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Published by Hidden Realms Publishing Cover illustration by Jamie Noble Frier
ThefollowingstorytakesplaceaftertheeventsofHorsemen’s War.
LISTOFCHARACTERS
Nate Garrett: Sorcerer and necromancer. Created to be the Horseman Death. Semi-retired.
Tommy Carpenter: Werewolf. Best friend of Nate Garrett. Head of a security company.
Remy Roax: Fox-man hybrid. Likes to swear. A lot.
Sky (Mapiya): Necromancer. Adopted daughter of Hades and Persephone.
Zamek Merla: Royal prince. Norse dwarf. Alchemist.
Mordred: Sorcerer. Created to be the Horseman Conquest. Video game enthusiast. King of Avalon.
Diana: Half-werebear. Dating Medusa.
Medusa: Gorgon. Dating Diana.
Eric Pointer: Human journalist.
CHAPTER ONE
VillageofAnfarwol
Everything leading up to this moment had been a terrible idea. It should have been an easy assignment. Eric Pointer had been asked to join a group of investigators looking into a decadesold serial-killer case, where the killer appeared to have resurfaced for the second time since the original murders nearly forty years earlier.
He’d been quite excited, primarily because it had been the first big story assigned to him since getting the job at the national newspaper, and also because everyone knew serialkillersequalled sales.Besides, it was in Wales, and everyone told him how beautiful that part of the world was and how much fun he was going to have.
Turned out, it was much less fun when running through a forest pursued by… honestly, Eric wasn’t sure. Monsters. Killers. The devil himself. Any of those would sound correct to him. All he knew was that being in their company was going to get him killed, because it had gotten everyone who had come with him killed.
At least, he assumed they were all dead. He saw bodies, the blood, heard the screams. He hadn’t stayed around long enough to check that allof his companions were among the victims. If he’d done that he’d already be among their number.
Eric narrowly avoided a low branch only to run into another, which all but wiped him out, sending him sprawling on the muddy ground. It had rained for two weeks straight which, frankly, was the British summer all over, although it was also quite low on Eric’s immediate problems.
He scrambled back to his feet, almost smacking his head on the branch again, and heard the call of someone behind him. It was followed by loud crashing, as though something had just torn trees apart in their effort to get at Eric.
It was a quick thirty-minute drive back to the village of Anfarwol. Back to safety. He just had to get out of this damn camp first, had to get back to the car park. Why was the car park so goddamned far from the camp?
Eric ran mostly on adrenaline and a burning desire to not become another statistic in the number of dead. He was soon avoiding more trees, shrubs, roots, and large rocks. He slipped more than once but by the time he saw the sign for the car park—lit by the moon—he could have kissed it.
He raced across the gravelled parking area, ignoring the other four vehicles, and stopped by his brand-new burgundy Honda Civic. He fumbled the key from his jacket pocket, dropped it twice into a puddle at his feet, extricated it with an unpleasant wince, took a deep breath, and pressed the unlock button. The indicator lights on all four corners flashed. The car did not unlock.
The sounds of crashing through the dark forest sent panic jolting through Eric.
He pressed the button twice more in quick succession, although neither time had any other effect than more flashing orange lights. He tried the door handle, tried the button again, and only then realised he had the key fob turned upside down, and he’d been attempting to unlock the car’s boot.
Someone burst out of the forest, standing on the opposite side of the parking lot to where Eric stood wide-eyed and frozen in place. His brain screamed at him to move, to get in the car, but his body was having none of it. Eric had always wondered if he would be a fight, flight, or freeze type of person, although he’d have preferred to find out when his life wasn’t in danger.
The… thing that arrived in the parking lot held a machete in one hand, the moonlight glinting off the blade, having the unfortunate side effect of showing the blood that drenched it.
That did the trick to Eric’s brain. He tore the car door open, practically jumped inside, and managed to hurt his finger by smashing it down on the start/stopbutton. The car’s engine came to life as the thing with the machete just remained in place, making no movement toward Eric.
The car’s headlights illuminated the monster. Nearly seven feet tall and broad shouldered, it wore what looked to Eric like leather armour with buckles and metal accents all around it. A mask covered its features, and it wore a large-brimmed, black hat, although as its gaze lingered, Eric froze again. For a moment, he just sat in the car, the lights showcasing the entirety of the murderer before him.
