Reign of Evil

CHAPTER 6

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 turned 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.”

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.