by Jasmine Walt
“My mother used to read them to me when I was a little girl.” Loren had turned her body away from the celibate priest. She leaned back in now that he was talking about one of her favorite subjects. “But even back then, I questioned why there were no female knights. I’d begun handling a sword about the same time that I began to walk. I was better than any boy in my fencing classes. I’ve always thought I was born in the wrong time.”
“If you were born in medieval times,” I said, “you wouldn’t have been allowed anywhere near a blade.”
She snorted. “Then I’m sure I would’ve been a witch.”
“An angel like yourself would’ve preferred to be the villain in the story?” For the first time, Father Gerard didn’t look Loren directly in the eye. He balled and unballed his fist. His square jaw looked sharp at the edges.
Loren didn’t seem to notice the change in his attitude. “Merlin and Morgan le Fay were always my favorites in the story. I’ve never understood why magical people are always villainized in stories, especially the women.”
“Because men are afraid of women with power,” I said.
Father Gerard shook his head. His jaw and fist relaxed. “I think both men and women are afraid when godly powers fall into their hands. Look at Pontius Pilate. Did you know he lobbied to spare our Holy Prophet? It was the crowd, the mob mentality, and their fear of the salvation Jesus brought to them that forced Pilate’s hand and sent Jesus to the cross.”
It took everything in me not to call bull on that. Pontius Pilate was not a man—not a human one at least. He was an Immortal who liked to meddle in the affairs of human religion and spirituality.
Yod, the eighth oldest Immortal, had been a feature of the Sanhedrin since its inception. The Sanhedrin was the court system of ancient Israel. The judges were said to have been given full authority over the Israelites by God, and so the people were to obey every instruction and law established by the judges.
When Yod, then going by the name of Pilate, saw my friend Yeshua’s influence growing over the people, he decided to exert his own influence to stop it. He didn’t accuse the man himself. No, he was often recorded as being an advocate who tried to get Yeshua freed. But I’d seen Yod work his forked tongue before. I knew he’d been behind the execution of one of the world’s greatest philosophers and prophets. A man who could’ve done so much more to save the hearts, minds, and souls of mankind if he had lived amongst the people longer.
Yeshua wasn’t the first, nor was he the last. I believed Yod had a hand in many of the great prophets’ untimely deaths, including Moses, Mohamed, and Siddhartha to name a few. He was the one Immortal I gladly kept my distance from for reasons other than the allergy that wracked our bodies when we stayed too long in one another’s presence.
“We are human, not gods,” continued Father Gerard. “Such power is far above our comprehension, and if we encounter anything resembling it, it terrifies us. That is why mankind has always turned to God.”
“There was a time when humans didn’t think they could conquer fire, the sea, or the air,” I said. “You thought those things more powerful than yourselves.”
“Why do you say ‘you’ as though you aren’t human?” Father Gerard asked curiously, his gaze sharp.
I shrugged at my slip of the tongue. “Just making an argument. My point is that the sea has more power than you, yet you entrusted yourself to it.”
“And when it overwhelmed me, I prayed. And an angel came my way.” He turned to Loren.
Swayed by the celestial compliments, and a victim of a short attention span that failed to remind her that this man was more interested in her soul than getting in her pants, Loren leaned in toward him again.
“You said you were on a quest for knights?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said. “There was a news story a couple of weeks ago where a farmer in Shropshire found something strange down a rabbit’s hole. It turned out to be an underground temple. I think it may have belonged to the Knights Templar.”
“The Templars?” Loren asked. “They were the medieval knights who protected Christian pilgrims on their journey to the Holy Lands, right?”
Father Gerard nodded. “In return, Pope Urban II promised that those brave and devout men would be forgiven for all their sins if they went on a crusade to win back Jerusalem for the heavenly father.”
Yeah, no. It wasn’t that simple. But like I’d been doing all day with history I had firsthand knowledge of, I held my tongue. It was clear the former priest admired the Templars. People didn’t like it when someone told a very different truth about their heroes, truths that cast those they thought brave and devout into a sinister light.
