Reign of Evil - 03 (30 page)

“Not a one.”

“We going there?”

“Only place to go.” Holmes glanced at Laws. “He thinks that’s where it’s heading.”

Laws shrugged slightly. “Only reasonable place to go.”

Preeti called and Holmes automatically put it on the squad frequency. The first thing she said was, “The Tuatha. Don’t trust it.”

“Too late,” Holmes said. “Tell us what you know.”

“The Tuatha wasn’t just any faerie. It was perhaps the most powerful of them all.”

Holmes’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”

Preeti began to recount her research, but Holmes soon cut her off. “Get to the point, Preeti.”

“I think the Tuatha that the Bohemian Grove had taken and used is none other than Merlyn the Magician.”

“Seriously?”

“Absolutely. Let me explain. In the body of English literature Merlyn appears more than six hundred times spanning fifteen hundred years.”

Yank interrupted, “But it’s fiction.”

“Very true. But there’s a tradition in England, as there is in most countries, to use folklore as the basis for literature. The continued incarnations of this historical figure set a pattern.”

“Couldn’t they all be referencing the original source?” Walker asked.

“They could, but that wouldn’t explain some of the divergence. Especially his disappearance from English literature and his appearance in German literature in the early 1800s.”

Laws shook his head. “Wasn’t he just the creation of Geoffrey of Monmouth, though? Merlyn is and has always been a literary figure.”

“Nope. Geoffrey just associated him with Uther Pendragon and gave him credit for moving the stones that make up Stonehenge. And it was Sir Thomas Malory who first paired Merlyn with King Arthur. What I’m talking about is a series of Middle Welsh poems which were later retold in the Black Book of Carmarthen and which refer to Merlyn and his relationship with Arthur centuries before Malory or Geoffrey.

“His original name was Myrddin and first came to light while he was living in Caer-fyrddin, or Carmarthen, which stakes its claim as the oldest established town in Wales.
Caer
means ‘Fort’ and
fryddin
is believed to be a version of ‘Myrddin,’ meaning ‘Fort of Merlyn.’ Modern scholars agree that the name is eponymous to the town—that the town derived its name from ‘Myrddin’—but doubt that Myrddin existed prior to the town, despite what medieval scholarly texts assert the same.”

“So modern scholars doubt what scholars closer to the era believed?” Laws asked.

“Exactly. These same modern scholars associate Myrddin with Lailoken, who was a sixth-century prophetic wild man mystic.”

“But you disagree.”

“There are Roman texts identifying Myrddin as a guide in the area circa AD 27.”

Walker could tell by his expression that Holmes was getting impatient. “And this is significant how?”

“Camarthen wasn’t founded until it became a defensive fortress in AD 75. Forty-eight years later.”

Holmes’s eyes lit up. “Now you have my attention.”

“The rest is supposition, with me asking myself how a being could exist over the span of at least two thousand years. And that was as—”

“A Tuatha Dé Dannan jumping from host to host,” Holmes finished.

“But let me tell you the best part.”

“Go ahead.”

“Section 9 has a record from 1909 of killing a man known as Isaac Manuel Francisco Albéniz y Pascual, who was a Spanish pianist and composer working and living in London. He was identified as being part of a plot to kill Edward the Seventh, son of Queen Victoria. He’d created an opera during which assassins associated with the Golden Dawn were going to kill the King by flooding his private box with acid vapors.”

“The Golden Dawn are of German origin,” Laws interjected. “They’re organizationally descended from Rosicrucians.”

“Isn’t the Bohemian Lodge tied to the Golden Dawn?” YaYa asked.

Holmes waved them silent. “I don’t get it.”

“The opera to be performed that night was called
Merlyn
.”

The inside of the van was silent for a few moments. “You have a lot more, don’t you?” Holmes asked.

“Oh yeah.”

“So tell me again why we need to know this.”

“It’s simple. If Merlyn, or Myrddin, is a Tuatha, and he had a close relationship with King Arthur in the past, where do you think he’d most like to be?”

“By Arthur’s side, especially if there’s to be the dawn of an Arthurian hegemony.”

