by Weston Ochse
They weren’t able to get within two blocks, however. Police and firemen had already cordoned off the area. They were checking people going in and out. Ian parked his car and ordered Trev to go and take a look. The former Royal Marine exited the car and loped across the street. When he got to the cop, he argued for a moment, then was able to get past. It was about ten minutes later when he suddenly appeared at the back of the car and slipped into the backseat.
“It’s fucking gone.” He sucked in air to control his breathing. He must have been running.
“What’s gone?” Jerry asked. “The house?”
“Like Dorothy rode it to Oz.”
“You’re serious.” Ian stared. “Is there anything left?”
“I’m kidding you not. There’s a basement open to the world but no house. The houses all around it didn’t so much as lose a paint flake. It’s crazy.”
“Was there any sign of the witch?” Walker asked.
Trev shook his head.
Walker sat back in his seat. “Fuck me.”
Ian pointed out the window. “There she is. Everyone act normal.”
“Normal? Sure,” Trev said straight-faced. “Perfectly normal for four men in a car to pick up a hot woman beside a place where a house went missing.”
Ian pulled up about a hundred feet. Jerry hopped out and let Sassy Moore climb inside. She had a birdcage with a cover over it and a bag. These she set on her lap.
Ian put the car in gear, turned a corner, and they were gone.
Everyone wanted to ask the question, but they deferred to Ian. Finally, after he’d maneuvered them out of the neighborhood, he asked, “What happened, Ms. Moore?”
Her voice was ragged and weak. “Can’t … won’t talk here. Get me to your place.”
Walker turned and noticed she was gritting her teeth. Her eyes were bloodshot and her face showed great strain. “Better do it, Ian.”
The Section 9 leader simply nodded. They took the M25 to the M1 and headed north, reversing their trip. But at Breakspear Way she had Ian turn off and pull into Woodwells Cemetery. She got out, taking the birdcage with her. Trev and Walker got out as well. She asked for a flashlight and Trev gave her one. They followed her until they found the grave of an infant who’d only lived three days. The witch fell to her knees and dug until she had a pile of dirt. Then she pulled a knife from her pocket and sliced open her palm. She let the blood drip onto the dirt until it was glistening. Once she was satisfied, she waved Walker over and did the same to his palm, also dripping his blood on the dirt. Once she was finished, she removed the cover, pulled the bird free from the cage, and held her while she picked up handfuls of dirt and let them fall on the bird. She finally stood, whispered into the bird’s ear, then let her go. The bird took to the air and vanished in the dark sky.
“Now that’s done,” Sassy said, “we can go.”
She left the cage, but after following her for a dozen feet Walker returned and took it. He’d spied a trash can on the way in and hustled to get the cage inside it. The last thing he needed on his conscience was for some mother and father to come to the grave of their child only to find that it had been used for some arcane ceremony, even if it was an arcane ceremony for good.
They drove the rest of the way in silence. At RAF Chicksands, the guard seemed not to notice Ms. Moore. Dawn was lighting the early-morning sky as they climbed down the stairs into the basement of the priory.
When they hit the common area, Sassy plopped onto one of the couches and held out a hand. “Scotch.”
Ian complied but didn’t pour one for anyone else, which was just as well as far as Walker was concerned. He didn’t know if he’d be able to handle it. He stared dull eyed at the room’s old wooden walls, shined to a burnished gold by multiple hands over several hundred years.
Jerry pulled a first-aid kit from the wall, opened it, and began to treat the cut on Walker’s palm. It was fairly deep and about two inches long.
Sassy drank the first one fast. She treated the second one like a long-lost friend and took her time with it. When she was sated, she went to the sink and washed her face and hands. Finally, with everyone watching, she turned, putting her back to the sink.
She glared at Walker. “We’re in the shit now.”
Walker gave her his best what the hell do you mean look.
