Brad looked and saw what seemed to be coils of morning mist forming in the shadowed depression. But instead of drifting away, the vapor grew denser, began to form into a definite shape. He remembered what Quigley had told them at the first, failed ritual in Sussex. As he watched, the gray-white vapor lifted like a smoke ring and hovered for a few heartbeats. There was dead silence from everyone, crowd and cultists. Then the weird cloud shrank, growing even denser, and stopped a few feet above the ring of lamias.
“This is how it happens, the renewal,” whispered Marcus. “The spirit of the Old Serpent entering new flesh.”
As he spoke, the cloud descended, merged with the ring of monstrous beings. The reptilian bodies shuddered, then began to change again. Scaly flesh flowed like viscous liquid. It was even more bizarre than the first transformation, so strange that at first Brad was unsure what was happening.
Oh God, he realized. They're merging into one.
Head and tails flowed together, the cultists blending into one huge being. Only Olivia's head remained distinct, growing larger and releasing the tail from its jaws. All trace of the vapor had gone, now. The vast serpent writhed and then reared up, its gleaming eyes some twenty feet above the ground.
“Ouroboros!” gasped Marcus. “The ultimate merging of the deity with her followers. The union of mind is followed by that of the flesh.”
It is awe-inspiring, thought Brad. I can see how people could worship that thing. We're witnessing a kind of evil miracle.
Brad saw Kelly stand up, and raise her arms towards the monster. Her face was ecstatic, radiant with joy. The huge jaws opened, revealing fangs over a foot long, as the vast serpent reared up over her white-clad form. A terrible certainty gripped him.
She is a sacrifice. She can't really want this!
Brad started to run forward, not knowing what to do, only that he had to somehow save Kelly from an appalling fate. He heard Marcus shout a warning. Brad had forgotten the ditch, and tumbled into it, wrenching his knee. He was scrambling frantically up the other side when a white-robed figure dashed forward, between Kelly and the serpent. There was a flash of metal, and a roaring sound so deep that he felt it in his bones.
It was Kathy Hopkirk. She held a large knife in both hands and was stabbing into the huge mass of scaly tissue. The serpent reacted predictably, rearing up and then descending, jaws agape. Brad had a sudden flashback to the time he'd seen a snake devour a mouse.
“No!” Kelly was standing up, shouting. “This is wrong, don't take her!”
It was too late. The monster, reacting with the instinct of a goaded predator, had already devoured Kathy. Brad saw a bulge moving down the creature's body. As he looked up, the creature seemed to see him for the first time, and opened its vast maw with a hiss.
That's it, he thought, reaching for the device in his pocket. Game over.
Brad took out a specialized radio transmitter, jabbed at a red button, listened for the explosion. Nothing happened. The small gelignite charge he had planted at the base of the Warden failed to detonate. Then he realized that, in his near-panic, he had failed to turn on the unit's power. He flicked the switch just as the shadow of Ouroboros fell across him. He pushed the red button again, and there was a loud crack followed by screams of shock and confusion.
Too damn late! Probably didn't even topple the goddamn stone. Too rough-and-ready, no finesse.
As he dropped the radio unit, the monster's jaw began to engulf Brad, a black forked tongue as thick as his arm wrapped itself around him. Cold slime covered his face. Fetid carrion breath filled his lungs and he started to choke. Far away, he heard Kelly's voice, desperate, pleading with her goddess.
Brad closed his eyes, bracing himself for a terrible death in the belly of the beast. He felt a sudden rush of energy like an electric shock, and blacked out.
Epilogue: Spring 2017
“Thought we'd lost you there,” said Marcus, helping Brad limp away from the Fangs. “We'd better get out of here before the police arrive.”
“Kelly?” asked Brad, barely able to utter the one word.
“I was a bit confused for a while back there,” admitted Marcus, “like most people. When I got my bearings, she had gone. So had Clay. Probably to Garlock House to do some hasty packing.”
“What about Ouroboros?” croaked Brad, trying to look over his shoulder.
“Not pleasant,” said Marcus. “A horrific mish-mash of tissue, some of it recognizably human. Some not. God knows how the authorities will explain it. Or cover it up.”
“Kathy's dead, then?”
Marcus did not reply. The two struggled over the uneven ground to where the Warden no longer stood, but lay diagonally across the road surrounded by rock fragments. Scorch marks around the base of the stone showed where Brad's charge had blasted a chunk out of it along a natural fault line, felling the Warden much as a lumberjack fells a sequoia.
“A very professional job, I'm sure,” said Marcus, “but that means you're the only living person here who's actually committed a crime. Another reason to make ourselves scarce.”
“Yeah,” gasped Brad, head pounding, “but it sure did a number on their magic power system, didn't it?”
“Not denying that,” said Marcus.
The Englishman was driving Brad away from Wychmere at a careful forty miles per hour when flashing blue lights appeared in the distance.
“Do you think they'll find her?” asked Brad.
“Kelly? I doubt it. She's rather good at staying lost,” said Marcus.
“So we're back to square one?” Brad could hardly believe that he had done so much, risked so much, for nothing.
“Look at it this way,” said Marcus. “If we can take Ouroboros at their word, you may have just saved the world from near-total obliteration. But I wouldn't put that on your resume just yet.”
“What can I do?” Brad was thinking aloud now, but Marcus had a ready reply.
“You can dream,” he said. “Because your dreams have linked you to Kelly since this started.”
“How do we know that link will still be there?” asked Brad.