Eric shook his head, put the car in first and sped out of the car park.
It wasn’t until he was out of the forest and back on a main road that he considered someone hiding in the seat behind him. He slammed on his brakes, and almost threw himself out of the car, standing ten feet away from it as rain continued to pelt him. Eric tentatively stepped up to the car and tried to look in the back but the rear windows were tinted, and he couldn’t see anything. He took hold of the car door handle, and practically wrenched it open, revealing… an empty back seat.
Eric placed his head against the roof of the car and let out a huge sigh of relief before remembering there was a murder a few minutes behind him. He scrambled back inside and drove off into the night toward the village of Anfarwol.
The village was home to four thousand people, and one of the United Kingdom’s safest, with the worst crime committed in the years since the camp murders, being the graffiti artist who spray painted a black sun on the wall of the civil hall.
Eric’s plan was simple. Get back to his Bed and Breakfast, get his stuff, and get to London and the relative safety it offered. Compared to where he’d just been, he’d have taken a war zone to live in right now. His mind flashed back to the news only a few years ago, where London had been a literalwar zone. He’d been at university at the time, and had missed out on covering it, but
considering the number of people who had died to overthrow an insane Greek Goddess, he’d probably been best sat in Edinburgh and watching it all unfold on the news.
The entire world had been at war with Avalon, with people who felt themselves above humanity, who wanted to rule them. A war only occasionally fought in the light; London, Washington, Portland, being three of the big battles that had taken over any news networks still able to show the truth.
The war was over, evil had been vanquished, and those humans who had hitched their wagons to the invaders had been arrested, tried, and imprisoned, or—if you were powerful or rich enough—quickly and quietly removed from public life. Entire news channels had vanished overnight, as had newspapers, social media platforms, and a host of online personalities who helped Avalon spread fear, misinformation, and frankly aided in the deaths and imprisonments of many of their own people.
Eric forced his mind to push those thoughts aside. He’d always wondered how the people after a world war had just gotten back to their lives, and it turned out that five years was actually a long time for those who only saw the war on tv or read about it online. People wantto forget and that’s easy to do when you were always fairly safe to begin with.
Slamming on the car brakes at the last second, Eric took a moment to breathe. He’d almost missed his turn into the village, and would have ended up in the middle of nowhere. He hadn’t even set up his Satnav, primarily because he had no idea where his phone was. Back in the forest, or maybe at the campsite. He had no way of contacting anyone until he got back to a landline phone.
“Inform the police,” he said to himself softly. “That first, then run.”
He sat at the junction for a few more minutes as he tried to figure out a way to inform the police and run, but he was pretty sure that wouldn’t look good in the police report. Besides, at least then he’d have the police with him. He’d feel much safer.
Sixty seconds later, and Eric had decided that yes, the police really were the best idea. So, with much trepidation in his soul, he
turned the wheel toward the village, and continued on through the winding country roads – dark and foreboding only illuminated by the headlights of his car.
Considering it was nearly four in the morning, Eric wasn’t surprised to find the village of Anfarwol was asleep. He drove at a normal speed along the main road, trying to remember the way to the police station. It took him three wrong turns before he got it right, and was practically overjoyed to see the lit-up, white and blue Policesign outside of the station itself.
The building was of Georgian design, and much like a lot of the village appeared to be lost in time. The newest buildings were, at their newest, sixty years old, and the oldest were centuries, if not more.
Eric parked his car out front, got out, and felt the overwhelming urge to burst into tears. He took a deep breath, steadied himself, and decided that breaking down in tears wasn’t going to get him any safer, and ascended the six steps to the large, glass front door.
When he stepped into the reception area, the warmth of the central heating washed over him. Eric was cold, wet, bloody, and miserable, but that warmth made things feel a tad better.
There were a selection of six chairs in the reception area, three next to a door marked Private, and three opposite it, next to a cork board adorned the leaflets of the local habitants. A reception desk sat directly in front of the entrance, and therefore in front of Eric. Behind the desk was a concerned looking man in police uniform. He was in his fifties with greying hair, a clean-shaved face, and eyes that said he’d seen a lot he didn’t want to talk about. He smelled vaguely of cedarwood and cigarette smoke, as though he’d had a smoke and rubbed his body with a car air fresher to get rid of the smell.
