by Andre, Bella
“They get really carried away with May Day here,” he told her. “And, according to my friend, Conar, the land here changed hands so many times before the 1707 Act of Unity—between Scotland and England—that the people here consider themselves to be both,” he told her.
She laughed softly, a beautiful sound. “That’s kind of what we all are, isn’t it? A bit of everything?”
They were.
“So, we’ll get showered, get dressed, get going,” he told her.
“I think we’ve missed the breakfast part of the castle’s bed and breakfast offerings already,” she told him.
He shook his head slightly, marveling at the wonder of her. “Somehow, I’m around you, and I’m hungry for only one thing.”
She laughed. “Jackson, that’s a terrible pick-up line. Very cliché, my love.”
“Okay, how about I forget about the lines?” he asked her huskily.
“I like bad lines from you!” she told him.
Her lips touched down on his. He felt the crush of her body, the flesh of her silk. And he rolled to toss aside the covers, to feel his body flush against hers, and bring his mouth to hers in a gentle and then escalating kiss. It seemed that their heartbeats instantly became a drumbeat, that the heat between them became a fire. The sheets were cool and fresh beneath them, the day stretched out beautifully before them.
It has been several years since he’d realized that he was in love with this woman. There was never a moment where making love didn’t feel like new life, life the epitome of heaven on earth…of ecstasy. He buried his face against the silk and sweet scent of her breath, and he felt again that he buried himself with her soul, each time they touched. Then rational thought left him with the fierce need that burned deep within him and he felt urgency and need rise and race and explode and climax seized him.
Then he was again lying next to her—and marveling that they should be together.
For a moment, they held tight.
And then she was up, laughing, her eyes brilliant and her smile enough to light the world.
“Come on—this should be right up our alley. The May Pole is a rather phallic symbol, you know. Spring, fertility, and all that great stuff. Let’s get out and see some sights.”
“I’m seeing sights right now,” he assured her.
She paused and looked at him, shaking her head, and then she laughed again. It was good to see. They had managed, over time, to accept that they far too often dealt with death and tragedy and they had all somewhat managed to separate their working lives from their personal lives. But, all those who were in the Krewe were also aware that being agents was more than just what they did—their talents made them who they were as well. Finding the truth, and sometimes discovering the past, was often a passion with them as well.
Angela worked hard at their “special” offices near the main base at Quantico for profilers. She studied the files that came to them—she knew how to find the ones where they would be of the greatest assistance. It had been good to be away; to notice a few of those who had stayed behind for various reasons, but just specters moved about, doing what they did, noticing them and tipping their hats or murmuring a “Bonjour,” or “Good morning,” and walking on by.
“Wow. You are prime with pick-up lines today, my love, and I’ve already been picked up—all signed, sealed, and delivered,” she said.
“Ouch,” he told her. “So, okay, I make a better grouchy boss than Casanova!”
She walked back to him. “Never,” she said softly. “You’re the best lover in the world.”
He started to put his arms around her again but she slipped away. “You’re just also the best with cheesy lines!”
“Okay--I’m on it—up and out and on to incredible May Day sights,” he told her. “The May Day sights in the Village of Ravenscroft!” he added quickly.
She disappeared into the shower. He rose at last to join her, then decided to wait. The honeymoon concept did seem to keep them from getting anywhere.
He put a call through to Conar to verify that they were still going to try to meet around eight o’clock for dinner before the heavy-duty festivities began.
“I’m planning to make it out of the office between six and seven so if you want to head to the Bull and Whistle down by the castle and the museum, I’ll be in as soon as I can,” Conar told him. “Anxious to see your lovely wife.”
“She’s anxious to meet you, too,” Jackson told him. They rang off and he contemplated the time he’d worked with Conar. He’d been in the NYC office where they worked with Europeans and law enforcement from Great Britain. Conar had been with the international office in London then; they’d worked a kidnapping together that had miraculously had a happy ending. The young woman who had been abducted from Virginia had been intended as a victim to be sold into a slavery ring; she was home with her family now and wrote to them both now and then.
If only they all had happy endings, he thought.
They didn’t, but this was his delayed honeymoon, and he smiled and headed into the shower after his wife. Whatever—they weren’t on any time restrictions here.
An hour later, they were headed down the trail from the castle to the center of the village. He looked back. Ravenscroft actually had two castles; it was border country. One had been built by a Scottish laird in the late 1600s. The other had an earlier history; it had been built by an English lord in the late 1400s—on top of the very old remains of a Roman fortification. There had been several times in history when two lords or lairds had lain claim to the area—and neither wanted to use the other’s castle. Ravenscroft Castle—where they were staying—was now a bed and breakfast; it had been both beautifully restored and renovated. Guests went through on tours each day and once a week a local historian gave ghost tours.
They’d taken the tour. None of the ghosts of the castle had appeared. They’d also toured the Ravenscroft Castle referred to as Lord Manor—that was the castle built by the English lord. It was preserved strictly as a museum now and sat on a tor across from the valley where many of the May Day festivities were taking place. Apparently, food booths, games, costume competitions, and musical events happened in the village green.