“I suppose we'll know tomorrow morning,” said the Englishman.
***
Amid the chaos that followed the explosion, some villagers had come to their senses and called in the emergency services. Ambulances arrived to find what they initially thought was a vast heap of organic remains. Then one paramedic noticed that some parts of the bizarre corpse were still breathing. The police, equally baffled, decided to seal off the area near the Fangs and wait for what senior officers termed 'special contingency units.'
The units in question arrived in four unmarked helicopters that landed in a meadow half a mile from Wychmere. Soldiers wearing respirators pushed aside protesting police officers, dragged the remains of Ouroboros into the ditch, then proceeded to incinerate it. A few weak screams were heard from the ditch, but were soon lost amid the roar of the flames. As this process neared its end, a convoy of unmarked vehicles appeared and men in white biohazard suits emerged. The charred remnants of the snake-being were loaded into special containers and the ditch sprayed with a series of chemical agents. Senior police officers asked for more detailed information about the process, and were told nothing.
While the anomalous creature was being dealt with, men and women in medical coveralls went among the villagers administering what were termed vaccinations. After being vaccinated, each villager was taken aside for an 'interview' with a gentleman introduced as 'Mister Jones from the Home Office.’ When discussing events of that May Day later, the people of Wychmere agreed that Mister Jones had made a very strong case for 'discretion about the whole unpleasant business.’
A press release from the Ministry of Health announced that a chemical leak had occurred in the village after a truck had taken a detour and collided with one of the ancient standing stones. This, said the officials, had caused widespread headaches, vomiting, and even some hallucinations. But there were no long-term p
roblems.
Within twenty-four hours, a number of conspiracy theory websites were referring to the Wychmere Incident, variously linking it to UFOs, chemical trails, parallel universes, and a host of other paranormal phenomena. The man known as Mister Jones, who supervised such disinformation, was pleased to note that it never lost its effectiveness.
***
Constable Knapton arrived at New Scotland Yard on Monday morning. Most of the country was enjoying the May bank holiday, so traffic was light and he arrived earlier than usual. But he still found Detective Sergeant Healy in his office, apparently deep in thought.
“Morning, boss,” said Knapton. “I'm back. Got you some coffee from that place over the road.”
“Thanks,” said Healy. “You enjoyed that, err, thing. A training course, wasn't it?”
“Yes,” replied Knapton. “I wasn't tempted by any naked lovelies, worse luck.”
Healy looked puzzled. To fill the awkward pause, Knapton went on, “I hear you nearly nabbed that bugger Dotrice while I was away, sir?”
Healy's face lost its confused look.
“Oh, that. Another wild goose chase, the little sod was long gone. If he was ever there.”
“Well, he can't stay lost forever,” remarked Knapton, taking the lid off his latte.
“I wouldn't bet on it,” said Healy. “Some cases just don't get solved. Like this Matt Arnold thing. We're going nowhere fast with that.”
Knapton was so surprised that it took him a moment to respond.
“I thought we had a sort of lead, sir?”
Healy shook his head decisively.
“Nah,” he said, “I'm going try and pass it off onto someone else. Complete waste of time.”
Knapton, who had been leaning on the side of Healy's desk, straightened up slowly.
“I see, sir. Well, that'll certainly reduce our caseload.”
Later, after discussing their other cases, Knapton went to the washroom. After checking that the stalls were all empty, he made a phone call.
“Yes, you were right. Looks like they got him. Pity, he was a good man. Maybe he will be again. No, I don't think so; he seems to buy the whole training course thing.”
The entry of two detectives loudly discussing their weekend exploits put an end to the call. The incomers ignored Knapton, a low-ranking uniformed officer. And that was fine with him.
***
“Would I have died, Jonathan?” asked Kelly, looking out over the stern of the fishing boat. “Would she have consumed me?”
The coast of England was almost out of sight, a black smear silhouetted against the setting sun.
Clay hesitated, torn between his own judgment and the persistent voice in his head.
We failed again, he thought. But we must persist. What else is there? How can we turn back now?
“I don't know,” he said finally. “But I have always believed that there is something beyond death, something wonderful.”
“Dying would be an awfully big adventure,” murmured Kelly. “That's what Peter Pan said. I always loved that movie as a kid.”
“Let's not be morbid,” said Cleo, striding onto the after-deck. “We've got a long journey ahead of us. Lots to do. No point in dwelling on the past.”
Kelly looked up at the dark woman, and for a moment, Clay feared that she was about to challenge Cleo for dominance. He had no idea which side he would take in the event of a struggle. Or whether his opinion would count for anything.
“Where are we going?” asked Kelly. “No one can overhear us now that Kathy is dead. Along with the rest.”
“Olivia was over-confident,” retorted Cleo. “She misjudged her enemies. I won't make that mistake.”
“They won't give up,” said Clay. “The American and that self-styled expert. They'll try to find us, no matter how many obstacles our allies put in their way.”
Kelly nodded in agreement.
“Dad won't give up; he's not made that way. But I don't want him harmed, do you understand? There's been enough violence.”
Cleo smiled, then.
“It's a big world,” she said. “And Brad has no idea where we are going. By the time he finds out, if he does, Plan B will be underway.”
Kelly looked uncertain, and asked, “Is it really worth all the suffering? The deaths?”
Cleo leaned on the stern rail of the boat, gazing out at the wake spreading over the dark water.
“You haven't slept for nearly two days, Kelly,” she said. “Maybe you should go below and get some rest.”
* * *
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