“So, you’re headed down a rabbit hole?” Loren asked. “What do you hope to find?”
Father Gerard’s eyes went wide like a kid seeing the bounty underneath the Christmas tree. “The Templars were entrusted with many biblical artifacts. They were rumored to have brought them back to England for safekeeping as the wars and conflicts continued in the Holy Lands. If it’s true, then who knows what could be there? An ancient copy of the Bible. The Spear of Destiny. The Holy Grail.”
I knew for a fact that the original copy of the Bible was not in some underground rabbit hole, but there had been a spear used when Yeshua had been hung up on the cross. It was a longstanding practice during crucifixion to pierce the side or the legs to hasten death. It was possible the actual spear had been saved and secreted away somewhere. If so, I’d love to get my hands on it.
It wasn’t that I believed it was magical. Most of the artifacts I sought weren’t. To me, history and the stories contained in its remnant objects were the real magic.
But the Holy Grail? The cup Yeshua used at the Last Supper, which might also be the same cup that caught his blood as he bled from the cross, had been in the keep of The Arthur and his Knights for hundreds of years in the fortress known as Tintagel, more commonly called Camelot. It wasn’t in a rabbit’s hole that may or may not have been a hidey-hole for misguided knights.
“If you like adventure,” Father Gerard said, an air of enticement lacing his deep voice, “you can tag along. I could use a sidekick.”
“Umm…” Loren said, sounding thoughtful.
Umm? Was my bestie about to ditch me for a dude? Again?
“No,” she said after a full minute.
Good. Because the Father was likely on a fool’s errand. The Templars had disbanded in the early thirteenth century. Whatever was down that hole couldn’t have been their doing, since another band of knights had kicked them out of England hundreds of years ago. And that band who sat at a round table had looted most of their wares, including the Grail.
4
The storm stayed at bay as we made our way up the British Isles. The wind was light and the currents calm. I put the boat in reverse and took a sharp turn. Instead of skidding, the boat pivoted and we coasted neatly into a docking space.
We’d radioed ahead, and emergency personnel met us on the pier. They took the captain and his mate into a medical vehicle. The men thanked us profusely for our help on the waters, leaving me feeling a little more vindicated. When I turned to Father Gerard, his gaze was solely fixed on Loren.
“I suppose this is goodbye for now, Ms. Van Alst.”
“For now?” Loren said. “Don’t tell me you believe in fate, Father. Isn’t that blasphemy against your God?”
“No. Fate is the handiwork of God. And the Creator sends us his angels disguised as ordinary people. Though I have the feeling you’re anything but ordinary, Loren.”
Loren tilted up the side of her mouth. Her chest rose as she inhaled to receive the praise. The holy man’s eyes didn’t miss it.
“So, yes,” Father Gerard said, his voice hardening, “I have every faith that fate will bring us back together again. Until then, Ms. Van Alst, Dr. Rivers.”
After one last lingering look, Father Gerard joined his crew in the emergency vehicle. The van pulled off, and I turned to Loren.
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br /> “You sure know how to make an impression on people,” I said.
“What can I say? I’m extraordinary.”
“You’re also no angel.”
“Hell, no, I’m not.” She smirked.
We hired a car service and headed out on the road to make our way to Caerleon. After weeks of every color of blue on the seas, the greenery was blinding. Branches stretched to the sky with leaves blowing in the wind. Blades of grass carpeted the ground as far as the eye could see, rising up hillsides and rolling down the other side.
Caerleon had been the site of a Roman legion at the start of the last millennium. We drove by the remains of a grassy amphitheater and baths. For once, the sight of aged stones stretching up from the ground didn’t entice me to whip out a shovel and dig. Instead, I made a beeline for the small village on the outskirts of the city.
Beyond the ruins, the rest of the city looked like a typical British suburb with houses spaced out a few acres apart. But that was only to the naked human eye. I was more than human.
