Reign of Evil - 03 (36 page)

She got it right away.

She began to mouth indecipherable words as she reached out to touch Commander Holmes with her wand.

But he was prepared.

He pulled his pistol and shot her in the stomach.

She went down hard.

“Sam?” Laws screamed. “What are you doing?”

“It’s not him!” YaYa yelled above the chaos. “It’s Tuatha. They’re possessed. Walker and Holmes.”

Holmes spun toward YaYa, but the lithe young SEAL was ready. He grabbed the pistol with his prosthetic hand, stronger than any human hand and reinforced with titanium alloys; he twisted the weapon out of his commander’s hand as if it were a toy.

Holmes staggered and fell against MacMasters.

Meanwhile Yank had Walker down on the ground and disarmed him. Magerts came up and helped, bringing zip ties from his cargo pocket. He bound Walker’s hands in front of him, then his feet.

Laws had his rifle pointed at Holmes.

“Sam. What are you doing?”

Holmes blinked his eyes. “Tim, it’s me.”

A horn came again. This time it was closer.

YaYa noticed a bank of fog rolling toward them.

“How do I know it’s you?” Laws asked.

“Whatever it was is gone.” Holmes glanced around and saw the witch on the ground. “Sassy. Fuck.” He ran to her and pulled a QuikClot bandage out of his cargo pocket. He applied it to her wound and pressed to stanch the flow.

“If it’s gone, then where is it?”

Everyone began to look at everyone else.

YaYa stepped forward. “I can tell you. I just need to—”

“Marines, disarm these men,” ordered MacMasters. “I don’t know what kind of bloody shitstorm you’re trying to bring to the royal family, but I won’t have it.”

YaYa’s eyes narrowed as everyone turned their weapons on one another. SEALs against Marines. Magerts’s Marines against MacMasters’s Marines. Then Ian put a hand on Magerts’s shoulder.

“Marines,” Magerts called. “Follow MacMasters.”

The Tuatha had hopped from one person to the other and were now in command of the largest military forces in the area. YaYa finally saw them for what they were. This had been the plan all along. The SEALs were now outnumbered thirty to six. The chances were grim. With all the modern technology at their disposal and the latest gear, the SEALs had been outmaneuvered by the Tuatha Dé Dannan, a race of beings who’d slipped into the shadowy crags of mythology more than three thousand years ago.

In his mind’s eye he pulled up and out. His group of SEALs stood in the center of a circle, Holmes on the ground trying to save their witch. They were surrounded on all sides by Royal Marines, all pointing the working ends of their SA80s at them. In the distance came the fog and with it the Wild Hunt. And somewhere inside Sandringham Estate was the Queen. Myrddin and Arthur didn’t even have to kill her. All they had to do was possess her and have her abdicate her throne on national television. It would be a relatively peaceful coup d’état with no one the wiser that they’d entered an Era of the Tuatha, when Arthur would once again be king.

What the fuck was SEAL Team 666 going to do?

CHAPTER 56

SANDRINGHAM ESTATE, NORFOLK, ENGLAND. 1540 HOURS.

She was in a deep pool of pain, falling deeper and deeper. As terrible as the flechettes had felt, the bullet in her abdomen was far more awful, introducing her to an ache so profound, she found it hard to think of anything but fleeing from the pain. So she swam away from it, pushing and pulling her soul into a tight little ball where she could rock herself, much like she had when she was a little girl and Hitler’s buzz bombs roared across the London sky like nightmares made real.

She was only remotely aware of hands around her wound. She heard chaos, she heard angry voices, but she was too far away to understand them. But then a single voice came to her.

Sassy.

If she ignored it, maybe it would go away.

Sassy Moore.

She pulled herself tighter until she was cloaked in darkness, just like she’d been in the underground shelter, huddled with the rest of the children, each of them trying to be strong, trying not to cry.

Sassy Moore. You have the power. The wand. The Baen Sidhe. Use it.

How many times with the buzz bombs roaring overhead, their hiccupping journeys heard from even far beneath the surface, had she prayed she could stop them, keep them from doing any more damage? If only she’d had the same power back then as she had now. Fat lot of good that did her against the SEAL commander and his pistol. She saw him draw and heard it bark. Her soul flinched and she pulled in tighter still.

