by Weston Ochse
Walker ripped apart the remaining stick-figure druids in a brutish rage. Hacking and slashing, kicking and punching, he finished off these ragged druid scarecrows, ripping them to pieces. He paused, panting from the effort, sweat-slick face regarding his work. Then he turned to his team and watched them locked in a desperate battle with the remaining hounds.
His men needed his help. It was fucking time to end this mission. He started to move toward them but felt a malaise take him over.
Hoover whined beside him and gave him a worried look.
Walker’s hand came up and he found himself looking at it. Was this his hand? He became aware that he wasn’t alone. The hairs on the back of his neck engaged. He felt an itch between his shoulder blades. He spun around, but no one was there. Still, he felt a presence. He looked up, then to the ground, but nothing was there. What was it?
Hoover stood stock-still, her body rigid and locked. Not even her tail moved. Odd that she’d stand that way.
Then Walker felt the same thing. His body was locked as well. And something continued to watch him, as if its face were mere inches from … then he knew. No no no no no no no no no no! he wailed within his mind. He remembered the Malaysian grave demon that had possessed him all those years as a child. He’d been spectator to what it had made him do, unable to stop it, unable to close his eyes because even his eyes were no longer his own.
Why hadn’t Sassy saved him?
Why did he have to be the one to be possessed?
What did it want with him?
And then the images flashed through his mind.
All of his team dead.
Three-story piles of bodies all throughout the country. Anyone without Briton lineage, rotting food for a trillion flies.
There was a change coming and he was to be a part of it whether he liked it or not.
CHAPTER 52
CADBURY CASTLE, ENGLAND. 1355 HOURS.
Ian and his men helped end the battle when they swept up the road and over the hill. Other than the flechette cannon and the shredded empty robes, nothing remained to show the fierceness of the Tuatha’s attack. Even the archaeological dig was deserted.
Ian was plainly worried. “Where are they? Was there no sign?”
But as Holmes took care of Laws he ignored Ian. The second in command was bleeding profusely from the wound near his eye. The flechette had come so close to the orb, Holmes was afraid to remove it. The wound had swelled, making the flechette impossible to get to. So Holmes took care of Laws’s other wounds and cursed the Red Grove for taking a page out of the Vietcong’s book. Knowing they couldn’t defeat American forces during the Vietnam War head-to-head, the VC had waged a war of damage, wounding as many American soldiers as possible, delaying them, sapping their will. The flechette cannon was as good as a pungi stick. Not only had it put Laws out of the fight but also the rest of them until they could bandage their wounds and figure out a way to move on.
Yank worked on Sassy. Whatever she’d expected to find on Cadbury Hill, it wasn’t a body full of metal. She’d lost a piece of an ear and would have a lasting reminder on her right cheek, not to mention those that had pierced her triceps, quadriceps, and stomach. She fumed silently as Yank and one of the Marines worked on her, first removing the flechettes and then cleaning and bandaging her wounds.
No one had gone unscathed.
YaYa had a leg wound.
Walker had wounds on the back of his upper leg.
And Holmes had one in his arm in addition to the cut from Yank.
Still, they were lucky. Their body armor had caught most of it. Had the enemy really wanted to kill them, though, it could have set up a far more considerable ambush. Claymores, IEDs, machine guns with interlocking fields of fire, bouncing Betty mines, trip wires … Holmes could think of dozens of more efficient ways to kill them than the flechette cannon.
Was it a statement?
“Stop looking all motherly, Boss.”
Holmes finished affixing the bandage over and around the flechette next to Laws’s eye. “Not sure if you lost the eye or not, Tim.”
Laws dropped his smile at the use of his first name. Holmes knew it would get Laws’s attention. He wanted to make certain that his second understood his predicament. But then the smile returned.
“Can’t worry about what’s already done. How are the others?”
“You were hit the worst. The witch is next, but her pain is more intramuscular.”
“She’d going to be one large bruise.”