We parked in an open spot in the town square. Shops and vendors lined the main street. A few tourists walked with travel brochures stuck in their faces and cameras slung over their shoulders. They were either on their way to see the Roman remnants behind us or the medieval castle in front of us. What they didn’t see was the magic on display before them.
The town residents went about their daily business. A shopkeeper adjusted the items in her display window. The items levitated from one place to another and then back again as she changed her mind about the placement. But to the human eye, it looked as though she had pushed away and picked up the pieces with her hands.
The sliding doors of the grocery store were plastered with posters that read “Potions: Fifty Percent Off.” But to the naked eye, the word “potions” looked like “lotions.”
Children of various ages played in a schoolyard. Many of them moved at superhuman speeds in a game of tag. Others drew energy from the ground and made designs in the air that looked like small fireworks coming from the tips of their fingers. Walking through the streets of the magical town of Caerleon was like walking through a live action Harry Potter book, if one was so inclined to see the magical side of things.
“Oh my god.” Loren stopped in her tracks. “It looks like that kid is levitating.”
I looked over to a young witch who was indeed levitating. To the few tourists milling about the city, they’d only see a little girl on a hoverboard, the type that could be bought from an online retailer. But to someone whose mind could tap into the ley energy running under this city, they would see the young witch floating with her witch mother tugging on her hand to not go so high.
I stared at Loren. Her gaze was fixed on the little witch. Loren blinked her eyes rapidly as though something was stuck in the corner of them. Then she opened her eyes wide and laughed.
“Oh,” she said. “She’s on a hoverboard. I’m seeing things. Maybe it’s all that sea air.”
Or maybe it was because she’d had a run-in with the supernatural world for the last few months, including a recent encounter with Greek gods. The goddess Demeter had held Loren’s soul for safekeeping for a night during a battle and then returned it in the morning. Perhaps Loren’s enhanced sight was a temporary side effect of participating in the ritual of the Chosen.
“It kinda looks cool.” She grinned. “I want to try it.”
Before she could make her way over to the kid, someone shouting behind us caught our attention.
“Gwin? Gwin, wait!”
We turned to see a dark-haired beauty with eyes that were a startling navy blue. The young woman was just a few inches shorter than me, which was easy since I was as tall as an Amazon. She had the type of curves that would never make it onto the cover of a women’s fashion magazine, but would be the centerfold of any men’s magazine. She came up short when she came face-to-face with Loren.
“Oh.” She frowned. “My apologies. From behind, you look just like my sister. From the front, a bit as well.” She peered at Loren, cocking her head one way and then another.
In turn, I did the same to the woman. “Morgan?” I said. “Is that you?”
Morgan turned to me and stared. She didn’t cock her head but rather looked at me head-on. Recognition was very slow to come to her eyes.
I wasn’t offended. It had been about fifty years since I’d seen her last. She’d been a rambunctious teenager at the time. Now she was a grown woman.
“Nova?” Morgan said. “Nova Flueve?”
“I go by Nia now.”
“I remember you.” She grinned, a faraway look in her eyes for a moment. “You tried to take Arthur’s scabbard during a jousting festival.”
I hadn’t tried to take it. I’d just wanted to get a look at it. But he’d laid the blade side of his sword on my hand the moment my fingers touched it. After that, he and I may have tousled a bit. And that tousle may have spilled into the jousting arena for all to see.
“Oh, it was epic.” Morgan’s navy-blue eyes glittered with mirth and delight.
She’d been a rebellious youth. I remembered her sneaking into the armory at night. I had been up and wandering around the castle. Because I’d been restless, not because I had been snooping. That night, I’d taught her a few tricks in the weapons room and then promptly got read the riot act by Arthur and put out on my ass for corrupting the youth.
“Morgan?” Loren asked. “As in Morgan le Fay? King Arthur’s sister?”
Morgan’s face contorted into absolute horror. “I am not related to that fascist. And he’s not a king. His head’s too big for a crown, anyway.”
Loren looked to me, her brow a crinkle of confusion.
“It’s a lot to explain,” I said.