Laws snapped his fingers. “And we helped him get here. My guess is that the Golden Dawn sold, traded, or gave the Tuatha to the Bohemian Grove, probably shortly after their failed attempt on the King’s life. The people of the Bohemian Grove have been protecting their investment with golems since then, knowing how valuable the Tuatha’s life force is. Even if the Tuatha had wanted to return to its home, it couldn’t have, not with the protective measures in place, such as the tattoos and magic.”

Walker nodded. “Then came SEAL Team 666. Do you think it was that well planned? Was Jen invited to Stonehenge on the Winter Solstice to set this chain of events in motion?”

Yank whispered, “Feels like Mexico City all over again.”

Laws put a hand on Walker’s shoulder. “We’ll never know, Walker. I doubt their information is that good, but we can’t rule it out. Remember, our information and existence is special-access code word.”

Sassy Moore moaned as she sat up. “So what you’re saying is that we’re all a bunch of chumps? And look at me. When the Red Grove couldn’t get him from us, the Tuatha killed its host so I’d be forced to take it inside me, in order for me to
personally
escort it to the mound.” She closed her eyes and held her head. “I felt the surge of power when it touched the mound. Like a charging system. It went from weak to full charge in a second. I didn’t stand a chance.”

Preeti interrupted, “I heard what she said. Listen, there’s one last thing. Cadbury Castle was the home of King Arthur and is largely believed to be Camelot. If King Arthur is going to rule England, then—”

“It’s going to be from Camelot.” Holmes glanced at the others inside the van. “Any news on Ian?”

“We’re monitoring reports of gunfire and explosions in the area. Locals are calling the police, but their calls are going ignored.”

“Are they just not answering?” Walker asked.

“Yep. Ringing off the hook.”

Laws turned thoughtful. “So the calls could have been hijacked, the police might not be in their office, or they might be intentionally not answering.”

“Could be any one of those. We have no way of knowing.”

“The roadblocks have also been removed,” Preeti added.

“Maybe that means they needed the men to fight against Ian and his Marines.” Holmes chewed on his lip for a moment. “Keep monitoring local traffic referencing Glastonbury Tor and surrounds.” Holmes paused, then added, “You might want to send a warning through Ian’s contacts with MI5 and the Home Office. If this thing gets out of hand, the Queen might need to be evacuated.”

Silence hugged the line for a few moments. “It’s come to that?”

“Yeah,” Holmes said. “I’m afraid so.”

“Okay. Roger. And, boys?”

They all answered, “Yes?”

“Be careful, please.”

No one said a word. They didn’t have to. Preeti’s voice warmed them. Not only was it hers, but it was also that of their mothers, dead or alive, their wives and lovers, dead or alive, and every other woman who’d ever showed concern for them.

Be careful, please.

CHAPTER 46

SOUTH OF GLASTONBURY TOR, ENGLAND. 0905 HOURS.

Ian ordered Magerts and his men to hold at the bottom of the stairs. The other man had argued to let him be part of the attack, but Ian wouldn’t have it. This was something he had to do alone and was his cross to bear. One thing he vowed was not to kill any more of his men. He was well aware that the lip-sewn woman had them under her control and would use them against him. But that didn’t matter. He would not participate in her farce. If he could get to her first, then maybe he had a chance; otherwise, he’d wade through an avalanche of bullets until they brought him down.

He drew the blackened-iron sword of Guy of Warwick with one hand and pulled a Fairbarn-Sykes commando knife with the other. Then he marched to the bottom of the stairs. She hadn’t moved. Neither had his two men beside her. One’s name was Jim. He didn’t know the other’s, but Jim was saving his money for a trip to Australia, where he knew some blokes who would teach him to surf and introduce him to a platoon of sheilas. If everything worked out, he wouldn’t be coming back. At least that had been his plan.

Ian felt his amulet warm as she tried to work arcane magic on him. He met her gaze and he saw something there that gave him hope. Frustration. He’d seen it enough in his life. His ex-wife had owned the look. He’d been known to kindle it in the last few years of their horrid ten-year marriage. Now to see it in this vessel for a rogue Tuatha spirit gave him hope.

And he took advantage of the hesitation by storming up the stairs. He took them two at a time, his sword in
First Point
position, his knife held low. Although he was focused on the woman, he saw when his men raised their rifles. He heard two shots and flinched, but no bullets took him. Instead, his men went down.