“She already is.” Holmes held up one of the flechettes. “Why?”
Laws took it from him. “I was laying here thinking the same thing. If they’d really wanted to kill us, I can think of better ways.”
“Exactly. So why this?”
“You think it’s a statement, don’t you?”
Holmes nodded.
“Let’s look at it from the Arthurian perspective. The Romans used plumbatas—small handheld darts with lead weights. The Picts of Scotland also used darts, some tribes exclusively. They were also used by the Celts and the Gaels. One could look at it as symbolic of a return to the past.”
Holmes knew that to be true but had a hard time believing that this was the reason now that he heard it out loud.
“But I’m with you,” Laws continued. “It doesn’t sound as good out loud as it does in our heads. Let’s look at it another way. We’ve done considerable damage to their operation.”
“Not enough, it seems. Arthur is still out there. Even though we’ve removed several high-ranking officials and killed some of his hunt, we don’t know how many are left.”
Laws grimaced as he brought himself to a sitting position. “You’re right. It doesn’t make sense.”
“Back to the question at hand. Where is Arthur? We’d believed all along that he’d come here to crown himself.”
“You’re forgetting something.” Laws made to stand and Holmes helped him. “There’s already a ruling monarch. The people aren’t going to follow Arthur as long as Elizabeth lives.”
Holmes beckoned Ian over, who’d been speaking to the pilots who’d just arrived. Ian came and brought along one of the pilots, who introduced himself as Patrick.
“Ian? Where is the Queen right at this moment?”
The sole surviving member of Section 9 blinked several times. “Buckingham Palace.”
“So she’s spending Christmas in London,” Holmes said.
Ian snapped his fingers. “No. She’s at Sandringham Estate. It’s in Norfolk.”
“How fast can we get there?”
“By truck about six hours.”
Holmes pointed at the helicopters. “And in one of those?”
“Ninety minutes. Maybe a little more,” said Patrick. “We can get about one hundred and ninety-five miles per hour out of them.”
“Then let’s get everyone loaded. We can continue triage on board.”
The helicopters were in the air within five minutes. The SEALs, Ian, and the witch flew with Patrick. Magerts and his men flew with Keith in the other helicopter.
Holmes sat in one of the co-pilots’ seats and wore a helmet. He stared at the top of Cadbury Hill wondering what it was he had missed. There had to have been a reason for the flechette cannon. He knew he was going to regret not knowing.
CHAPTER 53
NAP-OF-THE-EARTH. ENGLAND. 1419 HOURS.
About fifteen minutes into the flight he turned to the pilot. “How’d you know we needed help?”
“My boss contacted me.”
“That would be Conor?”
Patrick glanced at Holmes, an impressed look on his face. “So you know Conor?”
“Just as he knows me. We’ve worked with the Finn McCools a few times. Were you in on the Isle of Man disaster?”
Patrick shook his head. “That was before my time, but I read the record. Unbelievable.”
Holmes smiled wryly. “Not so unbelievable if you’d been there to see it.” Then his face went stone again. “I
t must have been Preeti then. My guess is Section 9 had some sort of back-door communications plan.”
“They had to. We can’t call or e-mail out. Everything’s shut down. Hell, I shouldn’t even be flying. We’ll be lucky if we don’t get some Tornadoes want to tussle.”
“Your IFF?”
Patrick pointed to his console. “It’s off. And as you can see, we’re flying NOE, so we might go unseen.”
“I guess it depends on how much effort they’re putting into finding you … or finding us. They must know we’d be working together. What’s your cover?”
“Coast Guard Search and Rescue. And yours?”
“Pest control.”
Patrick laughed. “Classic.”
Holmes turned to Ian and got his attention. He had the man put on a crew chief helmet so they could communicate.
“Since I seriously doubt the Queen has been left in the dark on this, we can’t exactly land and not expect to be shot at. Her security detail will have zero idea who we are until we can explain the situation.”