“Mister Pointer?” the police officer asked. Eric took two steps forward, took a deep breath, and said, “They’re all dead.”
The next few minutes were a bit of a blur, but ended with Eric being taken through the Privatedoor and into the police station
proper. He was brought into a small canteen, given a bacon sandwich, cup of tea with enough sugar in it that it was probably no longer called a drink, and half a packet of custard cream biscuits on a paper plate.
Eric stared at the biscuits for a moment and chuckled, looking around to make sure he was alone. Despite what he’d been through, he chuckled again, feeling like he was at the world’s strangest birthday party.
The tea was nice, sweet, and smelled vaguely of camomile, which meant he guessed it was supposed to be relaxing. Probably defeated the object to pile it full of sugar. He drank it anyway, and realised the police officer he’d been talking to—although he couldn’t remember their name—had left his notebook on the table.
Eric looked around and risked a glance. The notebook was full of doodles, pictures of houses, of trees, of cars. He flicked through the pages until he paused and felt the horror of the night bubble back up to the top. There was a picture, a drawing in blue biro, of the thing that had killed the rest of his group. That had watched him get into his car, and drive away.
Eric’s reaction was immediate and violent, and he threw the notebook away, watching it bounce off the far wall. He got to his feet, grabbed a butter knife from the table, realised it was utterly dull, and picked up a fork instead.
He’d taken two steps when the world went dark, and he pitched forward onto the cold tiled floor. He was awake, but couldn’t move, his entire body refusing to do what it was told.
The main entrance to the canteen opened and two police officers—one male, one female—stepped inside. They were accompanied by a man in blood-red robes with a red fox mask covering his face.
“No,” Eric said as defiantly as he could.
The man in the mask picked up the fork from the ground beside Eric and showed it to him. “Be still now,” he said softly, almost soothingly. “No harm will come to you.”
“Killed the men with me,” Eric slurred.
“They fought and died,” the man said, straightening up. “You ran and lived. Well done. We were meant to grab you before it got dark, but you arrived late. Sorry about that. You’re here now, but we can’t have you asking for a phone or calling anyone.” He removed something from his pocket and showed it to Eric – his mobile phone, the screen destroyed.
Eric watched it tumble from the man’s hand onto the floor, the sound of it striking the ground seemingly lasting forever.
“You are drugged,” the man said. “Sounds will be quite strange to you. You may see things that were not there. I would like you to write my story, and for that you must live. Show a usefulness to me, and maybe you, too, can become part of what we’re trying to achieve.”
“Murdererererer,” Eric said, the word going on much longer than he expected it to.
“Good night, sweet Eric,” the man replied. “I’m so glad you’re here.”
Eric closed his eyes… and opened them again in a strange place. Acell. Eric sat up, decided it wasn’t worth the pain, and lay back down again, looking around his new surroundings.
The cell was fifteen feet by fifteen, and had the bed he was laying on, a toilet, sink, and small desk with chair. Bars lined three sides of the cell, allowing him to look through into those on either side, although there was a five-foot gap between them. He couldn’t reach the adjacent cells using his own body without injury on his part.
The toilet and sink were against a bare stone wall at the rear of the cell, and had a small curtain on rails that could be pulled around them. Not much privacy, but better than nothing. There were no windows, so no way for Eric to figure out wherehe was in relation to the outside world.
Just beyond the bars of his cell was a hallway with steps at the far side. Eric risked sitting up again. This time it hurt less. There were five cells in all, his was the second from the right. None appeared to be occupied, although the meagre light from the torch—
actual fire-lit torchlight—in the area outside of the cells kept everything in a dingy setting.
“You’re not dead,” a voice said from the cell beside his. “I did wonder.”
Eric fell out of the side of his bed, jarring his hip on the stone floor.
“Sorry,” the voice said. It had a British accent, although it was tinged with a little French.
“Where am I?” Eric asked, squinting for a better view of whoever occupied the cell.
