Reign of Evil

CHAPTER 30

The air inside Saffron Gold smelled of curry, turmeric, and a dozen other spices, which made Walker’s mouth run with anticipation. Indian food was Walker’s culinary kryptonite and Preeti’s cousin had once worked at Saffron Gold. Although all the way out in the Midlands, it frequently made England’s “Best Indian Restaurants” list and was a go-to destination for culinary enthusiasts. It was also a go-to restaurant for special operations teams trying to hide under the radar.

A sweet Indian girl, who could easily be the next target of the Wild Hunt, packed four bags into a box and stuffed napkins in between them.

Walker thanked her, pulled his skullcap over his head, and turned up his collar. He headed out the door, then turned down Friars Street. About a half block down on the right was a sign that read: “St. Paul’s Church.” Built in 1824, it was a small stone chapel with yellow construction tape across the front and a sign that said: “Grand Reopening Next Easter.” He followed a path along the right-hand side of the church. A construction tent stood around back that hid the SUV.

Genie met him at the back door and relieved him of the food. Walker secured the door, then followed the Navy chief down the stairs into a long and wide basement which had become their new operational HQ. Pews had been dragged down from the chapel and were being used as couches, chairs, and cots. A table scrounged from the sacristy held Preeti’s computers and monitors. Van Dyke occupied a pew in the very back of the space.

They’d been lucky to find T1 lines already installed, due entirely to the previous friar’s love of soccer. He’d been known to disappear for hours, only to be found downstairs on the couch watching Premier League soccer, or passed out from too much alcohol—which was where they found him one morning when he didn’t show up for mass. Whether it was West Brom beating Manchester by four goals or too much wine, his heart gave out, which left the archdiocese with the decision to either close the church or remodel, since no significant work had been done to it since 1932.

Ian had already arranged for this or an abandoned home in Brighton to be available if they needed a temporary HQ. Preeti had her brother wipe away any record of the location.

Walker wasn’t sure if it was the smell of the food or the sound of the box hitting the pew, but everyone suddenly took notice.

“About time you got back. Getting hungry in here.” Yank rubbed his hands together, clearly no worse for wear from being dragged away by a Wild Hunt hound other than a concussion.

“We could have done a cover stop at any number of fast-food joints.” YaYa elbowed his way past Yank. “I still want to try those ketchup-flavored crisps to see what they taste like.”

“Probably like ketchup and potato chips.” Laws pulled the smaller enlisted man back and stepped forward.

Soon everyone was pushing and prodding. Unsure if it was a game or survival of the fittest, Walker found himself in the middle, scrabbling for a samosa.

“Stop!”

Everyone turned to see Holmes standing with hands on his hips. “Let the young lady get in there before you men start grazing.”

Everyone glanced at one another, then backed away.

Preeti smiled, then began to load a plate. Walker could have sworn she was taking her time. Probably hadn’t had this sort of deference and positive attention from so many in a long time. He sighed. His stomach could wait if it meant something good happening to her. Not only was he empathetic for her injuries, but he saw a mirror image in the relationship she had with Trevor with the one that he’d had with Jen.

Plus, Preeti and her brother had arguably done more to move the mission forward than SEAL Team 666, Section 9, and a certified witch.

During their four-hour surveillance detection route, she’d explained her sleuth work and how she’d figured out how to track the mystery woman. With brains and guile, she’d found a location whose address matched a name from a list of Bohemian Grove donors. If he wasn’t involved, he’d have to know someone who was.

And her brother had been largely responsible for their escape. They now had no doubt that Sir Robert Montgomery was involved with the Red Grove and possibly the Wild Hunt. There was also no doubt that once these entities learned of the demise of their golem guard, they’d be searching for the Tuatha, having determined that it had returned to the Isles during the brief period before the witch shielded it. So as they knew that the SEALs had been at the museum, it would be a simple task to track them back to Chicksands RAF, that is, if the MP hadn’t outed them already. It would additionally be simple to track them once they evacuated and headed to Point Bravo. All the surveillance detection routes in the world couldn’t evade a network of CCTV cameras. So, just as they’d planned it, Preeti’s brother launched an immense DNS attack on the British Transport Police Servers, using underground networks in Romania and Uganda. The denial of service attacks successfully blocked all incoming traffic feeds, replacing them with live streams from various sex cams from around the globe for two orgasmic hours, allowing Section 9 and SEAL Team 666 to fall off the map. With the additional change of vehicle, their vehicular biometrics was now also different. The only way to find them now would be through witchcraft, which Sassy was spending all of her time thwarting.

Once Preeti finally filled her plate, then Sassy, the men approached the food in a less aggressive manner. They found space on the pews and ate in silence. This was the first nourishment they’d had since before the mission at the museum and Walker had to force himself to eat slowly. He’d almost finished when the witch, who’d been in the rear of the room, writing runes on the floor around Van Dyke with chalk and dust, approached them.

“He’s dying,” she said flatly as she took the plate that Holmes had prepared for her. “It’s only a matter of days.” She shrugged. “Might be hours.”

Laws spoke first. “He said he had cancer.”

Sassy shook her head so her hair almost covered her face as she chewed. She spoke around a bite of vindaloo. “The cancer should have killed him two years ago. It’s the Tuatha Dé Dannan that’s keeping him alive.” She laughed huskily as she wiped her mouth and set her plate aside. “It’s clear what the Bohemian Grove is all about now. I don’t know if this is the only one, but they have at least one Tuatha Dé Dannan that they let someone host in order to prolong their lives. They might even give it to healthy people, because what this thing does is share its life force, giving the host strength and, in the case of Van Dyke, enough strength to live a few more years.”