“I can’t be sure if Lord Robinson did or not. This is bottled.”
“How’d Preeti get in touch with the Finn McCools?” Holmes asked.
“Could be any number of ways. We’ve been using Facebook Apps lately. Using their in-game chat functions. We found after the Chinese government tried to shut down Facebook that all they could do was inhibit the ability to communicate through the site. The game applications are add-ons and subject to a completely different code set. In order to knock them out, the Chinese would have to either completely shut down the Internet or back into each game application, and there’s well over ten thousand.”
“Can you see if you can get word to the Queen through Preeti and her brother?” Holmes asked. “As long as they’re leaving the Internet on, the least we can do is take advantage of it.”
“Meanwhile, we have to find out where the nearest mound is to Sandringham. If by some chance we’re able to get to the Queen before Arthur and the Wild Hunt, then we’ll be able to plan a defense.”
“What do you think those odds are?”
“Slim to none. But I have to try.” Holmes went to remove his helmet. “Listen, I’m heading back. If you have any issues, please let me know.”
Holmes slid free the helmet, then climbed in back. He wanted to check on Laws and the others. Both Laws and Sassy were sucking on fentanyl lollipops. More than fifty times stronger than morphine, fentanyl was short lasting and would provide them the comfort they needed until the next mission. He’d have to watch them, though. He needed to make sure they weren’t completely stoned when they touched down.
YaYa was wrapping QuikClot gauze on Hoover’s mauled rear leg, staring at the dog in a funny way.
Holmes found a seat near Sassy. She held her wand in her hand as if she were gathering strength from it.
“How are you feeling?”
“Like a London dart league used me as target practice.”
“Fentanyl working?”
“I’d love to have a cupboard filled with these babies.” She took it out of her mouth for a moment. “Tastes like doctor ass, though.”
Holmes chuckled. “I wouldn’t know.” He paused to look at Walker and Hoover. There was something off about them. Probably the dog was picking up on Walker’s emotion. Back to Sassy, Holmes said, “Don’t suppose you know the nearest mound to Sandringham Estate, do you?”
She thought for a moment. “Probably would be Bloodgate Hill. About twenty miles east, I think.”
“Anything special about that one?”
She shrugged and pulled the lollipop from her mouth. “It’s Iron Age, which makes it old. It’s the largest in Norfolk. And like most of them it’s built on a faerie mound.”
“Sounds like where they’d be coming from. Got anything up your sleeve that could help us combat them? Looks like they hit us with some pretty good magic back there. Laws almost shot me.” He glanced at the bandage on his arm. “Yank nearly beheaded me.”
“They were able to prepare the area. Those are from spell traps they’d put in place. Only reason I didn’t notice them was because of this.” She held up the wand. “It’s both a help and a hindrance. There’s enough power in here to help me defeat, along with the Baen Sidhe, most anything. But if detecting residual magic is what I need to do, then this gets in the way because all I can feel is this.”
“But they’ve never been to Sandringham Estate?”
“Not that I know of, plus the Royal Warlock would have taken care of it had he seen anything.”
“The what?”
“You heard me.”
“There’s a Royal Warlock? And why have I never heard of it?”
“It’s not necessarily for the English monarch. That’s just the way it worked out. The Warlock is assigned to protect the House of Wettin. This dates back to Theodoric the First in AD 900. He protected a coven of warlocks from persecution and so did his line all the way until the 1600s. In return, we vowed to protect the line.”
“When you say ‘we’ you mean…”
“The modern incarnation is the Fraterni Saturni, to which I belong.”
“But you’re not a warlock.”
“Glad you noticed. Let’s say I’m ex-official.”
He nodded. “Got it. What happened in the 1600s?”
“Praying Ernest, or better known as Ernest the First, Duke of Saxe-Gotha, was the first to allow witch trials and burnings. We lost many because of that ass.” She splayed two fingers apart and spit through them onto the aircraft floor, then said a few guttural German epithets.
“Elizabeth the Second is related to the Wettins?”
