by Weston Ochse
The witch scoffed, “Walker, dear. Don’t you get it? America has managed to Disneyfy everything that should be scary. Do you really think Tinker Bell was a sweet little pigtailed pixy? The faeries that were left behind—those still on the Isles—were the dregs, the rejects, those too imperfect or too insane to be with the rest.”
“You’re serious,” Walker said.
“As a heart attack. No one really knows where the faeries went to or for what reason. It’s believed that the Sidhe mounds are avenues to small pocket realities where they reside until they feel the need to come out. The Wild Hunt is shared cross-culturally, but primarily in Western Europe and Scandinavia. Many of these areas, now countries, describe the Wild Hunt differently, but there is one universal truth. When it appears, it doesn’t go away until its mission is complete.”
Walker mused for a moment. Where was Laws when he needed him to simplify things? “What does this Wild Hunt do?”
She smiled patiently. “It’s a supernatural hunting party that hunts specific things. What those things are depends on the mission.”
“And what’s its mission?” Ian asked.
She shrugged. “Think of this like a homicide. If you were a detective, what would you want to know? The motive of the criminal, right? Knowing the motive will help you narrow down who it was who committed the crime. If we can figure out the motive of those who brought it back, we may know its mission.”
“Wait a moment,” Jerry said, crossing his arms. “Are you saying that there’s a supernatural wild hunt out there killing people?”
Ian looked at Walker. “Jerry’s new. Only been with us for a month.”
Walker nodded. “I can relate. I fought homunculus the first day on the job.”
“What’s a homunculus?” Jerry asked.
“Little fucking Freddy Krueger–Stretch Armstrong serial-killing mini-golem.”
Jerry blinked. “I don’t know what that means, but it sounds terrible.”
“It is. I’ve made my share of them too,” the witch said. “Making them is even harder than killing them, if you can believe it.” She winked at Walker. “Back to the Wild Hunt. The reason Trev called you, Ian, was because I think I might know who it was who held the ceremony.”
“The one who apparently called forth the Wild Hunt—that ceremony?” Ian asked.
“The very same. So normally, it’s the British Druid Society who puts on the show and performs the ceremony at both solstices. They’re a mundane, fairly lame group of non-magicals who do a lot of pretending.”
“Like reenactors,” Walker noted.
“Exactly. Their shows were—”
“Wait, what are reenactors?” Trev asked.
Jack responded, “Middle-aged men with bad hobbies who dress up in American Civil War or American Revolution uniforms and pretend to do battle. Like the Society for Creative Anachronism except with guns and using real history?”
Trev shook his head. “I only understood half of what you said. Do they ever reenact the American Revolution where we win?”
“Uh, not that I know of,” Walker said.
“And back to me.” The witch rolled her eyes and pointed both thumbs at herself. When she got full attention, she continued. “So the British Druid Society is really just a bunch of actors. It’s why none of us magicals ever worried about them performing ceremonies, because we knew they didn’t know what the flaming hell they were doing. As it happens, and we’re just now finding this out, except for those of us who felt a shuddering of the veil, a different group arranged to perform the ceremony this year.”
“And this group is?” Ian asked, losing a little of his patience.
“The Red Grove. A magical I know contacted the chair of the British Druid Society. The society was given a hundred thousand pounds to silently not show up and my magical friend says that the check was written from an account owned by the Red Grove.”
Ian nodded, hand beneath his chin. “So it’s a business. We should be able to track financial data through our associates at MI5.” He looked up sharply at the witch. “Have you ever heard of this Red Grove?”
“The Red Grove, and no, they’re new to me.”
Ian nodded, deep in thought. “Anything else?”
She shook her head.
“Right then. We’ll be leaving you be. Jerry, clean your bloody plate for the lady.”
“There’s no need. One of my cats will take care of it. Plus, I have my own little homunculus who cleans for me.”
“Can I see it?” Jerry asked.
Ian grabbed Jerry by the shoulder and pushed him toward the front entrance. “I apologize for my man, Ms. Moore. He doesn’t get out much.”