They were happy not to have seen any of the deceased of the region on either tours—they were tourists here. And they were having the time of their lives.
They headed down into the square where they found a booth that sold coffee, tea, and scones. They ate and sipped while wandering through the arena. For a while they watched the highland games taking place and then wandered over to watch a kilted band playing rock tunes with bagpipes and flutes and violins as well as guitars, keyboards, and drums. They marveled over a number of costumes and stopped to chat here and there. It was an incredible day.
Angela paused, a slight breeze lifting her hair and cooling her face, and turned toward the high tor that rose just to the north of the village green against the sea. A giant May Pole stood there; whimsical and bright with the streamers that swirled around it.
“Conar told me that at midnight--April 30th-slash-May 1st--the Queen of May is crowned, and there’s dancing and music and all kind of fests—right on the tor!” Jackson told her, slipping an arm around her. “But, the village also goes a little crazy with the May Fest going on the whole week before—that’s why he wanted us to come now.
“So, five more days to actual May Day,” she said.
“Five days for us here—and to explore more of the area, too, if you wish,” he said.
“This is so, so charming, though! We’ve much more to explore within walking distance!” she told him.
She glanced his way, smiled and nodded, and looked at the tor again. Her smile faded slightly and she turned back to him, puzzled.
“What?” he asked her.
She shook her head. “For a minute, the pole seemed to be gone. All the bright color was gone. The tor was…a big cloud of smoke.”
He was silent a minute. When he’d first mentioned h
ow wildly beautiful the tor was to his old friend Conar, Conar had grimaced and told him, “It is a gorgeous site. It’s also where they burned the local “witches” once upon a time. But, thankfully, that’s all in the past. Still, odd, how we all go there. Pagan rituals—May 1st was the most important day of the year for Druids in the British Isles,” he’d assured him. “Not in a bad way—it was spring, you know, a time for all good things.”
Jackson felt a surge of unease burn through his heart; Angela always had a strange sense of intuitive empathy for man’s inhumanity to man throughout history. He hadn’t told her much about Ravenscroft, wanting the two of them to discover it as a charming small-town Scotland. But if she saw the smoke….
Well, she was relating to history.
But he was good at hiding his concerns and remaining stoic. Friends like to tease that it was his Native American background. He knew better; it was years in the field.
He told Angela, “Hm. The ghosts of springs go past,” he said. “Before the coming of Christ and Christianity here, they’d light fires on May Day. The fire welcomed and enhanced the sun that was coming for spring. The year had two halves, ending with Samhein, on November 1st. Ah! Conar told me that men and women walked through the smoke for good luck.”
She nodded, but said, “That’s the May Day tradition here—but more happened on that tor, I’m certain.”
“Well, they did burn witches.”
“Burn—not hang?”
“The English hanged their witches,” he said, and hesitated. “The Scots burned them. Accept, almost everywhere, the accusers and magistrates were merciful and strangled them first. We have to remember that people were truly superstitious and thought that witches could kill or harm them—and that there were times in history when youths were executed for stealing bread.”
She nodded and turned quickly back to him. “There goes a lovely woman in a great costume! Ah, and there’s her fine strapping lad in a fine, very cool kilt!”
They were near the historic castle built by the English lord—called Lord Manor--and near the Bull and Whistle where they’d later meet Conar. Jackson noted the museum there. It had been built in what had once been a medical school and then a morgue—and now promised history from the “deadly, grotesque, and brutal past.”
Despite the schlocky premise, Conar had told him that it was an excellent place to go and that they’d feel the time well spent.
“Want to head to the wax museum?” he asked Angela.
“Deadly, grotesque, and brutal?” she asked.
He shrugged. “Conar said it was great on history—despite the come-on. Hey, maybe they’re just good with cheesy lines here, too.”
“Maybe,” she said, grinning. “But, a good museum? Sure!” she told him.
At the entry, a young woman sat behind a desk reading from an electronic device and curling her hair between her fingers. She looked up quickly when the door closed, flushed and set down her book. “Good day! Welcome. Two?” she asked them.
“Yes, please,” Jackson said. “It’s quiet today?”
“It’s almost May Day,” she told them, still flushing slightly. She looked around as if afraid that someone might hear her. Her burr was soft and lovely as she spoke. “Everyone is celebrating. We get a lot of business from tourists who just drive in for the day and from college students, but today…well, most are out celebrating.” She glanced at her watch and grimaced. “I’ll be honest—I’m biding my time until five. Can’t wait to be out there myself, you know? I’m part of the court and we have a bit of may-ing each night up until the final when we get a Queen of the May.”
“Busy!,” Angela said. “Sounds like a great deal of fun—but that you have a great deal to do. We won’t go in if it will hold you up.”
“Oh, no, no—an older couple went through about an hour or so ago—we’ve had a few groups going through. I think they needed a respite from the revelry! And it’s a good museum—actually, a very fine museum. They send people down from as far as Glasgow and Edinburgh, our costuming and figures are so good. Please, even if you weren’t here, I couldn’t leave for a few hours!”