“Morgan?” another voice called from behind. This voice was airy and light, but it still held the same timbre as Morgan’s husky tone. “Morgan, I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”
We turned to see a woman float toward us. She didn’t actually float, of course, but the ground seemed as though it didn’t want to disturb her tread.
Where Morgan was a dark beauty, this woman looked as though she’d stepped out of a ray of pure sunshine. She had the same dark-blue gaze, but honey-golden locks framed her heart-shaped face. She moved like a dancer with lithe, long steps. Her body was the type to grace the covers of fashion magazines from Paris to Rome to New York.
Her kind gaze settled on me. “Oh, Dr. Flueve? Is that you?
“Hello, Gwin.” I reached out my hands to her. The last time I’d seen her had been on her wedding day.
“Gwin? As in Guinevere?” Beside me, Loren choked.
“It’s been so long.” Gwin smiled as she took my hands.
“This is my friend, Loren.”
Loren wiggled her fingers but remained mute. It was the first time I’d ever seen her starstruck.
After offering Loren a friendly smile, Gwin looked around. Her eyes clouded with concern. “Does The Arthur know you’re here?”
“Yes,” I said. “I was invited.”
“Really?” Morgan and Gwin said, both sounding surprised.
Admittedly, The Arthur and I didn’t have the best relationship. His father and I had gotten along fairly well. The Arthur before that, the one most of the stories were attributed to, had been mostly cordial to me. I’d been a favorite of his great-grandfather, Uther. But the fourth king of Camelot, this current leader of the Knights and protector of witches and mystical objects? Yeah, he and I didn’t always see eye to eye.
“Apparently, he needs my expertise. About the problem with the Grail?” I hedged, trying to get information from the sisters.
Both of their blue gazes turned vacant, void of any further details. It didn’t surprise me when neither added to the conversation. Details about the Grail and any other artifact in possession of the Knights were a closely held secret.
“You know he doesn’t tell us witches anything.” Morgan crossed her arms over her chest
. Distaste rang loud in her tone. “Just as much as he strong-arms you, he keeps us poor, defenseless women on a tight leash.”
“He’s just trying to protect us, Morgan,” Gwin said softly. “These are trying times for us all.”
“They are?” I asked, but she looked away from my inquisitive gaze.
Trying times? I couldn’t fathom what that might mean. Witches and wizards had enjoyed a long peace for the last hundred years or so. Even before that, during the time of witch hunts and trials, actual witches hadn’t suffered much, if at all. The knights were their ardent protectors against magical and human foes alike. They kept them safely hidden away behind magical shields and inside enchanted castles.
Gwin hadn’t been alive during many of the witch trials of early Europe. She and Morgan were still young. Gwin, I knew, was about a century and a half. Whereas, I believed Morgan was pushing a century. And as far as I knew, neither woman had ever left the protection of Camelot and the knights who would lay down their lives for any of the people within its walls.
Which wasn’t unusual. Witches and wizards preferred to keep to ley lines where their magic was strongest. But Caerleon wasn’t the only line in the world. There were dozens of places that were pockets of energy.
“I’m sick of all this chivalry,” Morgan fumed. “I wish it would crawl down a dark hole and die. Like up Arthur’s a—”
“In your case, Lady Morgan,” said a deep male voice, “chivalry went the same way as ladylike behavior.”
We all turned around to see two men on horseback. Lance looked every bit the medieval knight upon his steed, even in blue jeans and boots. His ginger locks blew off his face in the light breeze. His lips quirked up as he looked down at the four women before him.
Beside him another knight whom I knew to be Geraint swept his dark gaze across the few tourists milling about the streets. Whereas Lancelot’s hair and beard were ginger thanks to his Scottish heritage, Geraint’s black hair, charcoal beard, and brown skin pointed to his Moorish heritage.
None of the people on the street took any notice of two men riding with swords at their hips and shields strapped to their mares. Thanks to the shield charm I knew had been put in place by the strongest witches in the city, the tourists would only see two police officers on horseback.