Sassy Moore.

Leave me alone, Garland.

Sassy. The wand. Use it.

Was she still holding on to it? In order to find out she’d have to unlimber herself and feel the pain once again. It seemed hardly worth it.

She felt warmth suffuse her.

I’m too far away to do more. Help us, Sassy. Help yourself. I’ll save the Queen.

She cursed and shot free from her body. Looking down from her great height, she saw the trouble for what it was. She saw the predicament and how she and the SEALs were about to die. She cursed again. This had better be worth it.

She shot back into her body and gasped as the pain she’d been striving to avoid hit her like a dozen buzz bombs, exploding into her stomach over and over. Her back arched. She felt a hand on her and heard the words, “Easy, Sassy. Keep still.”

Bloody fucking pain.
She felt along the ground with her right hand until it found the cold iron of the old wand. She gripped it and pulled from it. The wand went from cold to warm as she sucked hundreds of years of built-up power into her body. She sent it swirling toward her wound and felt immediate relief as it began to bind and repair. She pulled harder, her will sucking at the essence of the Baen Sidhe. She worked yet another magic, empathetic magic, sending her pain to those around her, interrogating each of the men’s memories and forcing them to relive the worst pain they’d ever felt. For some it was birth, darkness, light, the transition to breathing air and the panic they’d felt as they left the sanctity of the birth canal. For others it was a gunshot, or a knife wound, or a broken bone, the ends of it pressing through flesh, the very air like acid to the nerve endings. Still for others it was a different kind of pain, a pain of the soul, like when a daughter dies or a wife leaves you.

Sassy hurled pain around her like water flung from a bucket, catching anyone not her. She snarled. She cursed. She gave every one a taste of what she’d felt and more. She sent them to a place where they too huddled beneath the London streets, mothers dead, fathers off to war, homes destroyed, and their entire universe the sputtering, doddering V1 bombs sent by Adolf Fucking Hitler to terrify and destroy.

The more pain she gave the less pain she felt until she was surging to her feet, whole once more, woundless, skin alive, hair moving to unseen winds. Her arms flung out. Everyone around her was on their knees or their backs or curled into fetal positions, heads down, mouths pulled into rictus masks as they relived their own worst moments as well as her own.

Then the wand was empty. She flung it to the ground and screamed.

From nearby came the sound of a hunting horn.

Her mission returned to her.

Garland,
she said across her astral channels.
I am back.

Good, Sassy. Very good. Now do what needs to be done.

She nodded. She was alive. She was free of pain. She had her powers. But what was it that needed to be done?

Then she knew. Without the wand to mask their presence with its own power, she saw the Tuatha and knew them at once. One was Merlyn and the other was Arthur. They moved from one man to the other, trying to confuse her, but she could see them perfectly, glowing from within, illuminated and pulsating.

She snatched the metal wand from the ground. It no longer held power, but it was still a weapon. She strode toward them and managed to separate Arthur from the others. Still recovering from her spell, the man he inhabited found it hard to keep his balance. He fell twice. Enough so that she was upon him, thrusting the wand through his heart.

As the light went from his eyes, so did the Tuatha. She knew the truth and somehow understood the rules. It could only enter another through touch. She watched it travel near the ground like a miniature dust devil, collecting sticks and leaves and twigs, until it was able to form the figure of a man made from debris and detritus. Then it ran, not toward her, but toward the bank of fog now roiling across the lawn several hundred meters from them.

She turned and found the other.

This one didn’t run.

It turned to face her.

It wanted to fight.

She smiled grimly, knowing that her entire existence was meant for this very moment. Her, Sassy Moore, once a child afraid of her own shadow, now a Thirty-First-Degree Magister Templarus witch of the Fraterni Saturni against the greatest magician of the Western canon–Merlyn.

She began to battle.

CHAPTER 57

SANDRINGHAM ESTATE, NORFOLK, ENGLAND. NOW.