He shouted,
“NO!”
as he took the last two steps and plunged his blades into her. Her body went rigid, but she didn’t go down. She clawed at his face with her hands. He pulled the sword free, stepped back, and swung it through her neck.

Her head rolled free as her body fell, blood gushing with the last pump of her heart.

He stepped aside, remembering that she’d been a victim as well. Then he went to his men. Instead of dead, they were merely wounded. Magerts had shot them in the legs.

Ian felt a hand on his back and turned to it.

“Couldn’t let you be the Light Brigade, sir.” Magerts smiled apologetically. “I thought there might have been another way.”

Ian stared at him.

“They’re my men too,” Magerts added.

Finally Ian nodded. “Have someone bind their wounds. Let’s see what happened to the rest of our men.”

Five rooms ran off the landing. They checked the two on the right and found men and women zip-tied, much like downstairs. The Marines had made it this far. On the other side of the landing were three rooms. One was a bathroom and was empty. They opened the door next to this one carefully and also found it empty. So where were they?

He exchanged a glance with Magerts, who appeared equally vexed.

When they opened the final door they found what they’d been looking for. It was an immense bedroom with a second sitting room off of it. Seven of his men stood like statues around another seated in a chair. His face was contorted around the stitches that had been applied to his lips, pulling them shut at odd angles. Blood had seeped from the inexpertly made seam of his mouth but was now dried. He wore so many wounds his skin had taken on a reddish hue. He had holes in his hands and feet like he’d been crucified.

“Oh, Trev.” He pushed aside the men, who appeared to be waking from a trance, and fell to his knees beside his man.

He pulled away the sign they’d hung around his neck. Trevor was no
Lord of Misrule
. He was a hero and would always be a hero.

Ian turned and saw the bathroom. He rushed into it and grabbed a washcloth and wet it with water. He turned to leave but felt a presence. He paused a moment, then jerked aside the shower curtain. A fat man stood trembling.

“Let me explain,” he said.

Ian grabbed him by his hair and jerked him from the shower and threw him into the room.

Several Marines recognized him and made exclamations.

“Take care of Sir MacDonald. Do not let him up until I am done with my man.” Ian flashed his rage at the men. “Do you understand?”

They all nodded hastily, then stared fearfully at the Member of Parliament. They’d been placed in a precarious position, but for now they were more afraid of Ian, so they followed his order.

He knelt again in front of Trevor. Wiping gently at the blood on the man’s beaten and sewn face, he spoke to him in a low voice, promising him that he’d take care of his mother and Preeti and that his death would not be in vain. He cried as he said these things, eventually bringing forth a knife that he used to cut the threads that had been used to sew Trevor’s mouth shut. Then he untied his hands and legs and brought him from the chair. Cradling him like he was his own child, Ian carried Trevor to the bed and laid him in state, crossing his hands over his chest and closing his eyes. He said a simple prayer over the body, then turned.

Ian gazed upon Sir Robert MacDonald, unabashed at the tears that had flowed and were now drying upon his face.

“You were part of this.”

Sir Robert held up his hands. “It wasn’t me; I swear.”

Magerts came from the sitting room. “Found these two trying to hide.” He presented two women in their thirties, fit, naked, and tattooed. Their eyes were dull and dilated. “I asked them what happened, but they’re too stoned to even talk.”

Ian returned to the task at hand. “Then who was it?” He pointed to where the women were being zip-tied. “You going to blame them?”

“I—I—“

“Speak up!” Ian slapped the MP in the face. “Had you any honor at all you’d be ashamed. This man was defending your country.”

“Found this in the other room beside his pants.” Magerts held out a leather pouch. Inside were long curved needles used to reupholster leather. Also present was a half-used roll of string-like thread.

Ian took it. He glanced from the MP to the pouch and back.

Sir Robert turned away.

Ian’s eyes shot wide as rage fired through him. “You.”

“It wasn’t … you don’t understand. They have power … power like you’ve never seen before.”

“What does that have to do with my man?”

“Listen. It’s not too late.” Sir Robert glanced at the Marines who stood watching. “There’s going to be a return to greatness. Remember when England ruled the world? Remember when we had colonies? Remember when we meant something?”