“Ah, that’s a slightly more complicated question,” the definitely male voice said, but Eric still couldn’t see anyone. “Wales would be the easier answer. Near Llyn Tywyll Campsite.”
Panic threatened to overcome Eric. “No, I’d gotten away from here. No, no.”
“Hey,” the voice said, calmly. “You’re fine.”
“They murdered everyone,” Eric snapped.
“But not you and not me,” the voice said. “Means we still have a chance. Also, people are going to come looking for us.”
“How long will that be?” Eric asked.
“I’m not sure,” the voice replied. “I don’t think these cells were designed to keep people. I think they’re old animal pens. Maybe dogs, maybe something worse than dogs. They smell funny. I think I’d like to figure out what’s going on here before we’re rescued.”
Torches flickered to life in the gaps between the cells, bathing the cells in their light. Eric’s mouth dropped open as he got a look at the inhabitant of the cell beside his. “You’re a… a… a… Not human.”
“Was once,” the prisoner said. “Long time ago now.”
“You’re a fox.” Eric stared at the three-foot tall fox-humanoid. It wore black leather armour, similar to what Eric had seen on the murderer, although there was no way of confusing the two.
“Foxman,” the prisoner said, stepping towards the bars and holding out a hand-shaped paw. “Name is Remy.”
Eric stared at the hand.
“I do not bite, my friend,” Remy said. “Actually, that’s not true. But I won’t bite you.”
Eric put his arm through the bars and shook Remy’s hand. “Eric,” he said. “Journalist.”
Remy took his hand back, and smiled.
Eric’s face paled as he stared at the sharp teeth inside Remy’s mouth.
Remy stopped smiling. “Apologies, sometimes I forget that people aren’t used to a talking fox. As for my job, well, job titles are harder for me. A little bit of everything over the centuries.”
“And you think people are going to come find us?” Eric asked, clinging to that thread of hope.
Remy’s smile returned. “When my friends turn up, every single bastard responsible for our current predicament is in deep trouble.”
“You sure?” Eric asked.
“You ever seen a sorcerer when they’re mad?”
Eric shook his head. “Are you a sorcerer?”
Remy laughed. “No, just your local, friendly foxman.”
“And you have a sorcerer friend?” Eric asked, the hope in his voice tangible.
“A few of them,” Remy told him, a wicked smile spreading across his face, once again showing his sharp, white teeth. “And let me assure you, when they arrive, they’re going to fuck everyone’s shit up.”
CHAPTER TWO
NateGarrett
Since the end of the war with Avalon, life had been fairly quiet. The rebuilding had taken up a lot of time. Several of the realms were in ruins, and more than one would never be habitable again, but most of those where the fighting took place only required an effort to help the people still living there. Earth included.
I spent most of my time working with groups to ensure that those who escaped justice were hunted down and found, human or otherwise. And after several years of work, the world and realms were a safer, calmer place.
Spending time with my wife Selene, and daughter Astrid had been a joyous gift. Doing so in a realm outside of the hustle and bustle of daily Earth life, had been an even greater one.
That said, when a friend arrives and says they need my help, and my wife breathes a sigh of relief, I take the indication to leave for a while.
Morgan and I had once been lovers, but that had been centuries past, right up until the point she’d betrayed me for Mordred, and almost got me killed in the process. For centuries, I’d believe Morgan and Mordred were pretty much evil betrayers. It had taken Mordred’s near death to prove otherwise. Mordred had knowingly been sent by his father to a place where he was captured, tortured, and turned into a weapon designed to kill everyone he loved. Including his best friend at the time – me.
Morgan had spent centuries keeping Mordred from doing more damage, and for that I was eternally grateful. Although, it would have been nice if she’d contacted me and told me, I
understood she didn’t know where my allegiances lay, and couldn’t trust me not to run off to Arthur, Merlin, and co, and all-but sign hers and Mordred’s death warrant.
Still, that was all in the past. Mordred was king of Avalon now, and married to Hel, the princess of the Norse pantheon. Morgan was… still busy, having seemingly no interest in settling down or even taking time off. She patrolled the realms searching for… actually, I didn’t know. And no one seemed keen to tell me.