Walker climbed to his feet, the vile taste of possession still in his mouth. He wanted to lash out, to hit, to beat something until its insides splattered all over his uniform. In fact, he’d been searching for the location of the Tuatha when he’d been struck by such a wave of pain, he couldn’t remember when last he’d felt so awful. He wasn’t sure how, but he knew it had originated with the witch. Perhaps it was the sheer outrage he felt in the force of her power or maybe it was the residual image of a little girl hiding in a bomb shelter, but she’d somehow saved herself and them all by sharing her pain.

He saw her now, squaring off against a Royal Marine. Although the young man had a knife at his belt, he made no move to use it; instead his hands were moving in a complex series of manipulations. Walker had no doubt who it was. Walker made to move toward him, when Holmes grabbed his arm. The commander was on his knees and trying to stand. Walker helped him to his feet, then looked around to see if he could help the rest of the SEALs, but they were all standing, if not a little unsteadily.

The sound of a hunting horn made him turn.

Through a bank of fog appeared King Arthur riding an imperial white stag with a menacing rack of horns. Beside and behind him were men dressed in all manner of clothes. Some carried swords and knives. Some carried spears. Still others carried longbows. Intermingled with these were hounds, each one slightly different, their eyes the link to who they’d been before their souls were stolen and reforged into these unholy beasts.

Ian began screaming for the Marines to form a defense. With Magerts on one end and MacMasters on the other, a ragged line began to take shape as the confused Marines picked themselves off the deck and formed to confront the enemy.

Holmes called the SEALs to him as he ran back toward the helicopters. Walker glanced back to see if Hoover was coming, then, once assured, hurried after his team. Patrick was spooling up the rotors as they arrived. Walker was the last on the helicopter. Hoover had leaped in before him.

“What’s the plan?” Laws asked.

Holmes pointed out the front window as he spoke to the pilot. “Can you take us up and behind that bank of fog?”

“Yes, but that’s not your only problem. We just got word that a battalion is coming up the road from RAF Markam.”

“Whose side are they on?”

“Can’t be sure.”

“How long until they get here?”

“Ten minutes. Maybe sooner.”

“Then we need to hurry.”

“Hold on!” The helicopter jumped off the landing pad and over the copse of trees. Beneath them they could see the approaching Hunt a mere fifty meters in front of the line of Marines. Even as Walker watched, the Marines opened fire. Their combined fire should have knocked down the first rank of hounds and hunters, but they had no effect. Magerts’s men and Ian had swords. They drew the swords now, explaining to the other Marines what had to be done. With only their combat knives, they had a lot of close combat to look forward to.

King Arthur leaned back in his saddle, staring up at them as they flew over. Fire glowed in his eyes.

The fog wrapped the helicopter in a claustrophobic embrace. Gone was the world of man. Gone was everything they knew. For a moment, there was nothing except the feeling of displacement. Then they were on the other side and the crisp, clean wintery light embraced them. Patrick lowered the helicopter, keeping the wheels six inches from the manicured lawn.

“I knew it.” Holmes pointed opposite the fog to where a line of seven red-robed figures stood. “Take us there.”

Walker remembered the last time he’d encountered one of the robed figures. “Don’t let them touch you.”

“They’re never going to get near us.” He clapped the pilot on the back. “Mow them down.”

The helicopter gathered speed as it roared across the lawn.

The figures not only wore red robes, but their heads were covered by conical red hats also, with holes cut out for their eyes.

Walker felt so much magic coming out of them he felt nauseous. His head rang with pain. His skin began to vibrate.

The pilot lowered the nose until the blades were almost clipping the ground. “Hang on.” He slowed almost to a stop, then surged forward, the propellers eating through the line of druids, transforming them into red mist. The druids had probably counted on the Wild Hunt being the target rather than themselves. Holmes had demonstrated his tactical genius by realizing that the Hunt had to have been manipulated from elsewhere and had guessed the location correctly.

Walker turned back toward the fog and noticed that it was quickly burning off, revealing Marines and the Hunt fully engaged in battle.

Holmes didn’t have to say anything. The pilot was already turning the helicopter toward the action. The windscreen was covered with blood and gore. An ear slid free of the glass. The SEALs dropped their rifles in the cabin and drew swords and knives. Ten seconds later as the helicopter lowered to the ground they leaped out the open door, each of them finding targets.