“That little hand-holding we did to discover what was happening created a connection between the Wild Hunt and us. It knows where I am and it knows where you are.”
Jerry, who’d been standing beside Walker, took a step away from him.
Sassy turned to Ian. “But we’re good for now. This priory has more prayer and magic than most anything. It’s lucky for us that this is your home.”
Ian glanced around. “Such as it is.”
“No, you don’t understand.” She held her arms out to encompass the walls. “The priory is shielded. I’m not sure you knew this, but when this was built, it was not only as a place of worship, but also as a place of refuge from entities such as the Sidhe and the Wild Hunt. That’s why it has survived for so long. There was a time when the church sought out the help of those such as myself instead of shunning us … hunting us.”
“So as long as we stay inside, then it can’t find us?” Walker asked.
“It might be able to track you here, if you ever leave again, but it can’t get inside, nor can it do what it did to my once lovely home.” She frowned and shook her head. “You have no idea what I lost to the Hunt. It’s going to be difficult to replace.”
“Was there something in your house that could help us defeat the Wild Hunt?” Ian asked.
“Possibly.” A look came over her as she sized up the men in the room. “Although, with a little ingenuity and firepower, we could get replacements for many of the items. I actually know of a man who has what I need.”
It took a moment for Ian to react to the statement, and when he did his face held a disappointed look. “You want us to steal for you?”
She offered a sweet smile. “Is it stealing if the person is a horrible warlock who sacrifices other people’s family pets?”
“Yes, it’s still stealing. But if he sacrifices family pets then that’s what we might call mitigating circumstances.”
She clapped her hands together. “Excellent. At least one good thing’s going to come out of this.”
Jerry went to her to apply a bandage to her cut, but she waved him away, showing him her hand, which had already healed.
“What was it we did back there?” Walker asked, rubbing the bandage covering his wound.
“Poor pigeon. We put our sign on the bird. When the Wild Hunt catches up to her, they won’t leave much, but it was a necessary sacrifice that got us to safety unscathed.”
Walker didn’t like it. The idea of sacrificing anything was anathema. He’d killed enough and been almost killed enough times to appreciate the sanctity of life. He acknowledged that the witch had just condemned a warlock for sacrificing family pets, but she had little trouble, if any, sacrificing a bird herself. He decided not to point the contradiction out.
Still, he felt the need to ask, “Does he really sacrifice family pets?”
She flashed her trust me smile but then noticed it wasn’t exactly working. Walker was too tired, too pissed, and too miserable to fall victim to it. “I’m sure he does.”
“You don’t actually have evidence of it then.”
“Nothing that would stand up in court, Your Honor.”
Ian interrupted the exchange. “You mentioned that there might be something here that could help. You meant the powers here were left over from the old priory days, right?”
She nodded.
Walker turned to Ian. “What’s inside the boxes in the hall? My guess is that they’re relics and souvenirs from operations going back I don’t know how long.”
Ian’s eyes narrowed. “How did you know?”
Walker turned back to the witch. “You used the words ‘a shuddering of the veil�
� earlier.”
“The veil between this reality and any other. If it’s breached by something large enough and we’re in proximity to whoever or whatever came through, then we can feel it on a spiritual level.”
“Sort of like early-warning radar.” Walker understood the concept better than most.
She nodded. “Something like that.”
“I have this … ability.” He almost said “curse.” “When I get close to something supernatural, I get this feeling in my body, like electricity. Sometimes it makes me have seizures.”
“Wait a minute. If that’s the case, then why didn’t you do that when you met Ms. Moore?” Jerry asked.
Walker caught the witch giving him a look much like he imagined a vet would a polydactyl rabbit. She spoke up before Walker could answer. “It’s because I’m not made of magic. I conjure it and cast it. I’m a funnel.” To Ian she said, “If you really have relics and pieces of beasties in those boxes, maybe you’ll let Walker and me go through them and see if there’s anything handy.”
