Reign of Evil

Walker closed his eyes and tried not to think about anything, but his thoughts automatically strayed to Jen’s death. He visualized her lying on the cold, hard earth of Stonehenge, her eyes staring deep into his, asking him why he hadn’t been there to help her. His eyes snapped open as he searched for something to look at, some visual input to dampen the accusation in her eyes. He noticed that a few of the Tarot cards had been turned over. In fact, his and the witch’s hands were resting on two cards—a card with a tower being struck by lightning and a card with a kingly figure on a throne with a sword. Of the other cards facing up on the table, all had some sort of sword.

Suddenly his body stiffened as if a jolt of electricity had taken control of him. His vision went blank, then was replaced by an image of a green man standing in the snow, then of a red-robed figure, then of the stones of Stonehenge, then of someone racing through a thick wood. He heard the sound of baying and realized it was coming from himself.

His eyes snapped open and he found the witch staring at him, a look of terror on her face.

Jerry, Trev, and Ian were also on their feet.

The witch let Walker go and stood. She paced back and forth for a moment, then went to a bookshelf.

Walker was breathing heavily. He wiped sweat from his forehead using his jacketed forearm. “What is it?”

Jerry said, “You were howling like a wolf, mate.”

“And growling too,” Trev added.

Walker felt hoarse. He brought a hand to his throat. “For how long?”

“Five minutes at least,” Jerry said.

Walker shook his head. “Impossible. It couldn’t have been more than a few seconds.”

“Try six minutes, Walker,” the witch said, coming back to the table with a large book. “We’re lucky you were able to come back at all.”

Ian stepped forward. “What is it? Earlier you mentioned that you might know who was involved in the ceremony.”

“First things first.” She spoke a few words in a guttural German, then put her hand on Walker’s head. She did the same for the other three men, who stood by like this was a normal everyday occurrence.

When she was finished, she explained, “I needed to hide you from any interested eyes.”

“What about you?” Walker asked.

“I’m very well hidden already. I’ve had people chasing me for more than fifty years. Don’t worry about me.”

Walker looked at her. She was definitely a lot older than she appeared.

“So…,” Ian began.

“So something’s returned that the Isles haven’t seen in more than a thousand years. Maybe longer.” She flipped through the book and came to a double-page picture of a woodcut that showed a hunt. On the left was a cart pulled by a team of great stags. To the sides and in front were dogs and misshapen beasts of all sizes caught mid-action. Some were running; some were fighting each other; one even held the body of a baby in its twisted mouth. Standing in the cart with a whip in one hand and a sword in the other was a figure that looked like a demented Santa.

Walker said as much.

“That’s because part of our lovely Yuletide holiday tradition comes from this. Gentlemen, may I present to you the Wild Hunt.”

“The wild what?” Jerry asked, his eyes wide.

Trev punched Jerry in the shoulder. “Hunt. She said ‘hunt.’”

“Glory be. I thought she was describing a date I had last week.”

Ian punched Jerry in his other shoulder.

“The Wild Hunt was first reported in the seventh century, but it could be far older. I’ve read where they believe it to be the last vestiges of the Sidhe, or Tuatha Dé Dannan. Perhaps those who didn’t cross over to the other world with the coming of man. Like the Baen Sidhe, or banshee, they populate much of the mythology of the Isles.” She gave the men a gentle but stern look. “Only this isn’t mythology. It’s real.”

“You’re talking faeries?” Trev asked.

“I knew you’d be interested if there were faeries,” Jerry murmured.

“Like red caps and mermen and boggles?” Ian asked. When Trev and Jerry gave him a funny look he added, “My grandmam used to tell us about them. Wouldn’t let us go outside at night because she was afraid the faeries would come and eat us.”

Walker shook his head in disbelief. “Those don’t sound like the faeries I learned about.”

The witch scoffed, “Walker, dear. Don’t you get it? America has managed to Disneyfy everything that should be scary. Do you really think Tinker Bell was a sweet little pigtailed pixy? The faeries that were left behind—those still on the Isles—were the dregs, the rejects, those too imperfect or too insane to be with the rest.”

“You’re serious,” Walker said.

“As a heart attack. No one really knows where the faeries went to or for what reason. It’s believed that the Sidhe mounds are avenues to small pocket realities where they reside until they feel the need to come out. The Wild Hunt is shared cross-culturally, but primarily in Western Europe and Scandinavia. Many of these areas, now countries, describe the Wild Hunt differently, but there is one universal truth. When it appears, it doesn’t go away until its mission is complete.”