“Through patrilineal descent courtesy of Prince Albert, she is.”
“And your service to the family?”
“Returned when Queen Victoria invited our founder, Gregor A. Gregorius, to continue the tradition in 1900. He founded our order upon her command, revived the tradition, then made it public in 1928.” She spread her hands. “Thus is our boring history.”
“Anything but boring. This Warlock, are you on speaking terms with him?”
“I know Garland quite well. He doesn’t particularly like me, but he does respect me.” She frowned. “Unlike most of my fraternity.”
“Can you contact him and tell him we’re coming?”
She gave Holmes a shocked look. “I already have. He’ll be meeting us at the LZ.”
Holmes felt exasperated. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“You looked busy running the show.” She smiled knowingly. “I didn’t want to get in the way.”
Holmes thought about that and would have called her on it if he felt it would do any good. “And have you brought him up to date on what we know thus far?”
She nodded. “I have.”
“And how are you able to communicate with him? Magic, I suppose?”
“Not magic. Astral projection.”
Now it was his turn to smile. “Of course. Astral projection. Makes perfect sense.”
She beamed back. “I thought so.”
CHAPTER 54
NAP-OF-THE-EARTH. ENGLAND. 1440 HOURS.
Walker felt it inside him. It called itself Myrddin and felt like a giant fucking snail was laying a vile trail through his brain, only to spin into a millipede, scratching the sides with a million spiked feet, then to change into a neon-green dragonfly with razor blades for wings. It hurt so bad he wanted to cry, but the Tuatha wouldn’t let him do anything but sit dumbly, laugh at the occasional crack by Yank or YaYa, and act appropriately concerned for Laws’s awful face wound.
Was this what Van Dyke had felt? And to think he brought it into his body on purpose. Had it been worth it? If this was the Tuatha’s soul then Walker would rather bathe in a cesspool.
He felt it look inward at him, condescending, treating him less like a man, more like a child. It showed him a memory, except in this version he was out of his body watching. Walker knew the scene well. It was Subic Bay, 1985.
His father was dead. His brother was gone. And he was possessed by a demon.
And there he was hiding in a pile of trash—Little Jackie Walker. The liquid from banana skins, coffee grounds, and rain-soaked rags seeped through his clothes, making him shiver. His teeth chattered. Beneath the soft skin of his bare chest he felt what could have been gravel. A rubber thrown away by a hooker on Llo-Llo Street in Barrio Barretto rested like a deflated sausage two inches from his nose. A wasp crawled inside, causing the skin of it to wriggle and jump. He felt rats crossing the backs of his legs. When they sniffed at him, he fought the urge to jerk as their whiskers tickled the soft underskin of his knees.
Feral.
Like a pig.
Or a dog.
He was wild and eager to gnaw on something that screamed.
Twice old men shuffled by, coming home from a day spent at the dump.
Each time he screamed like a dying cat. “Hoy! Hoy! Tanda! Halika. Sayaw tayo.” Hey! Hey! Old man. Come and dance with me.
Whenever the men would look over, he could barely contain himself with glee. Although they looked right at him, he knew they didn’t see him. He was invisible. He was like the air.
But then came the old cripple, pulling himself along with one withered arm, a hand gnarled like the fingers of a twisted branch. His skin was the color of old chocolate. He had a few hairs on his face and even fewer on his head. His eyes were the color of olive pits and were sunken into craters of wrinkles.
Jackie could barely contain his laughter as he leaped free of the trash and high into the air. Pieces of debris sprayed the cripple. Jackie screamed like a beast. He picked up an old hubcap and swung it as hard as he could. He caught the cripple in the side of the head. The cripple screamed. The slick metal slid off without doing much damage, so Jackie brought it around again, this time coming straight down with the hubcap on the crown of the cripple’s head. Blood exploded outward, the sight of it fuel for another swing of the arm. This time it came around in a flat arc, catching the old man beneath the eye.
