Reign of Evil - 03 (35 page)

“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.

“Hoy! Hoy!” he cried. “Dance with me, you fool!”

The cripple fell to his side, his mouth twisted into a curl of fear as he whined miserably.

Jackie growled and peed on the man’s withered arm. Then he turned and ran, giggling, his bare feet slapping at the ground, all the way down La Union Street.

And the memory dimpled his soul.

What was the Tuatha trying to tell him? That it wasn’t as bad as the grave demon? That it wasn’t making him do these things? Or was it trying to show Walker that he could be evil all by himself, because every time that memory rose to the surface, a part of Walker asked the question:
Did I do it because I wanted to or because the demon made me do it?

Walker jerked. He realized Holmes was talking to him.

“Sure, Boss. I’m fine,” he found himself saying. “Just saving my energy.”

Holmes gave him a worried look, then returned his attention to Laws, who was just finishing a fentanyl lollipop.

Laws flashed Walker a smile and a wink, then touched the back of his hand to his patched facial wound. Worry found a home in Laws’s eye for a moment, then was gone as he began to work the slide on his pistol.

Walker turned to Hoover. As they stared at each other, Walker wondered how Hoover was dealing with the possession. Was the dog crying on the inside like Walker?

Then the helicopter began to descend.

CHAPTER 55

SANDRINGHAM ESTATE, NORFOLK, ENGLAND. 1520 HOURS.

YaYa felt the change in the pair. At first he’d written it off as nothing, but his new senses told him otherwise. Hoover wasn’t responding to him like she normally did. Sure, she was responding like a typical dog should, but then whatever was controlling her didn’t know the nuances of the SEAL team dog’s personality or the way she sometimes looked at you as if you were a lower life form when you made an off-color joke.

It must have happened when Hoover and Walker charged the scarecrow druids. In fact, YaYa could believe that this was the entire reason they’d been drawn to the location. The whole attack had seemed so halfhearted and not well-thought-out. But then maybe it had been. Maybe the purpose was to possess as many of the SEAL team members as possible, knowing that they’d gain access to the Queen at Sandringham. If his supposition was true, then it meant their foes were more devious than any of them had suspected.

He surveyed the inside of the helicopter. He knew for sure that Hoover was possessed and he’d stake a month’s pay that Walker was also possessed. But what about the others?

YaYa stared at Holmes. His leader was who he should be telling, but was it safe? Was he possessed as well? As he stared at Holmes, the SEAL team commander turned to stare at him in return, as stone-faced as if he could see right through him.

YaYa forced himself to adjust his gaze elsewhere, well aware that Holmes was still staring at him. If Holmes was possessed, then he might be wondering if YaYa had realized. If he wasn’t possessed, then he’d be wondering why YaYa was staring at him, probably trying to deduce if something was wrong or if YaYa wanted to say something.

Once he thought about it, his brain began to hurt. Possession logic was quantum theory.

And what about Laws?

Or Yank?

Or the witch?

As YaYa thought of each one, they turned to look at him.

How could he tell? Maybe if he touched them. Petting Hoover had felt like he was moving his fingers through static electricity. He’d have to touch Walker first to establish if that was the way it felt with humans as well as canines. If he could establish a recognizable feeling, then it was only a matter of figuring out a way to touch everyone.

He could almost laugh at the irony. It was less than a year ago when he’d been the one possessed, trying to hide it, to keep others from knowing. Now look at him.

The helicopter began to lower. He glanced out the window as they crossed from pasture to manicured estate. Only it wasn’t any estate. These sprawling gardens and lawns surrounded a four-story mansion the size of a small college. He spied the landing pad about fifty meters behind the house, screened by a copse of trees. They had a welcoming committee of a squad of Royal Marines dressed in full battle rattle as well as several civilians. He found himself looking for the well-known figure of the Queen but then realized that there’d be no reason for her to meet them. After all, she probably didn’t know, nor would she care, who they were.

What bothered him about the scene was the apparent tranquility. King Arthur and his Wild Hunt had had a considerable head start on them and could have easily gotten here first. Had they gone to the wrong place? Was King Arthur traveling somewhere else? He found himself looking at Walker. No. If the Tuatha were here, then there had to be a reason.

“You’re doing a lot of thinking over there,” Laws said, poking him in the knee. “That wrinkle between your eyes is making my head hurt.”

