Stones of Fire

3

‘I think Isis is like the total embodiment of the wise woman. That’s why my magic circle practises a devotional ritual to invoke the power of Isis at each full moon.’

Cædmon Aisquith glanced at the pierced and tattooed speaker, who clutched an autographed copy of Isis Revealed to her breast.

‘Do you by any chance mention the rites of Isis in your book?’

About to answer with a terse negative, Cædmon caught himself. His American readers tended to fall into two categories: the erudite and the asinine. Not that it mattered, as he’d been ordered by his publicist — who looked on with the stern demeanour of an English headmistress — to treat all questions, no matter how inane or idiotic, with due consideration. Particularly if the questioner had already purchased a copy of his book.

Cædmon schooled his features into an attentive expression. ‘Er, no. I am afraid there are no magical rituals detailed in the text. However, you are quite correct in that Isis, like her Greek counterpart Sophia, represents wisdom in all its myriad forms.’

Apple polished, Cædmon thanked the young woman for her interest in ancient mysteries and cordially took his leave of her. A private man, he was uncomfortable in the role of public author, finding the meet-and-greet segment of book signings a tiresome exercise in the art of chinwagging, an art he’d never quite mastered.

His belly aching from the cheap champagne and his facial muscles aching from the fool’s grin he’d been forced to wear since entering the bookshop, he was actually relieved when his mobile began to softly vibrate, the incoming call a perfect excuse to turn his back on the nattering group crowded into the diminutive confines of Dupont Books. To lessen his publicist’s displeasure, he made a big to-do of raising his mobile to his left ear, silently signaling that he needed to take the call. This being the last leg of a twelve-city tour, they’d had their fill of one another, Cædmon anxious to return to the quiet monotony of pen and ink.

‘Yes, hello,’ he said, always feeling like a bit of an ass speaking into, essentially, thin air.

‘Cædmon Aisquith?’

Politely correcting the man’s butchered pronunciation of his name, he said, ‘Who’s calling, please?’

The question met with a long silence followed by a click, the call abruptly disconnected.

‘Bloody hell,’ Cædmon muttered, yanking the mobile from his ear. The hairs on the back of his neck suddenly bristled. He didn’t give out his number. Hit with the unnerving sensation that he was being watched by someone who had no interest in discussing ancient lore or swilling free bubbly, he turned on his heel. Slowly. Calmly. A man with nothing to fear.

Only he knew such posturing was an outright lie.

Using the training ingrained from the eleven years he’d spent indentured in Her Majesty’s Security Service, he casually glanced about the bookshop, searching for the face that did not belong in the crowd, the telltale flush, the quick, breakaway glance of the guilty. No suspect characters prowling about, he next glanced out the plate-glass windows that opened onto Connecticut Avenue, the city pavement teeming with holiday shoppers.

Nothing appearing out of the ordinary, he quietly released a pent-up breath.

All quiet on the western front.

Like most men with a price on his head, he didn’t know how it would end, if the day just lived would be his last. All he knew was that when the thugs of the Real Irish Republican Army did finally catch up with him, they would see to it that he died a barbaric death indeed. An eye for an eye and all that.

Five years ago he had avenged the death of his lover by tracking down an RIRA chieftain and killing the bastard in the streets of Belfast. Such deeds did not go unpunished. Forced to go to ground, he’d spent the last several years living in Paris. A stranger in a strange land. Although he’d spent the time wisely, writing his first book, a treatise on the esoteric traditions of the ancient world. Lulled into a sense of security, he’d decided against using a pseudonym, thinking he’d fallen off the RIRA radar screen.

Only now did it dawn on him that that bit of arrogance might cost him dearly.

Ah, the folly of a first-born son still trying to impress the long-dead father.

He rechecked the digital readout on his mobile. BLOCKED CALL was prominently displayed.

‘Why am I not surprised?’ he murmured. Again he scanned the bookshop, certain he was being stalked.

His gaze fell on a volume of Byron propped on a nearby book shelf.

‘For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast…’

As the long-forgotten line popped into his head, he bit back a caustic laugh, knowing he’d been that same dark angel. Once. A long time ago.

Still holding the mobile in his hand, he strolled over to his publicist. ‘My hotel just rang me,’ he blithely lied, falling back on lessons learned at MI5. ‘A bit of bother with the bill. Something about my credit card being refused.’ He pointedly glanced around the bookshop, the shelves littered with abandoned champagne flutes. ‘Seeing as how the festivities are winding down, you won’t mind if I dash off and take care of it?’

His publicist, a touchy woman with the ironic surname of Huffman, stared at him from behind the frames of her ruby-red spectacles. ‘Do you need me to call the front desk for you?’

‘No problem,’ he replied with a shake of the head. ‘I’m a big boy. Although perhaps I should fortify myself before battling the dragon.’ He picked up a full champagne flute from a nearby tray, ignoring the fact that it had long since gone flat. ‘Cheers.’

Taking his leave of her, the flute still clutched in his right hand, he headed to the back of the bookshop, veering down a hall marked EMPLOYEES ONLY. Blatantly ignoring the admonition, he continued until he came to a room stacked with cardboard boxes, the sole inhabitant a lank-haired young man unpacking a crate with the desultory air of an underpaid cog who didn’t much care if or when the wheel turned.

Cædmon nodded, acting as though he had every right to be there. ‘The exit, if you please.’

The young man jerked his head at the door opposite.

On the other side of the service exit, Cædmon found himself standing on a cigarette-strewn pavement behind the bookshop, the concrete walls covered in ribald graffiti.

No sooner did the exit door close behind him than he smashed his champagne flute against the wall.

Weapon in hand, he waited.

Come out, come out, wherever you are, he silently taunted, readying himself to do combat with his unseen nemesis.

A full minute passed in tense silence.

Realizing he’d given in to his fears, he derisively snorted.

‘The ghost of Irishmen past,’ he murmured, tossing the jagged-edged flute to the pavement.

The moment of lunacy having passed, he flipped up the collar of his jacket, warding off the cold. He recalled seeing a coffee shop several blocks away. In dire need of caffeine, he headed in that direction.

Although he knew he was being paranoid, Cædmon couldn’t shake off the unnerving feeling that an Irish militant who refused to accept the peace had tracked him to the far side of the Atlantic. Where he intended to settle a very old, yet still outstanding score.

Who else would have called him on his mobile? As if to say, we can see you, but you can’t see us.