Walker suddenly understood. “And the golem was there to protect their property.”

“They’re going to want it back,” Holmes concluded.

“You saw how interested Sir Robert was, as if he knew Van Dyke was there. Had they gone to the hangar instead of the museum, they would already have it.”

“But I had it well shielded. Going to Chicksands would be a crapshoot, while the museum was a sure thing.”

Walker gestured at the Navy chief. “Thanks to Genaro for holding him and his thugs off long enough for us to come.”

YaYa, who’d been looking sideways at Van Dyke in the back of the room, joined the conversation. “It still doesn’t answer the question of why they want it.”

Sassy’s eyes widened. “Alas. The million-pound question. I think I have the answer to that.” When she was certain she had everyone’s attention, she told them, “It’s the mounds. Legend states that the Tuatha lived in them. I believe the mounds are a sort of parallel universe. It’s clear that they are connected somehow, which would explain how the Wild Hunt can move around so swiftly.”

Holmes nodded, got up, and stuffed his plate and plasticware into a garbage bag. “Van Dyke is the key.”

“Not Van Dyke, the Tuatha,” she corrected.

“He—it can get us access to the mounds. Will it cooperate?”

“Not as long as it’s in Van Dyke’s body. It wants a new host.”

Holmes stared for a long moment, then shook his head. “No way. It could be a parasite. Maybe it lets the host live longer because it needs something from the host to live? Did you think of that?”

“Perhaps, but—”

Laws joined in as he was throwing away his plate. “Legend has it that after their defeat by the Milesians, the Tuatha descended into the mounds. Hence their other name, Aos Sí, or Sidhe, ‘people of the mounds.’ Now this is where Tolkien stole his ideas for elves, from legends resident in the British Isles. Although the term ‘Tuatha Dé Dannan’ is of Irish origin, there are cognates–different names for the same entities–throughout the peoples who populated Dark Age Briton. Realize that when the texts came out, they were referring to a race of people who existed more than nineteen hundred years before Christ.”

Sassy laughed tiredly. “He really is a walking talking Wikipedia entry.”

“He has an eidetic memory. Remembers everything he sees.” Holmes gestured for Laws to continue.

“It’s a curse.” Laws found a runaway samosa and snapped it into his mouth. “Tolkien’s elves leaving Middle Earth for Valorian mimics the Tuatha leaving England for Tir Na Nog. Both left because of the coming age of humans. Both left some of their kind behind. This thing inside Van Dyke is probably one of those left-behinds.”

Genie shook his head violently, his hand going to something hanging on a necklace beneath his shirt. “You’re saying this as if it’s true.” Genie seemed as surprised as the rest of them that he’d spoken. “Sorry, it’s just that…”

YaYa smiled grimly. “This is just the beginning. Everything you thought you knew will change. It happened to all of us.”

Laws shrugged apologetically, as if he was sorry for spoiling Genaro’s idea of the truth. “We’re talking about pre-history. It could be right or wrong; that’s sort of beside the point. The fact that we have a Tuatha right here with us and the Wild Hunt killing people around this country by transporting themselves through the mounds is what we have to deal with. The rest is just background, and something to maybe help us put it in context.”

In the intervening silence a tune began to form at the back of the room. The sound was high-pitched, almost too high to be made by a human. Van Dyke had been too weak to stand, so they’d pulled two pews together to form a sort of crib to contain him. Around and on this, Sassy had drawn arcane magical symbols. He was sitting up now, singing in a language Walker had never heard before. It was at once lyrical and harsh, words beginning with vowels and ending with brittle consonants.

Everyone stared at Van Dyke for what seemed like five minutes until he finally spoke. “Tir Na Nog, the place where time is but a memory, ’tis neither hot nor cold, windy nor still, wet nor dry. Tir Na Nog.”

It was clear at once that this wasn’t Van Dyke speaking but rather the Tuatha.

Sassy moved forward, but Holmes held up his hand. She hesitated, unsure if she wanted to follow his command, but relented, a curious look coming to life in her eyes.

Holmes stepped forward and held his hands out in front of him, palms up and empty. “I’m Commander Sam Holmes, U.S. Navy SEALs. To whom do I have the pleasure to speak?”

“’Twas you who brought me back.” The voice broke from high to low at odd times, as if it wasn’t used to the language.

“It was. We thought you might be able to help.”

“I’m trapped here. Weak. Sick. Need to touch the land. Need to feel the spirit of the trees.”

“We can probably help. You’re keeping the man Van Dyke alive, yes?”

“He sucks at me like a baby to a nipple. It irritates, but it is a pleasure to feel his life.” Then Van Dyke made a face. “But his is such an oily soul. The things he’s seen… done.”

“Your people left you.” Holmes glanced at Laws, who nodded. “Why did they leave you?”

“Tir Na Nog. Once gone you can never return.” Van Dyke regarded the humans in the room with a fondness one might show to his pets. “I love this land. I love the strange race of being known as human. I didn’t want to leave.”

Laws shook his head in amazement, eyes wide. “Do you realize that this being has seen more than four thousand years of our history? What is your name?”

“When we speak our names, it is with our minds and you are unable to hear it. Dyfed is a good name. He was a poet I once inspired.”

The name sounded remarkably like “David,” but with a residual “f” replacing the “v.”

Laws smiled. “You’re a muse.”

“I inspire. Yes.” Then Van Dyke looked startled. His eyes searched the room, appearing neither to fall on an object or person or to recognize them. He let out a cry, then collapsed, falling roughly back into his pew-made cradle.