YaYa had felt the hand touch him and it came with no telltale sensation. He still had to find a way to touch Walker, though.

“I thought it was the flechette in your face that made your head hurt.”

Laws grinned, then winced with the effort. “That too.”

YaYa offered him a sympathetic smile. “Just trying to get ahead of the enemy.”

“Aren’t we all.”

When they were about fifteen meters off the deck, Holmes brought them back to the mission.

“Be ready, SEALs.”

Everyone who hadn’t already chambered a round and prepared their weapons did so.

Yank adjusted his body armor.

Walker replaced his pistol mag.

Laws removed his fentanyl lollipop.

The witch kept sucking on hers. She hefted her Viking wand and stared fixedly ahead, as if she were not there.

YaYa stood and posted himself at the door. When the wheels touched down, he slid the door open and leaped out. He held his rifle at low ready and stood by the door.

Hoover leaped out next, followed by Walker.

YaYa reached out to guide the other SEAL and felt the same static charge he’d felt when petting Hoover. Static and sticky. Not a combination that felt anything but supernaturally nasty.

Laws was next. Nothing.

Yank. Nothing.

Ian. Nothing.

The witch came next, but as YaYa went to help her she skipped aside, eschewing his touch.

Holmes came last, and like the witch, when YaYa reached out, he zipped ahead of the touch.

YaYa fell in behind them. He was now certain about Yank and Laws, but of the witch and his boss YaYa still couldn’t be certain. If he could find a way to speak with Laws in private, he’d let him know what he’d discovered. Maybe the second in command could assist.

The other helicopter landed behind them and expelled twelve Royal Marines, led by Lieutenant Magerts.

Holmes approached the head of the Royal Marine commando squad assigned to Sandringham.

Holmes was all business. “Commander Sam Holmes, SEAL Team 666.”

“Lieutenant MacMasters,” the young man said with just a trace of brogue. “Mr. Garland is waiting for you in the second study. If you’ll come with me.” He was stocky with closely cut blond hair and sideburns. His pure blue eyes showed a thoughtfulness in addition to a professional intensity.

Ian touched Holmes on the shoulder. “I’m going to stay out here with Magerts and the men. I need to inspect the grounds.” To MacMasters he said, “I’m Lieutenant Colonel Waits. Is this all your men?”

“I have seven standing by as QRF.”

Hoover had been inspecting the boots of the new group of Marines. He came up to Holmes, who automatically reached down and placed his hand on the dog’s head.

Ian looked at the battle rattle on the new Marines. He smiled grimly. “Sorry to spoil your Christmas, Lieutenant, but get them out here. We’re going to need them.”

MacMasters glanced from Holmes to Ian. “What’s this all about?”

“Shit’s about to hit the fan,” Holmes said. “Better do as the man said.”

MacMasters stared for a moment, then nodded to one of his men who took off running toward the main house. Then the lieutenant nodded. “If you’ll follow me, Commander.”

He started to move back toward the house and the SEALs fell in behind him.

They’d gone perhaps twenty steps when the sound of a hunting horn could be heard in the distance.

MacMasters turned toward it, his eyes narrowed.

The SEALs halted.

YaYa took advantage of the moment and intentionally bumped into Holmes. He was shocked as he felt the familiar nastiness of clammy static. Their eyes met.

Hoover began to bark. She went for Walker, trying to bite him.

Walker jumped out of the way and leveled his rifle at the dog.

Yank grabbed the gun right as the SEAL opened fire. Dirt kicked up near Hoover, who was able to leap sideways and out of the way.

The Marines escorting them leveled their weapons on the fighting SEALs.

Yank struggled, one hand on the barrel of the rifle, the other on Walker’s arm. “What the fuck, man?”

“Let go of my fucking weapon. The dog … she’s possessed.”

YaYa knew if he said anything that all hell would break loose. He’d lose any advantage that he had.

Yank struggled with Walker, who was still trying to level his rifle at the dog.

YaYa realized that the Tuatha must have passed from the dog to Holmes and now Hoover was trying her best to save the situation. He couldn’t leave her hanging.

The witch was struggling to figure out what was going on, glancing from one SEAL to the other. When she rested her eyes on YaYa, he mouthed the words,
Tuatha. Holmes. Walker. Tuatha.