“Quite all right,” she said. “And please call me Sassy.”
Ian leveled a gaze at her. “Not on your life, ma’am.” Then he swept the other three before him and out the door.
CHAPTER 7
RAF CHICKSANDS. NIGHT.
An hour’s drive found the three members of Section 9 and the lone SEAL Team 666 member pulling through a guarded gate and onto a military base. Ian explained that RAF Chicksands, which had once been a functioning air force base, closed in 1997 and became the Defence Intelligence and Security Centre and the Headquarters of Britain’s Intelligence Corps. Since most of Section 9’s personnel came from British intelligence, their collocation made recruitment an important tool for their success. Unlike SEAL Team 666, Section 9 was populated by civilian contractors, and to obtain the specialties they required interaction with military intelligence was important.
Their offices were in the basement of the Chicksands Priory, a former twelfth-century Gilbertine monastery. “The entire monastery actually belongs to Section 9, but we’ve been relegated to the basement because my predecessor ran afoul of several Members of Parliament. Our funding was cut to the point we could no longer afford its upkeep, so instead of letting it fall apart and needing major construction upgrades, we turned the rest into an officers’ club and visiting VIP rooms.”
So they passed several drunken service members as they entered the priory. Had they turned left, they would have entered a large paneled room filled with leather furniture. Had they taken the broad staircase, they could have climbed to some well-appointed rooms. But instead, they turned right and entered a door marked: “Staff Only,” which opened on to a staircase that took them down into a basement in need of a face-lift.
“Most of the furniture is left over from World War II. With the exception of the installation of fiber optics and a fresh coat of paint, the basement hasn’t seen any improvement,” Ian said.
A tight hallway was lined floor-to-ceiling on one side with boxes. As they squeezed past, Walker felt a buzz building in his skin. He hoped it wouldn’t get worse. The last thing he needed was to fall down and do the kickin’ chicken in front of Section 9. They turned left through the first door and entered a large room with several beat-up couches, a table and chairs, and a small kitchenette. Trev tossed himself down on one of the couches while Jerry helped himself to something that looked like cold, limp French fries in the refrigerator. Ian grabbed a bottle of scotch and two glasses. He poured two fingers into each glass, then held one out for Walker.
Walker accepted it and sat at the table, feeling like he weighed a thousand pounds. He let his elbows support him as he took half of the golden drink, closing his eyes as the liquid left a fire trail down his throat and exploded in his empty stomach. He reminded himself that he couldn’t get sentimental. A weepy-eyed widower wouldn’t do anyone any good. He needed to keep his wits about him, especially if he was going to track down Jen’s killers.
He opened his eyes and finished the scotch. “So, what do we know about the Red Grove?” He gestured for more and Ian obliged.
Ian had called ahead when they were in the car. Even as Walker asked the question, a young Indian girl came into the room. She was beautiful, with black hair framing a narrow face. She wore jeans and an Indian blouse that fell to mid-thigh and tapered
at her wrists. She could have been a model had it not been for the twin crutches she needed to propel her crooked legs. Hell, she could still be a model, just not on any runway Walker had ever heard of.
“I have a preliminary report,” she said, moving both smoothly and awkwardly at the same time. She smiled at Walker. “The Red Grove is an American 501.3c, meaning it’s been classified as a tax-exempt religious organization. Their recorded headquarters is Lake Arrowhead, California, and their employee identification number indicates the Red Grove is headed by Hubert Van Dyke, who also sits on the board of the Bohemian Grove, as well as a company called A Celestial Worry LLC.”
Ian poured Walker and himself another two fingers each. “What do we know about Mr. Van Dyke?”
“There are two records in California; both seem to be for the same person. Mr. Van Dyke was a movie star during the 1950s and 1960s. His IMDB credits include Ironsides, The Andy Griffith Show, Cannon, and Bonanza. Not a top-tier actor, but no slouch either. He has more than a hundred credits to his name.” She turned to Walker, balanced on one crutch, and shoved out a hand. “Hi, I’m Preeti Jones.” The smile was broad and genuine.