“Exactly where are we going?” I asked as we drove through the Welsh countryside, Morgan at the wheel of the navy-blue BMW SUV, and me sat in the passenger seat trying to figure out which parts I remembered from my childhood. The Arthurian legend was real, although Arthur was neither a benevolent king nor anything close to a good person. He’d been a psychopathic monster with machinations of world-conquest. He was also very dead now, so that made me feel more than a bit better.
“Anfarwol,” Morgan said without looking my way. Her pale skin shone in the sunlight, as did her long hair that she’d dyed bright grey, and tied back in a ponytail. Despite it being the middle of summer, August in Wales counted as the wetter months, and Morgan dressed for it in dark blue jeans, a black hoodie, and boots made for walking the hills of Wales.
The roads were twisty, with knolls and multiple blind spots. The kind of drive that someone who enjoys driving would smile at the prospect of taking. Morgan was not one of those people. Every time there was a chicane or steep hill, she winced a little.
“You know, I could have driven,” I told her.
“No,” she said. “You don’t know the area.”
“Of Anfarwol. I’m pretty sure Wales was my playground as a boy. Along with Galahad and Mordred, and you. I think we spent most of it trying to avoid Merlin and his people.”
The mention of Galahad’s name brought a smile to my face, and hurt to my heart. I missed him greatly. He’d saved my life, and lost his in the process. I killed a lot of… everything in revenge.
“I remember,” Morgan said. “I remember getting drunk on what I can only describe as moonshine. I think it made people
blind.”
“Good thing we’re not human.”
Morgan let out a slight chuckle. “I remember you and Mordred daring each other to climb everything and anything you could find. I’m almost sure you once dared him to kiss a bull.”
The memory of the bet came back to me, as did the memory of me on my back laughing as Mordred ran for his life. The bull probably wouldn’t have killed him, he was a sorcerer after all, but it would have hurt like the blazes of hell had it caught him. “I remember you putting a stop to us both being increasingly stupid,” I said with a smile of my own. “You always were the calming influence. You and Galahad.”
“I wish he was here,” Morgan said softly.
“Me too,” I said. “Every day.”
They say losing a loved one gets easier, but that’s a lie. It doesn’t. It never does. You just learn to live around them not being there anymore.
“So, why are we going to a small village in north Wales?” I asked.
“We’re meeting some people there,” Morgan said. “Diana, Tommy, Sky, Zamek, Mordred, maybe a few others.”
“Mordred? So, does he have his entire entourage with him?”
“I hope not,” she said. “We’re here to look into something, not have the world’s eyes on us. I wasn’t going to involve him, but he insisted when I explained.”
“What’s going on?” I asked, recognising the concern in her voice.
“I’ll explain everything when we’re together.”
I glanced out of the window. “How bad is it?”
“Scale of one to ten?” Morgan asked.
“Sure.”
“Somewhere between a nine and a hundred and forty.”
I didn’t bother asking anything else after that, and settled into just watching the passing scenery while trying to push aside the more unpleasant memories that came with it. My first few decades in the care of Merlin hadn’t been much fun, but it also hadn’t been
monstrous. Merlin’s true intentions didn’t start to come out for some time after I went off to do my own thing. And by that point, it was too late to ever change his mind. By that point, he’d already sent his own son off to be tortured until his mind broke. There were a lot of things I would never forgive Merlin for, a lot of things his death helped heal, but the hate I felt at what he’d done to Mordred was never going to be something that lessened. However hard Merlin had died—and he had died hard—it wasn’t enough.
As we crested a large hill, the village of Anfarwol slowly came to view. It looked like a lot of villages in North Wales – idyllic, peaceful, and somewhat out of the way. Although on the latter point, Wales wasn’t so big that you were ever more than a few hours from a larger town. Also, largerwas doing a lot of heavy lifting in that sentence.
We passed a speed-limit sign, telling us to drop down to twenty miles per hour as we entered the village, and Morgan made a little irritated groan as she did. It wasn’t the speed she had an issue with, when we were both born, twenty miles per hour as a top speed—usually on horseback—would have been considered normal. It was being told what to do. Some people never quite get over their aversion to authority. No matter their age.
It was the middle of the day, and despite the sun being out, everything was still wet from the last few weeks of almost constant rain. It was always weird to step out into warm weather but still need a coat.