Ian shook his head. “Back when defending Her Majesty against the supernatural was a popular occupation, they graced the walls of the priory as mementos of missions past.”
She gave him an intent stare. “And now they’re in boxes gathering dust. A lot of good they’re doing.”
Ian returned her stare with equal intensity for a moment, then relented. “Fine. Just don’t break anything. We’ll eventually get our building back, and when we do I want something to put on the damn walls.”
Preeti entered and evinced surprise at seeing the witch. Trev brought her up to speed after a brief introduction; then she spoke. “I ran a scan of the closed-circuit cameras in the area of her home in Woking,” she said to Ian. “The cameras ceased working during the event as if there was some sort of interference.”
Ian crossed his arms, then brought his right hand up to scratch his jaw. “Do you think something’s jamming them? If so there could be a more mundane than arcane solution.”
Preeti considered it. “I suppose it could be microwaves, but the interference is localized to any camera that had optics on the street leading to her home. You’d need at least seven microwave dishes to pull it off.”
Ian scratched his chin. “Still not an impossibility.”
Walker asked, “Was the interference static?”
“Do you mean was it fuzzy?” Preeti looked confused.
Walker shook his head. “No, what I mean is … did it merely appear right or did it arrive from another location? Consider the possibility that the interference might be moving.”
Preeti’s eyes widened. “Oh. I see. No, I didn’t consider that. Very smart, Mr. Walker. Very smart indeed.”
CHAPTER 10
CHIPPING SODBURY GOLF CLUB, ENGLAND. MORNING.
Jonathan Fitzhugh considered himself a good worker. Not a great worker and not a bad worker, but a good worker. He got to work on time most mornings, at least those when he hadn’t gotten too deep in his cups the night before. He was conscientious every evening, ensuring the groundskeeping equipment was clean and put away. And he was polite to the club members, always remembering to call them sir and their lady friends, whether they be an obvious tramp or an overweight wife, ma’am. So the idea that he had to go see the club manager today at noon was infuriating. They hadn’t even explained what it was about, but by the tone of the note attached to seat of the riding lawn mower it was clear that they weren’t happy.
There was no way they could have known he’d pawned three sets of golf clubs this year. Not only was there no one around when he took them, but the fact that their owners had left them behind demonstrated that they didn’t really want or need them in the first place also. Plus, he’d taken each to a different pawnbroker in Bath. No, there was no way they could have known about those.
The morning fog did little to deter the first foursome of the day. He recognized them as they approached the first tee. The tall one in the middle was Nisam Kazmi, a Pakistani businessman who’d been in the papers. The owner of five car dealerships, he was also interested in the fair treatment of immigrants and was a vocal opponent of any law or policy that inhibited his rights. The other three were his usual partners, two Pakistanis and one Afghan.
Fitzhugh kept one eye on them as he checked the oil level of his lawn mower. There were those down at the pub who’d call them disparaging names, such as ragheads, but then that was just stupid. The real ragheads were the Sikhs, who actually wore turbans on their heads. No, Fitzhugh wasn’t one to call the Pakis names. As long as they were good upstanding citizens, why shouldn’t they be able to come to the club and play a round of golf?
But Fitzhugh couldn’t help but think what if … what if they were planning something terrible while they played golf? What if they were arranging for an attack on the Queen or parliament or perhaps something worse involving nerve gas or explosives? He smiled grimly and briefly flashed to an image of him in the newspaper with the headline GROUNDSKEEPER FOILS PLOT TO KILL QUEEN.
He held on to that as he started the tractor and headed toward the third hole where ducks had recently been crapping on the green. The last thing he needed this day was for the Pakis to complain to his boss about a crap-filled green.
The fog wasn’t burning off like it usually did. If anything, it was getting thicker as he headed toward the small pond near the green for the third hole. He knew there was a scientific reason for it, but he really didn’t know what ten-quid words to use, nor would he have understood their meanings. Plus, this time of December and so close to Christmas, the club was lucky the weather was holding as it was. It might as well be spring.
