Reign of Evil

“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.