Morgan parked the SUV in a tiny car park behind a bar called the Fox and Hound, which I was a hundred percent certain Remy would hate on sight. No one likes to be reminded of that time someone was going to murder you by having you torn apart by hounds. The fact that it was once considered sport should be something the arseholes who took part in it should be deeply ashamed. Although, I find that’s the problem with arseholes – a lack of acknowledgment that they are, in fact, arseholes.
I stepped out into the warm day, quickly removed my black hoodie, and tossed it onto the back seat of the car. The pub had a
thatched roof, and a small flower bed beneath the windows overlooking the car park. I followed Morgan inside and discovered it was a quaint place. Everything was dark wood, which might have seemed too dark, but the lights in the ceiling and on the walls lit everything nicely. It felt… homely. Welcoming.
A dart board and pool table sat in the far right of the entrance, in their own little place away from everyone else. The bar itself took centre stage in the middle of the pub, stocked with various spirits on the wall behind it. There were a selection of lagers, ales, and ciders on tap, and a choice of pint and half pint glasses behind where the bartender would stand. It looked, to all intents, like any number of completely normal pubs I’d been in. Which made me wonder what the hell was going on in a place like this that required Morgan to be involved. She hunted bad people, the kinds of people you only name in hushed whispers. Yet this pub gave no indication that it was frequented by such people.
Morgan stopped at the bar and spoke to a middle-aged lady behind it, who was five foot tall if she was lucky, and had grey hair that fell over her shoulders, but something about her was much more youthful than first impressions suggested. She clearly had an excellent skin routine.
“In the back,” the woman said with a nod. Morgan thanked her, and motioned for me to keep up. I nodded a hello to the lady behind the bar, and she stared at me as though I had a second head. Maybe I should shave the beard and get a haircut. I probably looked like a hippie.
I followed Morgan around the bar to a side door, which revealed a large room with multiple tables and chairs. There was a second, albeit much smaller bar on the right side as you entered, and a small stage on the far left of the room. Windows lined one side, next to a set of fire doors. It was the kind of place for wedding receptions.
In front of the stage were three tables placed side by side, and around it sat several people I knew very well.
Zamek, the dwarven prince sat at the far end of the table, and raised a battle axe in hello… because dwarf. After the war, he’d
been told to go back and take his rightful place as king. He’d decided it was actually something he’d be terrible at, dissolved the monarchy, and put a council of the wisest dwarves he could find in charge. He was still a figurehead because dwarves like tradition, but it all appeared to be moving in the right direction.
Beside him sat Diana, the half werebear who used to be a Roman goddess, although to suggest that she’d hated the gods too would have been an understatement. I wasn’t entirely sure of everything that had happened between her and the various pantheons of the time, but it had left a lasting resentment.
Next to her was Medusa, her snakes all springing to attention as I entered the room. Unlike the stories, she couldn’t turn people to stone with a look, it was a conscious decision on her part. She’d been in a relationship with Diana for some time now and the two were very much happily in love. They both worked with Tommy as a sort of bridge between Avalon, the Realms, and Earth governments.
Speaking of Tommy, he was sat opposite Medusa, and turned toward Morgan and I, a smile on his face. It had been a few years since he’d been taken by Merlin and Arthur, and subsequently tortured. He’d been marked with runes designed to make him kill those he loved. His family and me for a start. Zamek and the dwarves had changed the runes so they now made him want to kill the person who put them there. That person was now dead. Essentially freeing Tommy from ever having to lose himself to his werewolf beast form.
Next to Tommy sat Sky. She had both Native American and white European ancestry, and as a child she’d been the only survivor of a massacre against her tribe. Sky had been raised by Hades and Persephone as their own, and now worked with Avalon to keep the peace. Her necromancy powers were some of the strongest I’d ever seen, my own included. She was the first one to her feet, as she walked over and hugged me.
“It’s been a while,” she said with a smile.
“Too long,” I said. “How’s everything?” She nodded. “Good. Selene and Astrid?”
I smiled; couldn’t help myself. “Really good. Astrid is seven now.”
“Slinging magic around yet?” Tommy asked with a chuckle.
“Not yet,” I said. “When she does, I’ll make sure to send her to your house so she can burn that down instead.”