Walker gave her his hand. “I’m Jack Walker. You’re not any relation to—” He glanced at Trev Jones slouching on the couch and caught his smile. “It appears that you are.” He glanced from her to Trev and back, then shook his head.
Trev got up and gave Preeti a kiss on her cheek. He spent a moment touching her hair and staring into her almond-shaped eyes; then he gave Walker an apologetic look. “It’s strange how things are so similar. I understand your fiancée worked with your team.”
“It’s like a fucking Twilight Zone episode,” Walker said as he took a drink. Then he looked up sharply. “Sorry about that.”
Preeti shook her head. “No worries, Mr. Walker. I’m very sorry for your loss. We’re all torn up about it.” She pushed Trev away.
Walker looked at her and saw the truth of it. They knew it could have been them. It could have been anyone. The universe is random. Section 9 was much like SEAL Team 666 in that it was a small, close-knit unit that was really a family. Triple Six and Section 9 could have been cousins.
“How long have you two been together?”
“Two years, three months, and fourteen days,” she said.
“You say that like it’s an incarceration,” Trev said, making for the refrigerator.
Preeti grinned playfully. “Sometimes, dear boy, it feels like it.”
Trev chuffed but didn’t say anything. He opened the fridge and pulled free a pint. “Anyone else?”
Everyone shook their heads, but their eyes remained fixed on him. By the time he got to the couch and sat down, he said, “What? Is this a Benny Hill sketch? If it is, I want the girls with boobs ASAP.”
“And what would you do with them, Trev?” Preeti asked.
“I’d—” He struggled for something to say, then just put the beer to his face and began drinking.
Jerry exploded with laughter.
Even Ian cracked a smile.
Walker felt the ghost of one at the corners of his own mouth. He knew what Trev Jones was feeling right now and would give anything to feel that way again. He shook the sadness away.
“So we have an American company that came to England to perform a ceremony designed to bring back the Wild Hunt. Again I ask what’s their motive?”
Trev added from the couch, “And is the Red Grove the actual group who performed the ceremony or are they a shell corporation?”
Jerry joined them at the table. “What do we know about the Bohemian Grove?”
“Now that’s interesting,” Preeti said, sitting down. She rested her crutches on the edge of the table, grabbed Ian’s glass, and took a small sip of the scotch. She made a face but licked her lips happily. “The Bohemian Grove is quite the place. Imagine a twenty-five-hundred-acre private compound in California’s redwood forest where for two weeks every summer the most powerful men in the world, including our own Tony Blair, go to enjoy themselves.”
“What sort of things do they do?” Trev Jones asked from the couch.
“All we’ve found on that is lots of rumor and supposition. The group’s been around since the late 1800s and is a men’s club. There’s talk of cross-dressing and some odd sexual rituals, but mainly it’s some sort of Bilderberg-like group that plans the fate of the world.” She raised a finger. “But there is one thing that stood out. The summer festivities start with an arcane ceremony called the Cremation of Care. It’s an elaborate performance where everyone wears robes and they burn a papier-mâché man in effigy at the base of a sixty-foot-high stone owl.”
“An owl?” Walker asked aloud.
“I looked into that.” She took Walker’s glass and took a sip of it and made another face.
“Would you like your own glass?” Walker asked.
She shook her head. “Oh no. I can’t stand the stuff. Where was I? Oh yeah, the owl. It’s believed by many that this is an Aleister Crowley influence and that they’re worshiping Moloch, an ancient Ammonite god worshiped by the Canaanites. But the Freemasons disagree and their rituals indicate that the owl really represents Isis, whose modern incarnations include Columbia for America and Britannia for Britain. So by worshiping at the feet of the giant owl, they are sacrificing something to the symbol of their country.”
“And what are they sacrificing?” Walker was trying to get things straight, but he realized he hadn’t eaten since that morning and he was quickly filling his stomach with scotch.
“Most believe a duality. The Cremation of Care is described as being symbolic of the destruction of each member’s worldly concerns so that they can spend the next two weeks in peace.”
