think about anything, but his thoughts automatically strayed to Jen’s death. He visualized her lying on the cold, hard earth of Stonehenge, her eyes staring deep into his, asking him why he hadn’t been there to help her. His eyes snapped open as he searched for something to look at, some visual input to dampen the accusation in her eyes. He noticed that a few of the Tarot cards had been turned over. In fact, his and the witch’s hands were resting on two cards—a card with a tower being struck by lightning and a card with a kingly figure on a throne with a sword. Of the other cards facing up on the table, all had some sort of sword.
Suddenly his body stiffened as if a jolt of electricity had taken control of him. His vision went blank, then was replaced by an image of a green man standing in the snow, then of a red-robed figure, then of the stones of Stonehenge, then of someone racing through a thick wood. He heard the sound of baying and realized it was coming from himself.
His eyes snapped open and he found the witch staring at him, a look of terror on her face.
Jerry, Trev, and Ian were also on their feet.
The witch let Walker go and stood. She paced back and forth for a moment, then went to a bookshelf.
Walker was breathing heavily. He wiped sweat from his forehead using his jacketed forearm. “What is it?”
Jerry said, “You were howling like a wolf, mate.”
“And growling too,” Trev added.
Walker felt hoarse. He brought a hand to his throat. “For how long?”
“Five minutes at least,” Jerry said.
Walker shook his head. “Impossible. It couldn’t have been more than a few seconds.”
“Try six minutes, Walker,” the witch said, coming back to the table with a large book. “We’re lucky you were able to come back at all.”
Ian stepped forward. “What is it? Earlier you mentioned that you might know who was involved in the ceremony.”
“First things first.” She spoke a few words in a guttural German, then put her hand on Walker’s head. She did the same for the other three men, who stood by like this was a normal everyday occurrence.
When she was finished, she explained, “I needed to hide you from any interested eyes.”
“What about you?” Walker asked.
“I’m very well hidden already. I’ve had people chasing
me for more than fifty years. Don’t worry about me.”
Walker looked at her. She was definitely a lot older than she appeared.
“So…,” Ian began.
“So something’s returned that the Isles haven’t seen in more than a thousand years. Maybe longer.” She flipped through the book and came to a double-page picture of a woodcut that showed a hunt. On the left was a cart pulled by a team of great stags. To the sides and in front were dogs and misshapen beasts of all sizes caught mid-action. Some were running; some were fighting each other; one even held the body of a baby in its twisted mouth. Standing in the cart with a whip in one hand and a sword in the other was a figure that looked like a demented Santa.
Walker said as much.
“That’s because part of our lovely Yuletide holiday tradition comes from this. Gentlemen, may I present to you the Wild Hunt.”
“The wild what?” Jerry asked, his eyes wide.
Trev punched Jerry in the shoulder. “Hunt. She said ‘hunt.’”
“Glory be. I thought she was describing a date I had last week.”
Ian punched Jerry in his other shoulder.
“The Wild Hunt was first reported in the seventh century, but it could be far older. I’ve read where they believe it to be the last vestiges of the Sidhe, or Tuatha Dé Dannan. Perhaps those who didn’t cross over to the other world with the coming of man. Like the Baen Sidhe, or banshee, they populate much of the mythology of the Isles.” She gave the men a gentle but stern look. “Only this isn’t mythology. It’s real.”
“You’re talking faeries?” Trev asked.
“I knew you’d be interested if there were faeries,” Jerry murmured.
“Like red caps and mermen and boggles?” Ian asked. When Trev and Jerry gave him a funny look he added, “My grandmam used to tell us about them. Wouldn’t let us go outside at night because she was afraid the faeries would come and eat us.”
Walker shook his head in disbelief. “Those don’t sound like the faeries I learned about.”