Tommy laughed as the fire door to the side of us opened, and Mordred walked in. He spotted me, and walked over, hugging me tightly. “It’s been far too long,” he said, slapping me on the back of the shoulder.
“I get the feeling we all need to meet up more often,” I told him, and looked behind at the closed door. “No guards? No Hel?”
“My wife has informed me that so long as I don’t cause any international incidents, I should be fine without an Avalon royal guard following me around,” Mordred said, glancing back as if mentioning her name might bring Hel through the doors.
Hel was one of the kindest, smartest, and generally all-around awesome people I’d ever met. But I would not ever want to be on her bad side.
“Hel said so long as I was here, he should be fine,” Morgan said. “And the rest of us too. We’re here to keep Mordred from… breaking everything.”
“I don’t break everything,” Mordred said, almost pouting. He considered his words for a moment as Morgan glared at him. “Okay, a lot of things. And I haven’t done that in a while.”
Morgan continued to glare.
“Nate blew up the White House,” Mordred said, pointing at me.
“Seriously?” I asked.
Mordred shrugged.
“And I didn’t blow it up,” I muttered to myself as Mordred and Morgan took their seats. “I set fire to it.”
“And blew it up,” Diana said.
I sighed and took my seat, taking one of the three bottles of water and pouring myself a glass. “Okay, I blew it up a little bit.” I sipped the cool water and looked around the room.
“We can all catch up later,” Morgan said. “We need to discuss why we’re here today, and what’s going on in this part of the country.”
“Something bad, I assume,” Zamek said.
“Isn’t it always?” Diana said with a hint of something I couldn’t quite place. Anger? Annoyance? It was subtle, but judging from Medusa’s reaction to put her hand on Diana’s, it wasn’t just me who noticed.
“Seriously though, Morgan,” Sky said. “You told us we needed to help, but you didn’t say why.”
“It’s coming don’t worry,” Morgan said.
The door to the room opened and the lady from behind the bar walked in, closing the door behind her and taking a moment to ensure it was secure. She walked across the room, all of us watching her every step, which made things a lot more awkward than was probably necessary.
Morgan got to her feet. “Thank you for coming, Cheryl.”
Cheryl nodded and took a seat beside Morgan. I could feel the questions on the lips of every single one of us, but Diana spoke first, “No Remy?”
Morgan stood and looked down the table at us. “We’ll get to Remy, I promise. He’s already involved.”
“What the hell is going on, Morgan?” Medusa asked.
“Cheryl here is going to explain what’s going on,” Morgan said, taking a seat as she motioned for the woman to stand.
Cheryl looked between all of us, nervous energy practically bouncing out of her as she drummed her fingers on the table. “Your friend Remy was here,” she said. “The foxman. He was here at the request of myself and a few others within my community. He had a team with him, people who Morgan had sent to help us. We haven’t heard from him, nor the rest of his team, in four days. I didn’t expect to hear from them for several days anyway, so I thought nothing of it. Forty-eight hours ago, a reporter arrived here looking into the murders that took place over the years in the camp close to our village. He had guards with him. None of them have been seen
since. I tried to contact Remy and his team last night, got nothing. I contacted you all immediately.”
“What happened to Remy?” Diana asked, her voice a low grumble of menace.
“We don’t know,” Cheryl said.
“Morgan,” Diana said, as her nails grew long and sharp, puncturing the wooden table as though it were made of paper. “Why did you wait hours to contact us?”
Morgan looked over at Diana, and when she spoke, her soft tone held a hard edge, “Remy knew the risks. We all do. He came here to help, and he’s missing. If you listen to Cheryl’s story, we can figure out what the hell is going on here and hopefully find Remy and his people. We all know Remy well enough that the likelihood of his death is almost zero at this point.”
“He’s your friend too,” Diana almost shouted, getting to her feet as Medusa stood beside her, whispering something only they could hear. “Or do we just leave our friends behind now?”
“He’s a professional,” Morgan said, getting back to her feet, anger written across her face. “Which is behaviour I expect from you too.”
Medusa looked back at Morgan with a ‘seriously,now’ expression on her face.
“Sit down,” Mordred said softly. “Please.”