“Is there a chamber of horrors?” Jackson asked her.
She laughed. “Our history is horror enough!” she assured him. He handed her his credit card and she said, “It’s not just us, of course. Most of the world has horrible and brutal history—we’re just border country here, so the English slaughtered the Scots and the Scots slaughtered the English. And way before that, of course, the Romans came and built fortifications but the Scots were still wild and fought back and they all butchered each other horribly. Then the Vikings came and we all butchered each other and pretty much so after that, we all just kept fighting one another,” she said cheerfully. She smiled at them both. “But we’re really nice here these days—I hope you’ll have a great time. You’re evidently American, right?”
“We are American,” Jackson said.
“And you’re part American Indian. Brilliant,” she said. Jackson smiled at that; she said the words in a matter of fact manner. She didn’t need to be politically correct.
“Jackson Crow and Angela Hawkins,” Jackson told her.
“Elysse McKinley,” she told them. “And I do hope I’ll see you later. I’m a ‘May princess,’ whether I get to be queen or not!” she told them.
“You’re in the pageant?” Jackson asked.
“I’m a finalist,” she said. “Oh, it’s all just good fun. You only get to be a queen once—you don’t have to be from here and a lot of students from the universities like to get into it. We’re down to six—so in the end, there will be the Queen of May and her Court of five Ladies in Waiting. No matter what, there’s dancing and music and great fun. And,” she added, “we don’t open ‘til twelve tomorrow! Oh, and if you come in today just come back—your ticket is good for three days.”
“Thank you,” Angela told her. “We are intrigued. And this was a medical school and a mortuary until the museum was built?”
“Help yourself to a pamphlet—right here!” Elysse told them.
They entered to the right; the exit was apparently to the left, with the museum surrounding them. The pamphlet explained.
“It was a medical school from the 1600s into the 1800s,” Angela paraphrased while reading as they entered through the stone archway to their right. “In 1870, it became a mortuary—Dougherty and Sons. At one time, the basement was part of the neighboring castle—it’s said that those suspected of treason—whatever it might have been at the time—were tortured there.”
“Maybe we should leave,” Jackson said.
“Leave? Don’t be silly—according to this, the history here is compact and it shows raves from all kinds of review sites!” Angela said.
They entered the first room and Jackson quickly discovered that the reviews were right; the room dealt with the times of the Druid through the Viking invasions. The displays were phenomenal—so well costumed and created. It was difficult to believe that they were wax creations, the expressions alone were so well crafted.
Angela studied an exhibit on a Viking invasion; he found himself learning about the Romans, the legions, their victories in the isles—and their defeats.
An older couple, moving more quickly came in; Angela wound up speaking with them and he heard a thick and different brogue in their tones. She came up to him and smiled when they had moved on. “They’re from the far north,” she told him. “Down from the Orkneys. And they say we must go there—that it’s still heavily influenced by the Norse.”
“Then one day, we must go,” he assured her.
She smiled at him and moved on into the next room. He followed her a moment later, noting the sign above the door that read “1000 thru 1750.”
Angela was standing in front of one of the tableaus. It was a tragic tableau-a scene during the time when Europe had been swept up into the witch craze.
Angela seemed to be frozen; she wasn’t moving.
He came up t
o her. “Angela?”
“It’s real,” she said.
“Everything here looks real; Conar wasn’t exaggerating when he said that it was an excellent museum,” he told her.
Those surrounding the main figure were dressed in what appeared to be authentic period clothing. They had faces that were young and old—all appeared real.
“No, Jackson,” Angela said. “She doesn’t appear to be real—she is real. Look at her,” she exclaimed. “Look at her well—she is real.”
Chapter 2
The young woman was beautiful, even in death.
She was in a white gown, something modest and yet lacey and delicate, probably purchased from one of the popular lingerie chain stores. Her hair was long and dark and tumbled around her shoulder. Her head hung low.
She was tied to a stake on a pile of faggots and surrounded by well-crafted wax figures; a magistrate, soldiers, and people of the village. Some of them were wailing; some of them were busy mocking the condemned. It was a heart-wrenching scene—and would have been had the beauty at the stake not already been dead.
Jackson had quickly seen that she’d been telling the truth; he’d moved through the display with the speed of light when he’d realized what she’d meant and the woman was real, flesh and blood. But he’d quickly ascertained as well that she wasn’t living and she was long past the help of the ambulance and paramedics who had arrived after his call to Conar.
The displays were all so real—it was easy to understand how people had walked through the room before Jackson and Angela and not realized that the girl tied to the stake had been living among them the day before. Each figure had been done so very well. In the next display, Charles I prepared for his beheading—a Charles I who looked as if he had just spoken. His head was high; his eyes bore the light of dignity and his resolve that he was privy to the Divine Right of Kings.
Before they’d reached the girl at the stake, there was a display of Mary, Queen of Scotland, regal and weighed down with sadness. And before that, Braveheart—William Wallace—stood high on a peak, orating about freedom. The figures were some of the best Angela had ever seen—Wallace was so real, she could almost swear that she heard him speak.