Reign of Evil

“Listen. It’s not too late.” Sir Robert glanced at the Marines who stood watching. “There’s going to be a return to greatness. Remember when England ruled the world? Remember when we had colonies? Remember when we meant something?”

The Marines began to look at one another.

“There was a time when being English meant something to the world. There was a time when we carried ourselves proud. If it weren’t for David Beckham and the fucking Beatles no one would even care about us now.”

Ian had only one question. “What does that have to do with my man?”

“His death can mean something. It has meant something. His soul went to power the new king.” Fat and pallid and naked, with his penis lying flaccid against his leg, Sir Robert suddenly smiled beatifically. “You should see our new king. King Arthur. He’s wondrous.”

Ian delivered a blow that sent Sir Robert across himself. His head bounced off the floor. Ian pounced on him, flipped him over, and straddled him. He stared into the man’s eyes. “What does that have to do with my man?”

“We needed a Lord of Misrule. We needed someone.”

“It was supposed to be him,” came a slurred feminine voice.

Ian held Sir Robert by the neck but turned to the speaker.

It was one of the women. She could barely hold her head up, but she managed to say, “Sir Robert was to be the Lord of Misrule.”

Ian stared at the MP as he processed the information.

“You chickened out.” How this man had been elected, Ian couldn’t fathom. There wasn’t a single redeemable molecule in Sir Robert’s body.

“Once King Arthur rules we will take care of you,” Sir Robert said. “I can make you an earl or a duke. I can give you anything because I’ll be his trusted man.”

Ian stood and kicked the MP in the stomach. He reached for the pouch, which Magerts handed over. “I don’t have a king. I have a queen and I’ve devoted my life’s work to her and the people of England.” He nodded toward the door. “Magerts, please leave us for a moment. Take your men with you.”

Magerts appeared to be ready to say something, but one glance at the bed silenced him. He ushered his men out the door along with the two women. Then he closed the door behind him.

Sir Robert MacDonald began to cry. His sobs turned to screams by increments as Ian did what he felt he had to. When he was done, the former MP no longer bled from his crotch, nor could he speak. His lips were sewn shut and were forever full.

Ian washed his hands in the sink but never once looked at himself in the mirror. When he was done he walked to the window and stared up at Glastonbury Tor just in time to see a tall figure wearing a crown pause beneath the arch to St. Michael’s Tower. Ian wondered if he’d turn. He wondered if the King would regard him. But then the King continued, disappearing into the tower.

CHAPTER 47

SOUTH OF GLASTONBURY TOR, ENGLAND. 1030 HOURS.

The place was a war zone. Dead bodies lay in the street, some having sat down as if they were resting instead of lifeless. Walker had seen this before. They’d died so quickly their bodies didn’t even have time to display properly. A Marine leaned out the window of the top floor of the building and waved. Walker waved back.

Several Marine sergeants were talking to a concerned group of locals.

“Shit got real serious,” Yank said from the back of the van.

They pulled up to the front of the Tudor house and got out. Magerts and his men were moving bodies into piles on the other side of the shrubbery. Yank and YaYa went to help. Hoover jumped out and began inspecting the bodies. Walker joined Laws, Holmes, and the witch, who went inside.

They found Ian sitting at a table. He sat staring at a glass half-filled with scotch but made no move to drink it.

No one said anything.

Laws went upstairs.

The witch inspected the head of a lip-sewn girl.

Holmes pulled out a chair and sat in it. “We didn’t have any coms.”

It took a moment for Ian to answer. “They put a cell jammer on the roof.”

“You didn’t take it down?”

“Didn’t know if they left behind any cellular-detonated bombs.”

Ian hadn’t moved at all.

“I understand.” Holmes regarded Ian for a moment, then glanced at Walker. He flicked his eyes toward the open sliding glass doors that led to the backyard.

Walker stepped silently away and into the backyard. It was clear that there’d been a party here, but with everyone gone it had an empty, almost barren feeling. He saw several marks drawn on the grass in what looked like blood. He couldn’t figure out what they were but didn’t want anything to do with them. He gave them a wide berth. A man-sized cross had been crudely erected in a corner. Bloody nails marked where someone’s hands and feet had been affixed to the wood.

Hoover padded up to him and nuzzled his hand. YaYa and Yank were right behind.

Yank jerked his thumb back toward the house. “What’s up with Ian? Man’s comatose.”

“Magerts said they killed Trevor. Said it was bad.”