Everyone turned to look at Mordred who hadn’t even glanced away from his hands. He looked up and sighed loudly. “All of you. Sit. Down.”
“Remy could be hurt, or worse,” Diana said, her hardened stare faltering. “Morgan has—”
“And we will find him,” Mordred said, interrupting Diana with nothing but compassion in his voice as he looked over at her.
“Morgan, this is a shitty way to tell us one of our friends is missing.”
“If I’d told you on the phone, how would you all have reacted?” Morgan asked, holding Mordred’s gaze and practically radiating anger. Apparently, something was going on that I hadn’t been made aware of.
“We’d have rushed here to find him,” Zamek said, speaking for pretty much all of us.
“We don’t know what’s going on,” Morgan said. “Which is why Cheryl is going to tell us. After that is complete, and we actually have a goddamned plan, we can find Remy and the rest of his team. Six of my people are missing too. I want them all back.”
Diana sat with a long exhale of breath, and Medusa a moment later.
“Morgan,” Mordred said. Morgan looked down as though just realising she was standing, and retook her seat.
“Now,” Mordred continued. “Cheryl, please do tell us what the fuck is going on.”
CHAPTER THREE
NateGarrett
“How old do I look?” Cheryl asked.
“Is now the time for…” Diana started, but Medusa placed a hand on hers and she stopped talking. “Sorry.”
“At first glance, I thought you were in your sixties,” I said. “But I think that’s what you want people to believe.”
“I am one-hundred-and-four years old,” Cheryl said. “Something is happening in my village that I have ignored ever since those murders in the eighties. I ignored it because I was afraid, and when nothing happened for twenty years, I told myself it was just a one off. But since those murders, people started to go missing in the hills and forest close to the camp. Drownings, falling off cliffs, heart attacks in perfectly healthy people.”
“I did some research,” Morgan said. “All deaths were ruled as accidents. It’s stated that those victims were people who didn’t know the terrain, weren’t equipped, or were in ill health, but those accidents all happened in good weather conditions, usually in the summer and spring months. All cases quickly closed by the local police. All inquests quickly dealt with by those who carry out such things.”
“Quick question,” Zamek said. “What murders in the eighties?”
“There’s a camp not far from here,” Cheryl said. “In the lateseventies, it was done up with an eye to let it out for corporate events. In 1982, a bunch of yuppies from London came for some sort of team bonding thing. Ten men, four women. They were meant to be there for a week. After three days, one man was found walking the main road to this village. Everyone else was dead.”
“What’s a yuppie?” Zamek asked.
“A young, usually wealthy professional,” Tommy said. “They weren’t all arseholes, but, well, they got that stereotype for a reason.”
“Bunch of arseholes went to party in the woods and someone killed them all,” Zamek said. “That about it?”
Everyone nodded.
“Thanks, carry on,” Zamek said.
“The man was questioned and arrested for their murders,” Cheryl said. “Officially, he was deemed to have snapped due to bullying of some kind, and hunted down and killed everyone in the party. He never made it to trial, having taken his own life in his police cell here in the village.”
“How convenient,” Medusa said.
“I was a nurse for the NHS at the time,” Cheryl said. “One of the few in the village, so I assisted the coroner. I saw those reports of the injuries the victims sustained. Some were drowned, some had their heads crushed, their bones shattered, many were killed by stab wounds from… we don’t know. A sword maybe. Bladed weapons were definitely used. It was horrific. The photos of the crime scene look like something out of a horror movie.”
“Were they all killed at once?” I asked.
“They were dotted around the camp,” Cheryl said. “No one tried to leave the area though. That couldn’t be explained, it was as though they could only stay in the area of the camp itself.”
“How does that link to your youthful looks?” Tommy asked.
“I don’t know,” Cheryl said. “I just… I don’t age. Actually, I’ve looked exactly like this for nearly fifty years. And it’s not just me, there are many of us in town who were around back then who haven’t aged. Any time I bring it up, I’m told it’s because of the residual magic in Wales. Is that even a thing?”
Everyone looked over to me.
“I have no idea,” I said. “If there’s residual magic in Wales, it’s the first I’ve heard of it.”
“Maybe my father picked this place for that reason,” Mordred said. “Maybe Wales is like a sponge for magic.”