Sure enough, during the night the ducks had crapped all over the green. He grabbed a flat shovel from the back of the tractor and scooped up all but the smallest pieces and dumped them in the water. He searched for one of the ducks to curse, but they’d made themselves absent. Good thing; he might have found a rock and had something for dinner if he’d been able to find one.
He next grabbed a bucket. Then he was on his hands and knees picking up the smaller piece because god fucking forbid one of those little white balls goes off course because it struck a microscopic piece of duck crap. He’d be bottled for sure.
Fitzhugh wasn’t positive how long he’d been on his hands and knees when he heard some yelling. He glanced up and saw the Paki foursome halfway down the fairway waving at him. Had he been there that long? A wave of fog passed between them and him obscuring them for a moment.
Where the hell was that fog coming from?
He stood, wincing as his bum left knee reminded him that he was old, drank too much, and could do with losing a bit of weight.
They yelled again. “Fore!”
Of course.
They wanted him to move out of the way.
He glanced down and checked to see if he’d gotten all of the duck crap, then limped back to his tractor. He decided to wait until they finished before he started it up. No use having them complain about the noise when they were trying to hit their bloody damned balls.
He could just make out Mr. Kazmi lining up to hit his ball. It looked like a five-iron shot would do the job, but the damn Paki was using a fairway wood. Fitzhugh moved behind the tractor. If the man was going to overshoot the hole, he’d be damned if he’d be hit.
Kazmi swung, and as his club made it to the apex of his backswing a gigantic creature came from his right and hit him square in the chest, ripping out his throat. Part human, part beast, it was terrible to see. Its front two legs were human arms, but bent in the way of an animal’s legs. The back legs were those of a dog or a wolf. It had a gray hairless body like an armadillo’s and the face of a long-nosed baboon.
Five more beasts loped out of the fog and took down the three other golfers. They went for the soft places like the jugular, the stomach, and the crotch, ripping and chewing. Their human hands gripping the bodies as they fed and tore flesh free.
Fitzhugh felt warmth flood his own
crotch as urine evacuated down his leg. He wanted to run, but he couldn’t move. He managed to get down on his trembling knees and then onto the ground, where he watched the men being eaten from his view beneath his tractor.
Then a giant white stag appeared with a man on his back.
The beasts howled and the man laughed.
He looked like a king, regal and broad shouldered. Not at all like that big-eared Prince Charles with the small chin and smaller shoulders. No, this was a true man. Fitzhugh knew without knowing how he knew that if asked he’d follow the figure and do whatever he was told.
The man glanced his way as did the beasts, their heads turning to stare at his hiding place at the exact same time. Fitzhugh felt like puking. They knew he was there. He closed his eyes. If this was the end and they were going to rip out his guts, he didn’t want to see it happen.
He counted to fifty.
Then he started over and counted to a hundred.
Then he counted to a hundred again.
He opened one eye but didn’t see a thing. He slowly turned his gaze behind him but saw nothing there but the pond. After what seemed like ten minutes, he finally got to his feet. At first he couldn’t stop shaking, but the more time passed, the more it seemed that he’d been spared.
He climbed on his tractor well aware that they could be playing with him, but as the fog began to dissipate and he saw more and more of the course he felt increasingly certain that he would make it. He started the tractor and began to head for the clubhouse. He had to tell someone what had happened.
But he paused. He turned in his seat and saw the four sets of golf clubs still on the ground. Of the golfers there was nary a trace.
Then he remembered the note to see the manager. What was he going to tell him? That a king riding a white stag brought some monstrous hounds who ate the golfers? No way. No how. No. He was already in trouble. Four club members being eaten on the third hole would somehow become his fault too. He turned the tractor around and grabbed the golf clubs. Just in case, he’d wait two weeks for his trip to Wales, then he’d find a pawnbroker.