Jerry laughed. “That’s rich. But what does it really mean?”
She cocked her head as she answered, “Oh, it could mean that, Jerry, or it could also mean it’s a dark ritual sacrifice to Isis, or Columbia, the female personification of America, right out of the Dark Ages, asking for the goddess to bless them and guide them as they decide the fate of the world.”
Trev got up and approached the table. “Is this for real? Why hadn’t we heard about it before?”
She smiled and put an arm around his hip. “Maybe because Rupert Murdoch is a member.”
“Seriously?” Ian asked.
She nodded vigorously.
Walker felt himself falling. The events of the day combined with his exhaustion and his lack of food and the scotch had all conspired to do him in. He stood wobbily. “Can we get this information to Holmes?”
Ian stood as well and held out a hand to steady Walker. “Definitely. Now let me get you some food, and then show you where you’re staying.”
“But I have a reservation at the—”
“We canceled that, don’t you worry.” To Jerry, Ian said, “Can you fetch something to eat from upstairs? I think we all need to eat.”
“They’re serving fish-and-chips,” Preeti said.
Walker lurched to the side as he felt his stomach boil halfway up his throat. “Bath—ulp.” He slammed a hand over his mouth.
Trev Jones grabbed him and both hurried out and down the hall to the loo. Walker barely made it inside before he fell to his knees and vomited into the toilet. He was suddenly feeling like eight miles of hell’s road.
CHAPTER 8
WOKING, ENGLAND. MIDNIGHT.
The wind howled as it buffeted Sassy’s home. She’d sensed something impending in the minutes after the boys from Section 9 had left. She couldn’t put her finger on it, but it was like a psychic buildup of magnificent proportions. The pressure inside her head was so high her ears kept popping. At 11:00 PM she’d decided to move downstairs into the basement to her safe room. She cast as many protection spells as she could, with the limited time and resources she had. Luckily, she’d planned for the possibility of this day long ago and had her spells and protections in place. The only question was what was coming and how strong it would be.
&n
bsp; She lit her candles and began to read from Liber Al vel Legus, the Book of Law. The Fraternitas Saturni had adopted Aleister Crowley’s book as their foundation, but upon obtaining higher levels they were provided greater insights. Now as a Thirty-First Degree Magister Templarus, virtually everything was available to her, but at the moment the words of the Egyptian goddess Nuit, Goddess of the Night Sky, comforted her and she allowed herself to be lost in them.
Sassy had more enemies than most successful witches. Never mind that she’d stolen her knowledge of the Fraterni Saturni. What had always been a men’s club had unknowingly allowed a woman to infiltrate their temple. Her adopted father, who was one of the early temple masters, had reveled in the idea that a woman might learn the secrets and felt that it was a much-needed balance to the preponderance of male magic. He’d continued her education on his own until his death ten years ago. But in doing so, he’d lost all of his friends, been forced to flee Germany with his stepdaughter, and had to cut himself off from the astral plain, lest he be discovered and the Cull Teams come in search of Sassy.
Above her the house began to rattle.
Then the rattle became as loud as a freight train.
She began to scream a spell of protection, invoking Bes. She imagined the protector of mothers and children wearing the Armor of Anhur, fire and damnation pouring from her eyes into the face of Sassy’s unseen enemy.
The noise became so great it obliterated all thought and reason until her own words were sucked from her before she could even form them.
CHAPTER 9
WOKING, ENGLAND. PREDAWN.
They’d woken Walker up at 4:00 AM and sped back to Woking. No one said anything because they didn’t know anything other than that the witch had been attacked. Thanks to the club kitchen preparing for breakfast, they all had hot coffee and meat pies. They also wore body armor and carried weapons. There’d been some conversation about whether Walker should be able to carry, but thankfully common sense bore out.
Two SA80s with ACOGs and Viper II thermal sights rested in the trunk and each of them carried a Glock 17 in a chest rig under his jacket. Not exactly enough ammo to take over Somalia, but enough for them to respond if they needed to fight whatever threat was still around Sassy Moore’s house.
